Here's the kicker

I am sitting on my hotel deck looking over one of my favorite views in the whole world, that of the Atlantic ocean.  But as I can no longer restrain myself, I pull out my Ipad and look on my Facebook page. And there it is.  Pictures of my niece's wedding with everyone in their splendor, including my husband.  Of course soon not to be that, and not so splendid.  In fact he looks miserable, but smug at the same time.  An interesting combination only he can pull off.  I look at the faces of my other family members (soon not to be, I guess- but after 30 years, mom and dad always will be, as will some of my SIL--though some I will gladly throw back, lol).  The ones who love me, look not as happy as the ones that hate me or are indifferent to me.  My parents-in-law are not smiling, and it occurs to me--who took the photo?  I wonder if it was his girlfriend, because he did not even ask me if the kids could come-- so I know he brought her.  My niece's mother was the one who embraced my husband the most, even during the meanest actions of abuse (which she probably never heard about or discounted easily because it apparently happened as a result of MY "abuse").  I am sure she encouraged bringing his girlfriend because then the family could have opportunity to get to know the soon to be newest addition (I am presuming, but for good cause).

He sent me a text yesterday and called on my cell- which I thankfully missed.  "How is ******, having fun?"  This is the place where we have gone as a family, even the last summer he was here as part of our group. But that last year my heart was breaking, I remember crying alone on the steps down the road from our room.  His words had been so cruel and indifferent.

Why do I keep re-living this?  Why do any of us, the "left behinds", keep re-living this?  I cant speak for the "leavers" for surely they have their own perspectives.  But in my process to heal I am doing what "they", the books, the blogs all say to do...introspection and evaluation of who we are, what we did, how we feel, blah, blah, blah.  And so it goes.

So here IT goes.  My little secret.  I guess the reason I keep re-living this is that despite all the rigamarole, the pain, the cruel words,  his truly abusive physical actions (bad, really bad)...After 25 years of his NOT behaving that way, with some problems admittedly but not like the last three years... I still f%*£g love him.  As I told my kid one day, long ago, as she was sobbing in my arms (one of many times that are etched in my memory too)...I told her that love doesn't go away.  And it is not supposed to be that easy. That is why committed LOVE is meaningful.

My husband (soon to be not) may feel differently- in truth he looked at me and said that as "the mother of his kids" he always would have some love for me--(like Mother Theresa, gee thanks, but no thanks), but it was said with cruelty.

My girlfriend, divorced and remarried happily, has also said that she thought a small part of her still lived her ex, but she has moved on (in spades!).

So the wounds are still kind of fresh for me.  I feel that love in a very real way, in this place we spent many happy years with the kids (I came here for them as much as me). And I am going to do something that is part of my new genetic make up.  I am going to be kind to myself and own up to my feelings honestly without any chastisement to myself.  Then we (the kids and I) are moving on.  And I, this woman of 50, at a growing peace with myself yet still tinged with some deep sadness, will let the light and joy of the day in.  I will be happy.

Quiet

I woke up today feeling mildly depressed.  No real reason, though I hadn't slept well.  I am lounging in bed, pretending to be sleeping from my kids, lol. And they are cool with that, bless them.   

When I wake up now, it is not so much about waking with the loss of him, or how he is probably waking in the arms of her.  Or not, if I think about the true dynamics of how his habits are- I lived with him for 22 years for heavens sake.

No, I now wake immersed in that morning stillness, not an entirely bad feeling actually.  But quiet.  I wonder if I should be waking with more happiness, or joy. Should I be leaping out of bed with full anticipation of what life will bring?  

Sounds great in concept, but maybe I'll make coffee first.... 

The art of living

I signup for a four day course that is supposed to teach me about how to live life stress-free, apparently.  Or not.  And in truth,my first evening when they run us through a series of breathing techniques, I feel a sense of release.  But I don't know if that is a good thing, because the release feels like a roiled sea of long held-back emotions, it frightens me.  I want there to be release, but not one that cause these feelings to rise to the surface and stay there.  And it is, like a black cloud that lingers on the surface of my skin, wet and clammy.  It hurts.


I wish I could say that my spirit is healing in complete renewing fashion.  But the scars that are healing feel like they are still coverings for small nodules of acute pain.  Covering, sealing pain, yeah, but it still feels...there.  To function, I realize I push it aside, down and away.  The years when I couldn't, those emotions kept to the surface and resulted in windless crying and open hurt, for all to see including my children.  And that had to stop.

But now, as I write this, I feel tears streaming down my face and that sucks.  Will this always be there, I wonder?

