'I set a deadline to save my marriage, because one thing is holding me back from ending it.'

This is an extract from Torn, by Nicole Madigan.

About six months into my first pregnancy, I began seeing a specialist massage therapist to help with intense lower back pain. As a young couple with a modest household income, our budget was limited; however, I was fortunate enough to come across a woman named Kel.

Kel worked from home and although her hands were pure magic, her prices were affordable due to her lack of overheads and fancy surroundings. Kel's studio was set up in a little room towards the back of her suburban brick house. She lived in the same estate as me, about 45 minutes south of the city.

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She was a homely woman, probably in her mid-30s, though at the time she seemed older. She wore polo shirts with three-quarter pants or knee-length shorts and trainers. Her dark blonde hair was cut into a short bob, and her disposition was always warm and cheerful, albeit slightly flustered.

At the time, I'd reluctantly but willingly said goodbye to my position as an on-air reporter with a commercial television network. After enduring a gruelling IVF process.

I felt I needed to put my physical and mental health first, and television reporting wasn't conducive to this goal. Although the loss of my income left us in a tight spot financially, we were a couple who knew how to make things work. And we were a team, the sort of team that could overcome the most difficult obstacles.

We knew how to sacrifice when we wanted something; we knew how to work together to achieve shared goals and had done it before. It was how we built our first home. I was just 25 when we moved in, and while the home was relatively small, with basic fittings, and located in the outer suburbs, it was ours – and it was the result of a lot of hard work.

There's something incredibly satisfying about stepping foot onto your own little piece of the world, knowing exactly what it took to get there.

This was a years-long goal, involving years-long sacrifices. We'd share a pizza during nights out, drinking water or cheap wine, while our friends ordered medium-rare steaks and drank cocktails and expensive champagne. Dinner and a movie were replaced with home-cooked Thai green curry and an episode of Australian Idol.

And when the time finally came to build the home that would sit on our small block of land, we did so sans landscaping, sans light fittings and even sans a driveway to start with. It didn't matter, because it was ours.

Every fortnight, around 9.45 am on a Thursday, I'd throw on a loose dress and some decent undies, and waddle over to Kel's house for my ten o'clock appointment.

Kel's house was always a bit chaotic, in the best possible way. I'd step over well-loved toys and cat beds, and sometimes the cat itself, making my way to the little room out back. Sometimes, Kel's husband, Tim, would be home too. He was a friendly man who wore boardies and Billabong t-shirts, and usually offered a dad joke or two.

During the first few minutes of my sessions, Kel and I would often chat, and over those final months of my pregnancy, I got to know a little bit about her family and her life. To me, it seemed a simple but happy one, a house filled with unwashed but overflowing cups.

By the time I was pregnant with my second child, our financial position had changed somewhat. Our business was doing well, and life had become a little more comfortable. We relocated about halfway through my pregnancy – a surprise non-IVF baby.

But the physical pain of pregnancy was the same. I was not a person who felt my best during pregnancy. I did not glow.

A creature of habit and comfort, I decided to make the fortnightly trek to Kel's, despite now living a 20-minute drive away. My memories of her were fond; I felt at home in her home, and of course, her hands were pure magic.

When I reached out to Kel, she told me she'd moved home, but she hadn't gone far. She was in the same suburb but had left the estate. 'Not a problem,' I told her. 'I'll come to you.'

Driving up to her new home, I noticed it was a little smaller, a little older, somehow less chaotic, though it was still a hive of children's toys and things. I undressed and climbed onto the massage table, ready for Kel to do what she does to my aching body.

'So, how have you been?' I asked her, after she'd congratulated me on my surprise second pregnancy. 'Good,' she said, sounding like she meant it. 'Tim and I are separated now, that's why the kids and I have moved into this new place.'

'Oh!' I exclaimed. 'I'm so sorry to hear that.'

'Oh, it's fine,' she said, smiling. 'We've been talking about it for years, so …' She trailed off.

'Oh, okay, that's good,' I said, before falling silent, and succumbing to the painful pleasure of her fingers pushing into my lower back.

Kel and I never discussed her separation. We simply weren't that close, but her words lingered in my recently married mind. How was it possible to contemplate the end of your marriage for years? To me, knowing whether you did or didn't want to be married to someone was simple. You either did or you didn't. I mean, you either loved someone, or you didn't. Didn't you?

***

I'm 32 years old, and I'm conjuring up the worst-case scenario of what life might look like if I ended my marriage. I'd be a single mum of two young boys, with no home and a freelance journalist's income. We receive no child support and no practical support. We are alone, in a tiny apartment, fending for ourselves. That's the worst case, from a financial sense.

It's also unlikely. The more likely outcome would be a division of assets, including the house and the business. But I focus on the imaginary worst case anyway.

And then there are the kids, who are so young – just toddlers – and I don't want to spend any nights away from them, not even weekends, let alone a 50/50 split.

And then there is my husband. I am still in love with him. But is it him I'm still in love with, or is it the him that once was? Does the him I fell in love with even exist? Are we still the same people if we become someone else?

I don't want to leave, but I don't want to stay either. Not like this.

But I don't want to leave.

But I want things to change, and I don't know how to make them change, and I don't know if I can survive if they don't change, if we can survive.

And I want things to be like they were before, and mostly they are. Except when they're not. That's what makes this so confusing.

And all couples go through ups and downs, except that's not what this is. Or is it?

Reasons to leave a marriage had always seemed so clear-cut to me. Cheating. Violence. Lying. You leave. I mean, of course you do. Don't you? Or do you? But what if you can't?

What if you've been together for all of your adult life, and the problems have only crept in over the last few years, and only sometimes? And the rest of the time is amazing, just like it always was. Wasn't it?

Then you remember the day you met, and how you grew up together and how you worked so hard to buy your first home and start a business. And how you endured IVF together and created two babies, and look at them now.

So, you set yourself a deadline. And you decide if there are still problems in four years, then you're done, because if you're going to separate you want to be young enough to start again, and 35 feels like it might be.

And suddenly you're that person who's been thinking about leaving their marriage for years.

Feature Image: Getty.

Torn by Nicole Madigan is out now.

This is an extract from the book, Torn: four women's stories of why they left - or why they stayed, published by Pantera Press, out now.