Just so you know, I’m not withering away. Or curled up in bed eating chocolate (though the chocolate is near at hand should I need it).

I’m trying to keep busy with Max, since this is the first summer he hasn’t been in daycare. I’m remembering all of my favorite childhood places and taking him there.

Like Mueller’s Bakery. I remember going there for pretzels when I was younger and donuts in high school. So of course, Max got a big sprinkle donut. Yum.

Or the Mountain Tower. (warning: the web links you are about to click on are archaic. They’re about 10 years behind the rest of the world in terms of web presence here). We got a great view of downtown:

We visited the rock where my father’s ashes (and my grandmother’s) are scattered. That was a special moment…for about 10 seconds before the sun beating down made us run for cover.

And we’ve also hung out with (and made new) friends. And swimming? Let me tell you, Max is a completely different child from the one who would cry and cling to me like a barnacle if he didn’t have a floatie. He’s learned to swim. I’m as proud as I was when he became potty trained.

So don’t worry about us. We’re doing ok. Still trying to find a house. Then it’ll feel more permanent.

Okay, so you know something’s up. I haven’t been ready to talk about it, but here goes.

I left my husband. He was unfaithful. Very unfaithful.

I packed up my heart, my kid, and my clothes and drove for eight hours to Arkansas, where I crawled into my mom’s bed and cried like nobody’s business.

So here I am, trying to figure out what direction to go in.

Turns out he has an addiction. A sex addiction. It’s so very hard for me to write this, because I’m struggling not to be ashamed. But from what I’ve been reading, I know there is no shame in it, and writing should be therapeutic.

He’s in a 12 step program. Yes, like Alcoholics Anonymous.  They consider his problem something that is treatable. Many people have fought their sex addictions and gone on with their partners to have healthy relationships.

That’s what I’m hoping for.

Despite the rug being pulled out from under me, I’m trying to do what’s best for me, for us, and for Max. It’s hard to know what that is right now, but I have agreed to go to counseling with him (not just right now; I need time to heal) and see if we can repair what is broken.

I don’t know if it can.

But he has said he wants to fight for his marriage and his family, and I am willing to let him try.

In the meantime, I’ve decided to roost in the town where I grew up. The very one I clawed my way out of, swearing I’d never be back. And ya know what? It’s okay. I’ve been places, done things, so taking a year off in a sleepy town that doesn’t know what Twitter is will be okay. It will have to be.

I’ve found a fabulous (public) school for Max to start Kindergarten. He needs some stability right now, so I have to put him first.

I’ve reconnected with old friends and told them how much I need them right now. Well, maybe I haven’t told them, but I do.

So now you know.

So Max and I are in Hot Springs, Arkansas. I lived here from age 12 to 18. I desperately clawed my way out of here, determined to make better of my life (then spent 7 years in another Arkansas town).

And now I am back.

In some ways, I’m glad to be here. It’s familiar. Despite technology and recessions, this place has basically stood still. The cruddy motels with diving beauties on their signs still rent by the hour. Downtown, once the thriving tourist pre-Disney vacation destination, is actually pretty busy right now.

The nature. I forgot the nature. I used to long for beaches (beaches, which once I lived in Florida, I rarely visited). Now the shadowed sloping mountains and clear creeks bring me comfort in my time of healing.

My dad’s ashes are scattered by a rock on the mountain. There were tourists nearby so I whispered I’d see him later.

And my old friends? Well, that’s the hardest. Some, like Jennifer, have done great things in life. Others, not so well. We commiserate in our pain. I feel 17 again, yet I know this time it’s different.

I look for the familiar everywhere I go. Do I know him? He’s fat and bald, but, yes, I think I had a crush on him in 8th grade. I feel like everyone, or most everyone, who amounted to anything, left. And for good reason. There is not a lot to build on here. If I didn’t have my own business, I couldn’t survive here.

This isn’t permanent. It’s for now, and that’s okay. Then we’ll move on to the next phase of our lives, with our without the familiar.

If only they knew what Twitter was here…