The last thing I felt like doing was moving. I had strict doctors orders not to lift more than five pounds, and now I had to gather everything in his house, from all four floors, look in every drawer and on every shelf, and collect and pack my things. Where was I to go? I was physically and emotionally exhausted. I just wanted a break and a peaceful place I could lay my head where I was loved unconditionally and could be myself. From the third floor of my ex's house, I moved to the third floor of a friend's house. She and her husband, daughter and adorable, house-trained dog were so very gracious to let me stay in their third floor space. They live in the next town over, just a block from the park - a very nice location. My friends helped me and it took us a few days to pack and move, but I was out by the deadline. When I went back to his house to get the last remaining things, I found the locks to be changed. That's when it hit me: this is a metaphor for how I felt in the relationship - shut out. I returned to my new home, where I felt safe. It took a few days, maybe weeks, until my response to how I was doing was "I'm okay. I'm grieving, but I'm good - not stressed," and that is worth every single thing I packed and moved to get out of his house and his life. Where I'm staying is temporary. I'll have to move again, but in the meant time, while I am healing, this is a safe haven for me. And the ironic thing is I look forward to taking the adorable dog for a long walk around the park every evening!