Well, I’m not as redneck as I thought. Because I didn’t murder my ex-husband. And let me tell you, he had it coming.

I had a hundred different ways to do it. No matter how it happened, it would have taken him by surprise. He thought I loved him too much to kill him.

My first thought was to kill him. I’ve told this story several times in the last year or so, and there’s always a moment of total stillness when I pause, just like after you take a shot of tequila. The moment of clarity, of slight pain when you’re just trying to breathe again, and thinking about the effects of your actions. It’s just a perfectly quiet moment. Notice, next time you’re doing shots. Then there’s the exhale.

Here’s the story.

It was only about 10:30, even though in the movies it’s always the middle of the night. I remember thinking that was ironic. And it was summer, one of those June nights, when no evil ever strikes. But it had. That’s the thing about life. It’s original and unexpected. It wasn’t storming, it wasn’t a full moon (but almost). I read the message and I didn’t cry. I didn’t throw up. I began to shake. And I pivoted on my heel and went straight to the bedroom.

And I paused.

He was snoring, the sleep of the unencumbered, the sleep of the remorseless. And he could stay that way forever. I thought of my pistols, but I was shaking so hard I would probably miss. I even thought there would be a little poetic justice to killing him with a weapon that he had bought me. The only other immediate option was the twelve gauge propped in the corner at the head of the bed. I could carefully maneuver it between his lips, maybe knock it on his teeth, gently, once it was in position in order to wake him up. And then I could watch his blue eyes grow more alert and widen as it dawned on him what I was doing. He would know why. And just when he went to reach for it, I could blow him away. But what a mess that would be.

I shrug.

The moment of stillness.

“Oh, Amy,” they all said.

There were other scenarios, ones where I stabbed him as he comes in for a hug, ones where I use a solvent to corrode his brake lines. I didn’t even have to have my hands on it, I could hire someone. There are Appalachian Witches who would share potions and spells and voodoo dolls. Or, in a fit of rage, I could simply smash him in the face with his baseball bat, plunging his fractured nose up into his brain. I can’t even remember all the ways I conjured.

But I had the wherewithal to remember that there are repercussions for actions, no matter how much they deserve it. And in the end, I simply prayed.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=plPRmANJF_w (Closest video to my life during this time)

Let me tell you, prayer helps.

It may not be as swift as you need it to be, and when you’re getting through the hours a literal breath at a time, it moves excruciatingly slowly. And in the meantime, I drank. And I played Brandy Clark at a decibel that makes birds take flight. And I kept my sunroof open.

I didn’t have to be hauled off in high heels and handcuffs. I didn’t set fire to his residence. I didn’t bash him publicly on Facebook, I didn’t break down at his jobsites. I didn’t call his friends and family, screaming at them all that they knew and didn’t have the balls to tell me. I kept my cool and I held my head high, knowing I was better. Confident I am the best he will ever have.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lTUQOyiD0KM (How I WANTED to act)

This is not to say I didn’t melt down in the corner of a booth at Holston’s, surrounded by my girls. This is not to say I didn’t crawl in the floor and cry on my dog every night for a month. This is not to say my very closest family and friends didn’t see me with that starved look in my eyes. This is not to say I had control of my bowels. This is not to say I remember every day of that time. This is not to say I carried on reading and watching TV and listening to music. It’s surprising how innocent all the plots and words seem until you’re looking at a disaster in your personal life. This is not to say I didn’t lose a few friends along the way because they’d never seen me like this before and my brain didn’t fire just exactly right for awhile. This isn’t to say I didn’t fantasize about taking my own life. This isn’t to say I could even eat one meal a day or sleep more than two hours a night for weeks on end.

But I will tell you I strengthened many relationships during this time.

I learned who I could trust. I got up every day and put on makeup that never budged and I forced myself to act normal in public. I fed my dog and I paid my bills and I told myself every night that it would be okay. At first I said it over and over, 3600 times an hour, in the darkness and stillness, curled on his side of the bed. And I still tell myself that. Because it will.

I will not break.

I kept waiting for it. I thought this will be it, this heartache will kill me. I will hopefully have a stroke or maybe one of those well-timed blood clots that will go straight to my brain or my lung and that will be the end of Amyloo. And that would have been okay. But it never did happen. My heart didn’t stop beating, and I didn’t shatter into sixteen million pieces. The human heart is quite resilient.

I’m stronger than I thought. I am one classy bitch.

I am still Amy.

I thought I had changed. I thought I needed someone to back me up, someone to lean on. Turns out, I’m the same as I always was. Maybe I adapted to being more dependent for awhile, because I didn’t have to do everything alone. But if I did, I came right back around to the mentality of “I’ll do it my damn self.” I have a friend who once said, “If you’re waiting on Amy to change, you might as well cut bait. She’s the same now as she was ten years ago.” And that was ten years ago, so now it’s been twenty and I’m essentially the same. I still vacation alone, eat in restaurants alone, go to parties alone. If I took a notion to go hiking, you can bet I’d do that by myself as well. I have no qualms about attending programs or going to the movies solo. I was afraid I had changed. When I got to St. George Island in September of 2018, I sat in my room and cried, just knowing I had made a terrible mistake. But I freshened my makeup and hauled my happy ass over to the restaurant closest to me that had live music and oysters. And I ended up having the time of my life that week, it was almost a meditation. And when I went to Charleston last Thanksgiving, alone, I would like to tell you there were no tears. I was walking down Bay Street and I just had to stop and marvel at how happy I was. And I cried. I’m still here. And I’m still Amy. Maybe more so than I ever was.