What do ya' know...

The significance of today just hit me. It's May 8th. On this day two years ago (nearly a year and a half AFTER he’d told me he wanted a divorce) my ex moved out. I remember that day so vividly… even now. All this time later, its memory hasn’t faded… but my reaction to it has changed. Last year I remember that I still felt the sting of that day and everything it represented. Today, one year later I feel nothing when I recall that moment. It's just a distant memory. I suspect over time all of the details will fade.

I’m happier than I was a year ago. I’m enjoying a budding new relationship. Something that thrills and terrifies me all at the same time. I’m having fun and he’s a great guy. He makes me smile and laugh even on the worst of days. I get that little flutter in my belly when I think of him, when he looks at me and when he leans over to steal a kiss. But I’m a giggling teenage girl one minute and a woman terrified of losing herself and her heart again, the next.

I’m gonna just go with it though and try not to over-analyze every little nuance. Some of you are chuckling right now… knowing full well I am incapable of NOT over-analyzing anything. It’s part of my DNA… or I read one too many Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys books when I was a kid.

I’m still not thrilled with my job and I’m still searching for my niche. However I’ve stopped worrying about time running out and instead am trying to take one day at a time and make choices wisely as I go. Yeah, I’m over forty but I’m not near death and I have plenty of life left in me. Somewhere out there I’ll find where I belong. Until then I’ll be grateful that I have a job when many don’t.

Life isn’t perfect… but it’s not supposed to be and no one said it would be. Well.. I’m sure someone, somewhere, said it but they were delusional or lying. My life IS, however, perfectly imperfect. Every day I accomplish something I’d set out to do. It may be something small and seemingly insignificant to someone else, but to me it means something.

Another year gone by… And I survived…

Still struggling...

I smile at the world, pretending all is OK. I go to work. I take care of my business. I move through the days like any other seemingly normal human being doing what I have to do. I laugh and have conversations with friends and acquaintances. And I appear, to the world at large, to be a happy, well adjusted divorced, single Mom. In reality I am broken inside.

It was his weekend with the kids so I was forced to interact with him, albeit in a limited capacity. It's inevitable when one has six kids with their former spouse, but it's not something I look forward to or enjoy in any capacity. No matter what I say out loud? I'm still hurting something fierce inside. It's an ache that starts somewhere in the pit of my stomach and radiates through every part of my body. It is very much physical and I pray, begging and pleading with God, for relief from it. I don't want to feel this way. I mean, no one wants to feel this way. Unless their some kind of masochist. But I am fed up with feeling this way. Enough is enough already.

I read self help books, I listen to friends sage advice and stare at web page after web page about grief and moving on and letting it all go. It all sounds like fabulous advice. But all of the books and web sites are missing one vital piece of the puzzle. Clear cut directions as to HOW one “let's it all go” or “kisses it up to God” or whatever cute euphemism you want to use. HOW do I make myself stop feeling something? Something that is so engrained in me that it's practically part of my DNA?

I can admit that I have moments when I forget it all. When I'm engrossed in a book or captivated by a movie. Unfortunately I can't read or watch TV twenty-four seven. I have to work, deal with children, household chores, etc, etc, etc... It's during those moments when memories often come flooding back at me. A young couple with two small children will come through my lane and I'm instantly transported back to a time when it was just him and I and the two oldest boys. We were happy. We were usually broke, living in a rental house and didn't take family vacations. But we were happy. Or I thought we were.

I wonder, more often than I'd like to, if even back then he had these feelings of wanting out. I was literally pregnant every other year for ten years. Was that the only reason he stayed? Because leaving with six small children would have been financial suicide for both of us? Was my entire marriage a joke?

All of these things flood through my head at the most inopportune times and I've often found myself fighting off tears while taking care of a customer or speaking with a co-worker. Bursting into tears at work is not on my bucket list, I assure you. I'd prefer to keep the fact that I am an incurable cry baby under wraps. (Yeah, I know... too late.)

I have the urge a million times a day to shake myself and scream, “Snap out of it woman!!! He's moved on! Now you HAVE too!! He doesn't DESERVE your tears.” And in my head I'm doing just that. The scene plays over and over and over again. After awhile, the feelings get squashed back down again and I'm ok for a little while. Is that how I “move on”, “let go” and “kiss it up to God”?? Is it just a matter of every single second, of every single day fighting the feelings?? Because I have to tell you... it is emotionally and physically exhausting.

And how long does this go on?? When is my sentence up?? Because I'm starting to dislike the person I've become...

His final gift and milestones...

It was a warm spring morning when the kids clamored up the steps to my third floor bedroom to wish me a Happy Mother's Day. It was like any other Mother's Day. Breakfast in bed, cute handmade gifts crafted by small hands, sappy and funny Hallmark cards and a gift card for Amazon.com so I could add more eBooks to my Kindle. Their Dad stood in the room watching the scene unfold while the tension in the air could be cut with a knife.

"I'll be leaving soon.", he said.

