Footsteps Follow

I've started to write out pieces of this story here and there, but I'm still in the middle of living it it so it's hard to hold on to anything concretely. It feels like I'm still in the middle of a windstorm, trying to catch leaves in the air as they swirl around me. It's always hard to make sense of a story, or even understand the outline, the chapters and sometimes even who exactly the characters are while you're in the middle of living it. Am I the hero or the villain? Is there even such a title in real life? Perhaps it will depend on who is reading these words. I know that I have forgotten so much, but I've documented as I can along the way to try to hold on to as much as possible through Notes on my phone, photos, voice memos, videos and emails. I'm still in a domestic violence brain fog and I'm still in some kind of relationship with the other half of this story. My two children are here with me as I sit writing this at the kitchen table, agenda open in front of me to plan the week, cup of cold coffee next to me, bread resting for a couple of hours before I cook it for dinner. Son1 is currently playing in the living room and Son2 is finishing up his afternoon nap. They are currently 4 and half, and one and a half years old. I hope too young to remember this story from within. Maybe they will never read these words, and maybe this book is for them. Maybe this will only ever be read by myself. The story has to advance to a point in the future from now before that is apparent even to me. Either way, this is to get it out of myself, onto 'paper' and to hopefully one day make sense of all this. Proof that this happened. Best case scenario, beyond anything I could imagine sitting here typing this up, imploring Son1 to try to keep it down a little so as not to wake his brother from his nap: one day it helps another woman somewhere, to not have this experience happen to her.