Nine Months

I never knew it could hurt so badly and so long to lose you. Had I known, would I have done our life differently? Maybe. I don’t know. How can one answer that question? There’s no go backs. There’s no second chance that I know of.

Tonight, I have cried so hard my lips swelled, my throat hurts, my eyes can’t focus on this screen. I have sobbed for nine months. Wept, wailed, hated myself, cared for myself, evaded with alcohol and cigarettes, dealt in therapy, given into prescriptions to numb me in a socially acceptable way, called out to you in silence, begged you from across the table, prayed, cursed. Still, I am lost. Still, I miss you every day. Still, I wonder what became of your heart.

How did our souls get ripped apart in the blink of an eye?

I washed the last shirt that smelled like you yesterday. Nine months later. Pathetic, huh? It stayed up in my closet. Why you left that one and not the one my dad gave me is beyond me. I have them both back now, but the other one I washed immediately because it smelled of some cheap cologne you tried to wear. Something you donned for some other woman, no doubt. I don’t care about her. She was your numb.

I am so incredibly lonely. I play the part of good mama, recovering sister, sweet daughter, attentive friend, compassionate ex. Inside, I am wishing for the end. I am wishing to understand the lesson that was you.  I am wishing for the sun to shine and me to feel its warmth again. Or not.

Sometimes, I just wish you never happened.

But there are no second chances that I know of. I am stuck with the knowledge that I have loved and lost. No one else has taken me to this place for so long. No one has taken me to heaven and hell in such a short amount of time. No one has given me so much, just to rip it from me.

I am lost. Even my physical body is a slight reflection of its former self. The curves are gone. New pants; now twice in three months. I don’t know what I am doing here, on this planet. I am unsure of my purpose or the lessons I am to learn. I am wandering aimlessly, robotically.

Numb, except some nights. The nights I wonder where your heart went.

Where did always go? I can’t believe you lied. If I believe you lied, then I believe that I fell for your lies, that our life was lie. And to believe that would be worse than the hell I am feeling now. But not to believe that means that you just stopped loving me. And to believe that means that I was unworthy of love. What’s worse?

Remember?

Do you remember that story we were going to tell out grand babies? That one about how we met? I'll remind you because you seem to have forgotten that our love ever existed.

It was Christmas night 2008.

"Come meet my new girlfriend!", my bestie in that time said to me.

I walked into Misty's and there you were. Looking straight at me. Or rather into me. Our souls connected in a split second of fate. I saw you. I saw love. I saw my future. I saw your past. The only thing I didn't see were the demons you fought so hard to keep away. Those came just months later. I loved you from the moment I saw you.

I looked away as fast as you could bore into my soul.

Five months and two breakups later, I invited you on a hike. Your smoker's body was slow, sick, and so perfect to me. You lumbered along the trail, our hiking companions became frustrated and left us behind. You and I laughing. You and I taking pictures. You and I trying hard (not) to touch. You and I watching the sunset on Camelback Mountain.

That Philosophy paper weighed heavy on my mind, but so did dinner. You cooked; potatoes and onions. I existentialized. You drank beer. I marveled at how many you put down. You stayed the night. We didn't touch.

The next day, your truck battery was dead. That red truck took us to so many places. Alaska, camping, home, your move, my move, ins and outs, then finally to your sperm donor in Minnesota. It's bum battery gave me that moment I needed to kiss the physical body of the other half of my soul. That kiss was perfect. There was no urgency because it knew forever. After our respective obligations, we were together for the night. "No funny business," I said. I didn't stick to that. You made love to me.

There was that first real date. The train to Tempe. My third favorite picture of us, our first together. Too late to catch the train back. We had to call a friend for a ride.

Later that month, we camped with the boys, my boys became our boys. That love was so natural. Watching you parent was so beautiful.

And now, you don't talk to me. You dropped all of your other bests too. My soul has been torn in two again. The pain is unbearable. My heart beats because it has to.

Do you remember walking into love with me? Do you remember ALWAYS? Do you remember how to love? Do you remember me? Do you remember our family?

Numb

My grief is real. It’s bone deep. My heart is shattered into a million pieces and each time I think I am starting to heal, the scar tears wide open again. It can be a random text from her brother telling me that he loves me, or her mysteriously knowing that I am on a (requisite) date and texting in the middle of it, for no apparent reason. It is the sound of her mom’s voice and knowing that, in time, I will be gone from their lives, replaced by someone new in hers.

