A Tale of Two Kitchens and What Freedom Feels Like

I don't know how to capture in words the way that it felt in these last couple of years.

Despair? Doesn't quite get there. Walking through the black, every day, every step, neck deep in mud and only the briefest glimmer of hope off in the distance to keep me slogging onward.

The bright faces of my four beautiful children, the humans I would unhesitatingly die for, the ones I managed to sustain the fight for.

Those last two years were brutal. I knew it had to end, but I was helpless to end it.

I kept growing, I kept building strength, pooling reserves, slogging, drowning, fighting on.

We were all under the spell. Last spring, I sat my children down and with tears running down my cheeks, I told them how hopeless I felt when I walked into the kitchen and saw it this way. Every. Single. Day.

By then, the fight had left me. I could only endure. I tried to clean, my efforts erased.

The Hermetic principle, as within so without, was so clearly reflected in the chaos of the house I found myself trying to survive in.

It was extinguishing that spark.

A month ago, I made it out. In what is undoubtedly the hardest journey of my life, I took a leap of faith, I bought a home, I escaped.

He's in my house right now, working on things I can't do myself. And there is danger here, but it is managed.

All the clues I left myself to remember the damage, the pain and--dare I safely say this out loud now, with tears threatening at the thought?--the abuse, they form a storyboard of how hard the battle was, and how much I gave in order to be free.

I am here now, though. Safe. The rage simmering, just a few more weeks and I can start to let it out, bubble by bubble, because to allow more would extinguish me.

Insulated in my new sanctuary, I can begin to feel what it feels like to make decisions for myself instead of managing emotions for someone else.

Each night, I lie in bed with a lamp on, reading Gandhi, Tolstoy and others. I roll over, alone, at peace, to turn off the light and take up all the space my body desires.

No one to manage. No crisis to avert.

"What do I want for dinner?" Not "What meal is least likely to cause battle?"

Slowly, slowly unfurling. These wings are almost ready to lift me.

And you can see it in the kitchen. The way it breathes with joy instead of hiding in oppression.

I tore my own heart out, trampled on it in the stampede to safety, and now I gently replace it, whispering love to it, building it back up again.

And in this wholeness I create, I am mine.