"I just can't do this anymore," I said as as I sat down on our bed with a heavy sigh. The words caught in my throat. It was so wrenching, I could hardly believe I uttered them out loud.
It was, at the same time, cathartic to get it out there.
Yesterday I called a friend to tell her that I was done. Finished. Her response was, "It's about time."
Yes, it is, "about time".
I went through the whole gamete of emotions getting to this place, to the place where I could utter those words. I feel like an extension of myself is dying, being ripped away.
He knows me so intimately.
Our relationship has been rocky for some time. Forced. Tired. I was just delaying the inevitable.
Part of me feels bad. He has been so encouraging to me. Truthfully, I could have never done it without him.
His rhythmic breathing lulled me to sleep each night, promising to be there for me.
Steady and strong when I was truly and utterly exhausted.
The other part of me, though, is relieved.
It's been this love/hate thing for awhile now.
I know that sounds callous, and insensitive, but we all need to move on.
It's time to move on.
Mama is ready to sleep through the night!
13 months. 393 days.
Peace out, breast pump.