"Ok...", was all I could muster in response.

Leaving. Not to go to work or to the store but for good. He was leaving me. I suppose some would find the choice to do this on Mother's Day a rather crappy move on his part, but the reality was that I saw it as just another Mother's Day gift. It was time. No matter how much I tried to wish it wasn't true, to pretend there was some hope, the truth was it was definitely time. The year prior had been sheer hell trying to exist inside the same space as him. So, in a sense, by leaving that day he was giving me a gift. One final gift.

He left without fanfare less than an hour later. I stayed on the third floor while he said good-bye to the kids and then watched his car drive away from a window. I remember the moment as if it were yesterday. I felt a complete sense of... nothing. At that moment I was simply numb. I turned away from the window and went about my day on autopilot.

That was nearly a year ago. Back then I assumed (foolishly) that this year I'd be doing oh so much better. And I guess, to a point, I am. It's less intense than it was then. But I still feel a sense of loss and pain, though not as acute as before. I still cry, often at the most inopportune times. Sometimes there's no reason for the sudden welling of tears in my eyes, other times it's a song or sound or a smell or something that sparks a memory and I'm settling in for a good sob fest. But these episodes are fewer and further between as time goes on. Maybe next year I'll be over it all together.

Someone told me that they'd heard or read that it takes four months for every year of a relationship to "get over it". I have no idea where they found this tidbit of information nor if there is any merit to it but if it does hold any merit I have a good four years of this crap ahead of me. That doesn't exactly make me feel hopeful.

I think there should be a period of time after a couple with kids splits up when they don't have to see each other. At all. Beep at the curb when you arrive to pick the kids up and I'll send them out. Make sure I get child support every month and leave me alone. Don't call me, don't look at me, don't text me. When I come to get them I'll do the beeping and you can send them out. Don't come with them. I want to pretend you don't exist. Because each time I'm forced to interact with you I feel like it all comes rushing back at me. Then I get in a funk and it settles in for several days. If I could just have, say... a year during which I never had to be in the same air space as him I'd be fine. Actually I'd prefer I never had to lay eyes on him again, ever, but I realize that, with six kids, is unrealistic. So I'd take a year. With minimal contact after that.

Logically I know I won't always feel this way. But for now it's my reality. I don't expect anyone to understand it but I do expect that my feelings be respected. He seems to think that because he doesn't understand where I'm coming from he shouldn't have to cater to me. Personally, I think he owes me that much. I'm not going to tell you he's been a complete ass for the last year. He's been an occasional ass. As most men will be from time to time. Just like women are bitches from time to time. He does what he's supposed to do most of the time. He screws up some of the time (as do I). And he tries to be a good Dad. We have moments we get along so well I wonder, to myself, "Why are we getting a divorce???" And there are other moments when I could cheerfully smack him across his smug face. I'm betting he's felt the same way. Touche'.

I've survived the first year. They say that's the hardest. Right? Let's see what the next year brings...

Ugh...

I am so tired… I think I slept a grand total of two hours last night. It’s been so long since I’ve slept any longer that the hours and days all meld into one another. So it could have been two hours, it could have been close to four. Judging by my energy level (or lack thereof) I’m guessing it was the former. I tell myself, daily, that I’ll catch on sleep one of these days. The reality is that I suspect that won’t happen unless and until I have that nervous breakdown I so desperately deserve.

Christmas is just three days away and I am not even close to ready. I’ve truly dropped the ball this year. My house is only half decorated, my outside lights… well let’s not even go there, I haven’t baked a SINGLE cookie, not a present is wrapped and my laundry piles have grown to such monstrous proportions that I could probably lose a small child in one of them.

I’ve reached the “cut corners wherever you can” stage. I’ll start with the laundry. I’ll fish out enough clothes, underwear, socks and PJ’s for everyone for the next oh… let’s say five days (Yes I am THAT behind… looking sheepish…)and I’ll wash them. The rest will be “hidden”. Now wait a minute, don’t give me a load of crap. We’ve ALL hidden things in a pinch. If you say you haven’t you’re a liar or simply not normal. :)

After I hide the offending, undone laundry, which I will curse ferociously the day after Christmas, I’ll apply some FlyLady techniques to the house. The next three days are going to be a whirlwind of fifteen minute clean ups, 27 fling boogies and sink shinings. IF I’m lucky I may be able to sit down and RELAX after dinner on Christmas Eve. IF… I’m lucky. Sigh…

I need a little Christmas, right this very minute…

That moment...

...when someone gets way too close to the truth.

I am all too aware of my own faults. I'm my own worse critic. And apparently I hide behind worthless platitudes, cute sayings, horoscopes and other assorted crap all meant to make me feel better. (I'm paraphrasing a bit here.)

Nice, huh? But, if I'm being honest, somewhere in there lies the truth. The proverbial nail on the head was thus hit when it was also pointed out that I must be hurting, feeling lost and not sure which way is up. Well... duh! Ya' think?

