Emergency Contact

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I had planned to stay in the apartment with STBXH for a few more months to save money and pay off my credit card faster, but it’s not looking like I’m going to be able to stand living here for that long.

Paying off my credit card will have to wait. My sanity is more important than saving a few (hundred) dollars in interest fees.

“I want you to know that I’ll be moving out soon.”

“Good.” He snapped back angrily. Not a moment later, he was on his knees at my feet, begging me to “work it out.”

By “work it out”, he means continue on living the same way we have been for the last decade. With him just happy enough, and me absolutely miserable. He’s had plenty of opportunities to work on himself and change things, and he’s proven to me time and time again that he will never change.

Before I could finish my sentence about it not being up for discussion anymore, he stormed off.

Time is a precious, limited resource and once it’s gone, it’s never coming back. I’ve wasted almost all of my 20’s. I will not do that with my 30’s. It’s time to take control of my own happiness.

So I applied for an apartment.

On the application, there was a line for my emergency contact that hit me like a punch to the gut.

I don’t have an emergency contact.

Sure, I have a few good friends, some local and some who live across the country. But I wouldn’t want to burden any of them if I were to die and the apartment complex needed someone to deal with my corpse.

I sat at my computer crying hysterically over my lack of emergency contact for a good 20 minutes before submitting the application.

I heard back in less than an hour that I was approved. I have a huge fucking deposit because of my shit credit, but I was approved.

I have 72 hours from the approval yesterday to submit the deposit and secure the apartment.

I have so many mixed emotions and I’m not sure how to process them. I’m a fucking mess.

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