I Got Ready (And Still, It Wasn’t Enough)

I got ready.

Not because I had to. Not because someone needed me to.
But because for one brief second, I thought maybe I mattered enough to be shown up for.
Someone outside the swirl of survival — not Chad, not Jonny, not the everyday demands — said,
“I’m coming. Get up. Let’s go.”

And I did.
I got up. I cleaned the house just enough to silence the guilt.
Fed the animals. Tamed the chaos. Brushed my hair. Put on something that didn’t scream hopeless.
Because I wanted to feel like a person again — not someone’s partner, not someone’s mother, not someone’s emotional janitor.
Just Echoes.

But he didn’t come.
He texted instead, some excuse about slicing his hand open, going to get stitches.
Except I have his location. And it’s not a hospital. It’s not even near one.
It’s another lie, wrapped in just enough half-truth to make me question myself,
like I haven’t memorized what this kind of hurt looks like.

So, I sat there. On my porch. Dressed in disappointment.
And I hated myself for hoping.
Hated how familiar it felt to be let down and still somehow surprised.
Hated how stupid I felt for thinking maybe this time would be different.

And like clockwork, I turned to the only thing that doesn’t lie to me:
wood.
I went looking for more. Just like I always do when I’m hurt.
Because that pile doesn’t flake. Doesn’t make promises it won’t keep.
It’s solid. It’s real. It waits for me to decide what it becomes.

And I got it.
I got in the car.
I went with Chad — even though I was scared, even though the anxiety screamed in the back of my head.
I didn’t talk much. I kept my body stiff and my words quiet.
I felt like a burden. Like a ticking bomb.
But I did it.
And I didn’t check the cameras once.
Not because I wasn’t tempted — but because I told myself I could do this.
And I did.

But even that win came wrapped in a compromise.
Because to get the wood, I had to ask Chad.
Had to hand my independence to someone else just to chase a piece of peace.
Because I can’t go alone.
Because I can’t carry it all.
Because even the things that are mine still come with permission slips.

Like the shed.

The one I built — alone.
He didn’t lift a finger to help me.
Sure, he bought the tools. Hauled the materials.
But he never used them. Never fixed what needed fixing.
I did. With my own hands. My own sweat.
Fixing the shit I’d been asking him to do for years.

And now that I finally built something for myself?
Now it’s “not fair.”
Because he got the tools. Because he brought the wood.
As if that makes it his.

You know what wasn’t fair?
Carrying the emotional weight of our marriage for all these years.
Walking on eggshells to protect his feelings.
Bending myself into knots to make his life easier, softer, more livable.
I did that. I lived in that unfairness. Quietly. Constantly.
And he was fine with it — as long as it benefited him.

But the moment I ask for one thing — one space that’s just mine —
suddenly that’s too much?
Suddenly I’m the selfish one?

I don’t think so.

I gave him comfort. I gave him peace. I gave him the version of me that kept everything going,
even when I was barely holding on.
So if I want a shed that’s hands-off —
if I want a pile of wood no one else touches —
if I want something that is just for me, without guilt —
then I’ve earned the right.

And I shouldn’t have to ask.
Not after everything I’ve already given away.

And here’s the part no one talks about:
Even when I win — even when I get the thing I wanted —
I’m too tired to enjoy it.
Too anxious to relax into it.
Too used to being pushed aside to believe I can actually have something without paying for it later.
And that might be the cruelest part of all.

Because I fought for that shed.
That space. That wood. That right to be Echoes without apology.
But now that I have it?
I sit in it and feel like I’m trespassing in my own goddamn sanctuary.

That wood pile? That silence? That ache to build something that’s mine?
That’s not a hobby.
It’s how I survive the fact that nothing ever really is.

Because when the people fail me, when the love falls short,
when the hope crashes and burns —
I can still build something.
I can still say, “This is mine.”
Even if I’m too broken to believe it.
Even if I’m too scared to use it.
Even if it takes everything in me not to hand it over just to avoid the next argument.

So yeah. I got ready.
For someone who didn’t show.
To step into a space that’s never been fully mine.
To be a woman no one seems to think deserves a moment without strings.

But next time I get ready —
It won’t be for anyone else.

It’ll be because I finally decided I was enough to show up for.
And when I do, I won’t knock.
I’ll walk straight into the space I bled to build,
lock the damn door behind me,
and not apologize for a single splinter.