Whenever I tell my story, the one I don’t whisper, people ask me to write a book about it. On some days, like today, I consider it.
It’s been nearly five years since Bug was run over by a white truck. Five years since my sweet, loving husband was ripped from me and left with a traumatic brain injury. Five years, three moves, two affairs, and one mental illness later and I’m not sure I’m ready to put it all down on paper. At least not in an official way.
Most days, it’s too much mentally for me to handle. But the affairs, those are what nearly killed me. Both changed me so fundamentally that I question if it was really my life I led up until Nov. 2011. Everything prior seems like a long, beautiful dream. Everything post, a drawn-out series of mistakes – a move to the middle of nowhere to escape the shame of Bug’s affair; trusting in false friends; letting my rage and hurt guide me more than common sense.
One day, soon maybe, I’ll write it all down. Maybe, on that day, I’ll have the courage to stop whispering a chapter of my life.