I was lost, adrift on a sea of broken promises and crushing disappointments that obliterated the safe, dry patch of land where my marriage had once stood. So I wrote. And I wrote.
The virulent scratch of pen meeting paper allowed me to release the bellowing screams of rage that might otherwise have led me to beat my husband senseless with my favorite All Clad sauté pan. It was perfect!
I was able to say all the mean things he absolutely deserved to hear while not engaging him in conversation of any kind, which at that point would have been about as welcome as a test of the emergency broadcast system.
The Petty Chronicles were my therapist when I couldn’t afford one and comfort food that never added a pound to my frame. They were my confidants when I knew my friends were tired of giving me the same advice, “Leave Him!!” and a safe harbor when I thought I might be going down. They saved me.