I think I have this notion that it should be different or the grief should not be here, still so real. Or that I am not allowed to grieve anymore because she doesn’t. I should be better by now. How do you grieve a baby or a marriage or a life that was never real? It’s not like the dream was real life. And yet here I am, missing work today, crying for the third time this week for a baby that isn’t real; missing dreams that were thrown out with the trash over eight months ago.

I don’t care about what the future holds in the way of romance. Whatever bullshit comments you want to leave telling me that time heals all wounds or that I will find someone. I just don’t care about all that. I care about what is lost. A whole life planned. That is what I lost.

I am coming up on the wedding date we planned. A wedding. Because I thought she loved me like I love her. It wasn’t true; I was delusional and too trusting. The wedding was supposed to be in Minnesota with the family who loved me from the start, unlike my own, who chooses when they feel like sharing love. We picked the date very specifically. Even my biological family was very excited. They love her too. She helped them love me again. Instead, I’ll be running away.

I am so numb so often. I am a robot on good days, void of most feeling. Those are the days I like. I have been called broken, emotionally unavailable, and, once even, cold. I just don’t care. I prefer to be closed off from the world. I wear that smile on my face for eight working hours a day because I don’t want the questions. I barely even feel my physical body anymore; I am that checked out.

Mind you it’s not the loss of her I am lamenting. She and I have a soul connection that I cannot seem to break. She will never be lost from me. It’s the hope she instilled. The safety and security. The dreams. All that, she took. Yeah, yeah, “Take it back”, I hear you saying. I am independent. I do not need her to take care of me, but parts of me are gone. Those parts. So, if time heals, she sucks at it. She’s a slow bitch.

Five years later

Y'all may remember about five years ago my mom's brother sexually harassed me and outed me in front of 20 or so family members and family friends. I chronicled it here. After a week of family members ignoring the problem, I took matters into my own hands and wrote the above mentioned post, which is anonymous to my family, but then I took it a step further. I posted the same piece on MySpace. That was the end of my relationship with that side of the family and the beginning of a fragile relationship with my own mother. On my side because I could not forgive her for making excuses for Gerard and not sticking up for me and on her side because she believes the blog post to be "so damaging that if it was one of my cousins, I wouldn't talk to them either" and in the same breath, "Family is the most important thing."

This past weekend, I spent a few days with my parents and my sisters. The beginning of the weekend got off to a rough start, but it got better. The highlight was my mom telling that she set a boundary with her family regarding me. They are not to talk about me or ask after me or my kids to her or my dad. It was as close to an apology as I will ever get from her, but I felt so light. On the flip side, I am not allowed to say bad things about her pervy brother to her, which is what I had done the night before.

I love that my mother was able to draw this boundary with both sides, because, ultimately, she was the one who was getting hurt. I admit, I never thought about this before two days ago. She told me there is no hope of repairing my relationships with Mary Pat or Gerard. That was such a relief to me. I have been dreading making amends to them because I didn't feel like I did anything wrong, besides hurt my mother, which I made amends for after she said her peace.

The parts about this talk that didn't sit well is all the stuff they make up to blame me for and the things they said about my boys. My next step is to talk to my sponsor about writing an amends letter to my mom's other sister who seems to get it. I am feeling so much relief and a bit of excitement knowing that I won't ever have to be part of that mess again. I also have a bit of fear about writing the letter because if she blabs about it to the others, they will assume that I just want to stir up more trouble for them. I guess that assumption will be inevitable no matter if I write a letter or will a Nobel Peace Prize. It will always be about them. I know I still have days more processing to do, but this is a nice start.

**I want you to know that I googled searched my mother's brother to link his profile to this page, but I thought that would be immature and spiteful and I am trying to be big about this.

Home

It's been far too long since I have posted. I have been writing, but mostly in my journal. I've been extremely honest in my journal, which is new for me. I am honest on this blog, but my journal leaves me much more vulnerable than this anonymous blog. My journal sits on my nightstand, begging someone to open it and read my thoughts. When I was married, I actually used to write what I thought he would want to read, so I wouldn't expose myself or hurt him. I don't think he ever read it, but I still lied to myself to make sure he didn't know the true me, and for that matter, neither did I. Now I don't lie to myself. I don't lie to her.

