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It’s almost the one year anniversary of the biggest mistake I never made. Around this time last year, I had a bottle of cheap wine in one hand and a bottle of sleeping pills in the other. My go-to coping cocktail. Why?

Because 2015 was the worst year of my life. I systematically lost everything I valued until there was nothing left for me to cling to.

February: Found out I was pregnant with Jim’s baby.

March: Lost my job.

April: Got the first and only failing grade of my entire academic career.

May: Jim told me he wanted nothing to do with his child because he had a new girlfriend.

June/July: Started reading the Bible.

August: My daughter was born. I was still unemployed. Jim was still pretending she didn’t exist.

September: Jim’s family found out about the baby and insisted on a paternity test. *Spoiler Alert*: She’s his.

October: My beloved pet rabbit died prematurely. Started feeling postpartum baby blues.

November: Jim’s family took my baby for the holidays. I was pulled down into an unrelenting depression. Praying and reading the Bible did not ease the anguish and turmoil that plagued me.

I tried to end the pain of my existence the only way I knew how- but failed. It really shouldn’t have surprised me. 2015 was a year of failures, after all.

They say, “God doesn’t give you more than you can bear,” and, “His strength is sufficient.” But then… what about the victims of suicide? Those who were unable to bear their circumstances?


Somewhere along the way, I ran across the following concept:

“You have to accept the apology you may never receive.”

To which my ego quickly replied, “The. Hell. I. Will. I want a real apology, dammit!” >.<

So I waited. Unable to move past the past.

Waiting for Jim to acknowledge the pain he’s caused me and apologize for it. After a particular rough episode of depression, I contacted him.

Asking him, “Why did he? How could he?” I demanded an answer. Preferably one laced with humble contrition.

Instead, he called me a liar. He said *it* never happened.

The sick part is that I wish he was right. I would much rather be a liar.

Because liars don’t cry themselves to sleep at night. Liars don’t withdraw from friends and family, close the blinds, crawl into bed, and pray to not wake up the next morning. Liars don’t have to see counselors and be prescribed antidepressants.

I didn’t get an apology. But I got an answer. I now know there is no remorse in Jim. I guess that’s all the explanation I could hope to have at this point.