That's sort of to be expected. I mean... OK... so it has been two years since all of this nonsense started. And I've been on my own for quite some time. One would think that I'd be at least almost over it all by now. But I'm not even close to almost over it.

I am hurting less than I was six months ago. I'm not feeling as lost as I did last Christmas. And I'm fairly certain I am traveling upward or at least in that general direction. I expect I'll fall a few times between now and whatever it is that is next for me. I'm absolutely sure I'll make some mistakes along the way. But I'm also sure that I'll survive.

What the HELL is wrong with this country???

Firefighters stand by and watch a family’s home and memories burn to the ground over a seventy-five dollar unpaid fee. The absurdity of that should boggle the minds of any reasonable, quasi-intelligent human being.

Eleven year old boys are hanging themselves rather than endure yet another day of torture at the hands of their peers. Yes you read that right. Hanging themselves. No child should ever be made to feel so badly about themselves that they resort to such a horrific “solution”. And no parent should ever have to find their child like that.

Mothers are killing their babies, whether accidentally or intentionally, so they can go out and party instead of doing the job God entrusted them with. Many then get away with it! They murder their flesh and blood for a night out on the town and then they get away with it!!!! WHAT???? That is ludicrous!!!

And then there is this bit of brilliance (sarcasm intended)... this is one that raises my blood pressure through the roof…

On March 2nd 2011 the Supreme Court ruled that hateful protests at military funerals are protected under the First Amendment. These protests may include signs with vile messages such as “Thank God for Dead Soldiers”, “God is America’s Terror” and “God Hates Your Tears”. But hey, it’s ok. The First Amendment protects their right to voice their opinion. You want to know what I have to say to that??

F**K that.

I don’t give a rat’s patootie about their First Amendment rights. What about the family of the fallen soldier?? What about their rights?? Do they not have a right to mourn their loved one in private?? Are their rights not violated when they are faced, on one of the worst days of their lives, with these vile sub-humans and their detestable signs??

No matter your opinion on “the war”, our soldiers deserve nothing less than our full support and respect. While everyone is entitled to an opinion and I respect that. And I accept that others may not have the same value system and beliefs as I do. And whether I agree with them, or find their opinion vile and heinous, I support their right to voice that opinion… in a proper venue and at the proper time.

A funeral, any funeral, but most certainly the funeral of one of our fallen soldiers, is NOT a proper venue!! Period.

I do find some solace in that these so called Christians make themselves look like such world class dickheads; and that the lot of them can’t have more than a few working brain cells between them; that most intelligent people see them for what they are. And I, an intelligent person, have a suggestion for them….

How about you shove your obnoxious signs up your uptight asses and then kindly remove your revolting selves from the planet earth?

Writer's block...

This is probably the 50th (AT LEAST) blog I've tried to write in the last several months. I find I get these great ideas for blogs while I'm driving with Kenny crooning at me from the speakers. At full volume of course. Unfortunately writing or typing while driving is not something I'm talented at and I'm pretty sure there's a legality issue.

Try as I might to hang onto the ideas no sooner do I sit down in front of my computer and I've got... nothing. I start typing and the words that I'm able to painstakingly extract from my brain make little to no sense or sound like the ramblings of a five year old.

Write what you know. I read that advice somewhere. I believe it was in an old text book. But don't quote me on that. It was a long time ago and I've remembered, and tried to live by, that advice ever since.

So... what do I know? I know how to change a diaper. I could probably complete the task blindfolded. I know how to cook fairly well. The kids are all still alive. However, I doubt anyone wants to hear about the finer points of diaper changing and my cooking skills are certainly nothing to write about.

I could write about the silly, sometimes pathetic, things that I think about. But I'd like to avoid a stint on the psych ward. I could spill out all of my deepest fears and most secret dreams. But... I'm not that brave.

I could write about a loneliness, often so profound, that it leaves me with a physical ache. And that would be depressing. I don't need any help with that emotion. I could write about being so physically and mentally exhausted that I often have no idea what time of day it is. But you've heard that before...

I could write about fear. I could tell you that I don't think I have ever been this afraid in my entire life. At least not for this length of time. I can say with near certainty that I exist in a constant state of anxiety. Sometimes it's a nervousness that is just below the surface. I'm able to control it with self soothing techniques. Often without anyone being aware of what I'm doing. Sometimes it's more dominant and quite difficult to hide. I sweat. I get the shakes and I feel physically sick to my stomach. It's a feeling I do not like and one I fear. Which exasperates the anxiety and creates a never ending, vicious cycle.

Again... I am able to write about all of these things. And I'd likely bore everyone to tears. Which must sound presumptuous. "Bore everyone to tears", as if I'm some blogging Goddess that everyone reads regularly and waits with baited breath for each new post. Ha! I'm honestly not that full of myself. I likely get more out of my blogging than anyone else does. And that's really all that matters. If I keep it all in I run the risk of self destructing.

Many of our fears are tissue-paper-thin, and a single courageous step would carry us clear through them. ~Brendan Francis