My dreams won't let me lie.  I dream of him again, ANGRY so ANGRY as he threatens to come back into  our old house, demanding and discounting of my feelings.  He states he is coming back fix a broken toilet, and I know it sounds rational, a "rationale" thing to do..and dream me is probably not "cooperating".  But I am afraid, he is going to hurt me physically, or kill me because he has finally been pushed to the brink. By me, apparently.  I know I did not do anything to deserve this but dream me seems unsure.  My dream sister says I asked for it, though the real version has not.

My mom is in the dream to, which is the only sweet spot of this dream.  I miss her, now that she is gone.  So my heart again feels broken and hurt.  I don't know, if I wish to feel this anymore. Feeling with no  apparent healing.

They speak of letting in the "prana", or life force.  The positive energy to give rise to..? Peace?  I don't know. But I will try.  My life is in steady state, needing of rejuvenation and joy.  But I must guard myself against the massive slide backwards.  That inner feeling that is mine, all mine.  I guard it carefully, the bad feeling..hurt, that when I let "him" see it, he used to create more. I want peace and joy, I pray for this, but I guess I need also to learn that I deserve it too.

All in the day of...

The kun-chaga chun sound of the train matches the iambic pentameter beat of the pounding in my head. The day kicks off hilariously bad at 5am when all of the hardwired carbon monoxide detectors go off in my house at once, syncing a high pitched and relentless scream to 'get out, get out!’. Knowing these frequently broken units well, I don't believe them- they lie. But, of course, I get up anyway and rouse the kids too. No signs of carbon monoxide poisoning, no dizziness or lethargic sleepiness (beyond the realm of having been so rudely awakened)- I assemble my chicks outside dressed and ready for the possibility of an unknown armageddon.

Once they are safely stashed in our car parked in the street, I call the firehouse. "No worries," I say, "surely a false alarm" and sure enough, when my friendly neighborhood emergency fireman, Andy, (who also happens to be my neighbor) comes, he gives it the all clear. He leaves, as I suddenly realize that in pulling out the ceiling unit in my daughter's room that a small steady stream of water emits from it. The alarm is protesting weakly now, as I curse and run to get a bathroom towel to sop up the little pool of water under it. I know what it is, dammit. The central air conditioning unit has a slow leak, as the repairman who came five days earlier told me. "No worries, I adjusted it so you have a little time," he had said. Okay, so in that interim of waiting for the estimate for repair, there WAS issue to worry.

Oddly, I don't. My new life is one of resigned indifference. It just is. So add it to my list of to- do's.  This mental list is a bullet-ridden line of chores, to which I add the occasional "fun thing"- just to keep sane. But those feel few and far between. It’s okay. This is how it is for now.

My sitter comes (hallelujah), after my teenage son drudges off to his own little special of middle school hell. He grudgingly accepts my clingy hug and "love you", with a mumbled return reply and hug...

My 9-yr old is sitting on the couch watching a Netflix show with her headphones deftly tuning out the world. She is up early, complements of the powers of angry alarm fate. No worries, again, since opportunity for extra TV time now presents itself.

So now off to work I go, waiting to attend a bi-annual team work meeting, presenting the immaculate facade of iron, albeit, slightly melted in its form. I will not be, "that girl", the tiresome one that bad things always happen to. I’m late because the sitter got messed up (or truth being, I forgot to set up that part with atypical inefficiency). Sad and crying in my office because of the crazy hurtful actions of my soon to be ex. The label and stereotype of that woman... No. I'm over it.

So I’m marching on for today, smiling, feeling it genuinely if I can, trying to feel nothing, nothing if I can't.



Its later, I’m riding home. My brain peeks into consciousness for a moment.
Tired. Long day, wish I felt like I had been impressive but thinking, not so much. I was okay. But now, tired. And still have to arrange for the HVAC repair, hopefully for tomorrow.

And make dinner for the kids. And school lunches to prepare, and stop at the bank for money to pay the sitter. And fold three loads of laundry. Tired.

It’s okay. Really. How am I handling this, with fear yes, but not paralyzing. The stress of the last few years follows a beat like the rampant introspection of Taylor Swift-like, "why, why, why". I feel like I have just left a war, met fire and hate, and still made it out alive. Snipers are still there, but distant. His fingers are curled at me but I do not see them, and only sometimes feel the threat of them in my dreams.

It’s okay. I'll save smiles for tomorrow, wide and plenty. And work on how I feel about me, me, me (because he would say, after all, it’s “all about you, you, you”).

Tonight, at bedtime, I’m praying for strength and the return for trust and joy again.