Heart of Dixie says. . . . it’s our choices, Harry.
Dumbledore is right of course. It is our choices, far more than our abilities, define who we truly are. It’s a phrase I have preached ad nauseaum to my girls. It’s our choices. It’s our choices.
And, so here I am, deeply imbued with the day-after-Christmas blues, beating myself with the phrase, “It’s our choices, Harry.” Dammit, Dumbledore, I know, but sometimes I need a pity party.
It is our choices. I could live in the half-million dollar house in the burb. I could have the closet as big as a baby’s nursery and a jacuzzi tub if I hadn’t made certain choices. But here I am stuffed in an attic room. Why? Well, I have a nice roommate. One who is a fine Christian gals. God, Himself, put me here via a freak fire which destroyed nothing (another story). Still I have the pity party. God is good to me, yet I want more.
Would I go back to get it? Not in a million years. There is no way. In fact I really don’t understand how I ended up married to him. It was like Jim Carey in that movie asking God for a sign. So many signs, but I ignored them all. Ignoring is another choice. I stayed with him as long as I could, another choice. I stayed home with my kids and killed my career, another choice. But those are socially acceptable choices. i don’t beat myself up about those.
I also walked away from it all (it’s not like my name was on the house anyway. That choice is unacceptable and lands one in an attic room of a generous friend. That one is the one we mourn. That one is the reason I have a hard time including my love in family things . . . with certain family. With others (who saw my bad choices from the beginning) Scott has always been a blessing.
Anyway, here I am. Bemoaning my choices – all of them, except leaving…..I am sorry about when I left. Wish I had done so much, much earlier, but there are family and religious mores which quell all of that…..well, kids are home. Gottat run.