Simply sitting with my emotions, feeling them and processing them was unavoidable as a solo dweller; even with five magazine subscriptions, Netflix and a constant supply of red wine. But, according to my therapist, sitting with my emotions was exactly what I needed to do in order to heal. This was a complicated task to wrap my brain around because I was certainly feeling stuff but I didn't feel as if I was any closer to healing.
The great thing about living alone was that I could sit in my own funk and stew in it unapologetically. I had the space to wallow in my misery without ruining someone else’s day. I could drink too much and too early without fear of judgement. I could Facebook stalk my EX without fear of being caught. I could put Keyshia Cole’s “I Remember” on repeat and sing emotively at the top of my lungs without shame or inhibition.
I felt like the living embodiment of every negative feeling you could think of. Humiliated. Disrespected. Resentful. Worthless. Abandoned. Insecure. Frightened. Suspicious. Untrusting. Guarded. Insignificant. Unloved. Misled. Hurt. Add to that an endless cycle of sadness which turned to anger which turned to hatred and dissatisfaction with everyone, everything, every situation and every experience. How disemboweling to finally arrive at a place of forgiveness only to find out that the depth of deceit ran far deeper than a drunken 1-night stand.
Brooklyn and red wine now served as our buffers. Brooklyn had no idea that daddy had cheated on mommy and that our family was irrevocably broken. Or that daddy was going away and she was gonna stay with mommy in this concrete jungle. She had no idea she was destined to a life doing her business on sidewalks, making new friends at a new dog park and learning to embrace long, cold, snowy winters bundled in a coat and rubber boots.
