The grief overflows the banks of me and spills out onto the weeds. Messy, uneven, unexpected – like a Malibu septic leak. Here I was thinking I had escaped this, or could escape, the pain of transitioning from one half of a whole to a whole myself, thinking this was a process of expansion so how could it hurt? And now almost twelve weeks later, it appears… I’ve always had trouble with delayed reactions but this is overkill. Yes our separation is amicable, but Iran used to be our ally too, and look how that turned out.

Suddenly last night sitting on the toilet (hence the septic metaphor I guess) the tears came and didn’t stop. A quick check in the mirror revealed mascara tributaries down both cheeks, converging and pooling at the chin. Even after these were washed away, the ugly cry continued while my boyfriend asked me from the other room what was going on.

There are some times when you want someone to hear you cry, this was not one of them. He Who Shall Not Be Named has been supportive, kind, passionate, giving and all round wonderful. He does not deserve to be kept awake by my tears on a random Thursday when he still has Friday to get through before his week is done.

“It’s okay, just cry,” he said as he held me in bed later. And I obliged him. The old relationship dying takes with it a part of me, a part I often loved and at the very least made me feel safe. I could rely on being someone’s wife, even as my moods and depressions left me unable to rely on little else. I cannot go backwards and must step into my new possibilities and these include stepping out as my own person, someone who actually fulfills all of that rumored potential. I need to find a direction that encompasses what I am capable of and still allows me time and space to be a good enough mother. How odd that knowing what I have to do doesn’t make me any less terrified to do it.