Here we are again, in my favorite place called Limbo (Latin limbus, edge or boundary, referring to the “edge” of Hell).  In case you didn’t catch the sarcasm dripping from that first sentence, let me be clear that I don’t like being here one bit.

In the past, Limbo meant waiting for someone else to make a decision that would affect my future.  Like the first time I had a newborn baby and my husband wasn’t sure if he wanted to be married to me anymore.  Oh, and the second time I had a newborn baby and my husband wasn’t sure if he wanted to be married to me anymore.  I should never have taken those trips to Limbo; I should have kicked his ass out.  There – decision made.  No Limbo.
Once again, I find myself in the hands of others, waiting for decisions to be made.  Maybe it’s time for me to make one.   
But there would never be a Limbo if there weren’t a possibility of something I wanted at the end of it.  Otherwise, no one would ever stay there.  But what is it worth?  How much Limbo can one person take before they simply disappear into a shriveled-up mess, giving others the power to determine the future?
Choosing to leave Limbo most likely means sacrificing the thing I want.  That’s never easy.  But giving up my sanity is much more costly to me in the long run.
I hate being here.  I hate being forced to choose between something that’s important to me and my own Self care.  It really, really sucks.  I don’t want to make demands.  I don’t want to be a bitch.  So maybe it’s better to just slip out the side door quietly and not make a scene.
I think the boundaries of Limbo are different for everyone in every circumstance.  There is no set formula.  I think you just know when you’re done.  And until then, you hang on by the skin of your teeth and you tell yourself stories to convince your mind that it’s almost over.  You enter Survival mode and you simply exist, while all of the life drains out of you one drop at a time.
Such was the case in my marriage, and when he finally decided to stay, I was already dead.

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