Careful observance of the human penchant for blaming unfortunate adulthoods on bad childhoods has kept me running from my own bad childhood. Turns out, pretending like it never happened is as damaging as using it as an excuse.
Nothing will force you into take a good, hard look at yourself and why you do the things you do like divorce. Now that shock over the traumatic events of the past two years is wearing off and my ex-husband and I are living separate lives, I’ve been able to conduct a fairly unbiased autopsy on the bloated corpse that is my dead marriage. Slicing open my chest, laying my organs on the table and examining them to determine the cause of death. There are no easy answers. With the exception of situations involving abuse and cheating, most marriages die slow, nearly imperceptible deaths. Like a terminal cancer, little things multiply into big things and those involved may not discover the malignancy until it’s too late.