I don't really want to recap the last year. It's not been the same old though. There have been so many changes, especially in me, where all changes in my life NEED to originate from. I am happy. Maybe that's why I haven't been posting. Ha.

She's moving home. The same she it's been for the last 4 plus years. The same she that has had me on a roller coaster ride. The same she that moved out to pursue her dreams. She is the love of my life today. She is that same she that has broken my heart in many pieces. She is that same she that picks me up. She is that same she that has cheered me on right through graduation day and into a masters program. She's moving home.

Our home is small and right now, messy. It's new to us. We just downsized. My bedroom window overlooks the community garden we sowed our summer yums in. Our art is on the walls, including the two new pieces we bought at Pride last weekend. Her smell is on her pillow from the last night her head rested in dreams upon it. Our worm bin has no place in this tiny space, but so much room in my heart. The boys have the master bedroom, so they can fit easily together. My houseplants are thriving in the sunny living-dining-family-office-room. My yarn's in a storage shed. My books are in boxes. Her stuff is waiting to mingle with mine, to become ours in this tiny new home.

I am part of a community here. I want so much for her to be part of the community I have built around myself, but she has to find her own place here. I'm the PTA treasurer this year. I know parents at both the schools the children attend. I am asked to help volunteer and I do. I am terrified that she will be like him. Not liking to do anything I want to do, but doing it grudgingly. I know people when I walk down the street, just because I walk down the street so often. I have met neighbors. I am respected at the University. I am afraid she will be angry at not fitting in immediately.

I don't want to push her into doing anything. And yet I want her to feel at home before this is even her permanent home. I want to skip the bumpy transition and move straight to the smooth sailing. So many changes to be grateful for. So many fears to swallow, hold back, fight, quash, and never let creep in to take over my brain. I just need to have patience with the process. Once I finally let it go that she was ever moving back and moved on with my weekday life, the Universe decides it's time for her to come home.

She is my home. She is my last four years of struggle and growth. She is my today and hopefully my tomorrow. Here's to new beginnings. Here's to home.

My Friend Needs Your Help

Until now, what I knew about anorexia and bulimia was learned from After School Specials and biology classes. What I know now is that my very lovely friends daughter may be dying because of these eating disorders. What I know now is that mom and daughter and sisters are suffering. What I know now is that our community is suffering.

I am pleading for anyone who may read this post to follow this link to her fundraising page. If you can't donate money, please consider sending love and light to them. This mama and this child are our sisters and daughters, our wives and mothers, our friends and members of our community. Her story may be yours, her daughter may be yours, her mother may have been yours, struggling to save your life. No amount of support is too little.

My Secret Is That I Have A Secret

If I told you, what would you think of me? Would you call me a pervert or disgusting? Would you tell me I needed serious help? Would you say that you know exactly what I am talking about? Maybe you would tell me I was normal. Maybe you would tell me that sometimes you do that too. Or maybe you wouldn’t. 

This thing I hold onto is dark. It won’t hurt anyone but me. It doesn’t see the light. Ever. It’s just in my head. It just festers there. It makes me feel good, then it makes me feel very bad. Without it, some things would be impossible, or I think they would be, because it’s been there since my memory began. 

What little memory I have of times before recent, I hold onto tightly. I don’t know where the other times are. There must be other times. I can’t remember when my secret started. I can’t remember the first time it made me feel good, then it made me feel bad. I can only remember that it has been forever. I can only remember it being inside of me. 

Today I can’t tell you. I can’t tell anyone. Today I will bottle it up again for another day. Today I don’t have the courage to tell. I have tried. Only bits come out here and pieces come out there. But the real stuff is stuck behind my teeth, on the roof of my mouth, like peanut butter. I push it forward and out with my tongue, but only a little comes. 

Eventually I give up trying to tell someone. I am ashamed. I am bad. I am afraid. I don’t want you to think less of me. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I don’t want you to look at me with disgust hidden in your eyes. I want you to love me like you always have, oblivious to my darkness and shame and fear and secret. 

I can imagine once it is out, it won’t be a big deal. I can imagine that you will understand. I can imagine that you will empathize. I can imagine a day that I am free of it. But I still can’t tell you. My mouth opens to tell you, then I pretend to yawn. My brain says go ahead, it will only bring you closer, not having any secrets between you. 

Don’t try to guess. The answer is no to all you are thinking. This thing, this secret, is dark. And nobody should know it. Not even me. If I tell you, will it leave me alone?