so, the ex contacts me to tell me he just read the blog. and thinks its about him. I’ve told him enough times not to read it. that nothing, even if he is in it, is about him. all me, all the time. And everytime he tells me he has read it, I feel like I need to go stand in the darkest corner of the house and never write again. and sometimes I have stopped, for ages.
so today, as a mark of noticing the dropped shoulders that I got from yelling alone in my kitchen?
I write. As an act of defiance, i write, however small a piece… because he got enough out of me already, and he can’t have anything else.
and i’m not being ‘too dramatic’, or ‘angry’, i’m just showing you how I save myself these days.
the kids are flying off to Florida tomorrow for a long weekend and a swim with some manatees.
the ex is dating, has broken up with the woman he was with immediately after leaving (foggy dates there, intentional) and it’s coming back around on me.
I don’t care. I do care. ego is involved. things are not equal. they won’t be. my kids are very lucky.
and I’m going to miss the kids a lot. its only one night more than regular that they’ll be gone from me, but the fact that they’ll be having all these first-time experiences without me is a little bit peaky. and airplanes.
and i’m having stress dreams about disrespect and the way i felt when i was married and the futile feeling that i had about my life all the time.
and i’m calling my friends and they are holding my hands, and my LM is being lovelier.
and man, there is this gift in all this… that i’m not there anymore, that he isn’t in my life anymore, that i can yell and be mad and not be constantly gaslit about my own worth and sanity.
that i forget. and remember. and yell in the empty kitchen, to myself, ‘he is not in my life ANYMORE’. and the yelling feels right, and loosens my shoulders.
here i am.
sometimes i am mad. catch me at 9:30 at night when not one.single.kid. is making any progress towards sleep and i am a fucking harpy of doom. totally.
and i don’t have to hear anymore about what an ‘angry person’ i am. because i am so much more than a person who gets angry sometimes. and really, i always was.
i’m not there anymore. and the fairytale fell apart and the crying in the wedding dress is done. (i’m sure i’ll have some more moments, but.)
and i’ve got amazing kids with me all the time, and i’m allright man. right here in the middle of all this, i’m still allright.
the structure of things is simple. an outline, a scaffold of right angles and sturdy support. the veinous structure of the map.
and then there are the details.
the rhythm of the heart. the out-branching, the outlier, thinner and thinner and prone to dissolution. age and wear. the curve of a doorway arch. the dirt road still in use. the ‘what’s for dinner’ call at the bus stop at 8 am…
in my brain, something snagged. A detail stuck out and hooked all the scaffolding for miles in a precarious leaning-towards a vast nothing.
I have believed, for months, that I needed a w2 from my last ‘real’ job, and today I started acting on finding it. Because an answer did not immediately fly my way, my body got anxious. as in, my heart is still tight now, hours later, my skin was flushed hot and prickly and i was buried in shame. and this, all this, in a series of maybe 6 text/message/email exchanges. six. (and I’m wrong. I don’t need that w2.)
simple. not simple.
i want to joke about death and taxes. i really do.
i can’t entirely figure it out. the shame? dear god. Shame? COME ON. shame is for cain and abel. for trump, if in fact he had a heart or soul… but me? shame?
ugh. brene brown, come and get me.
Something about being a good girl, I am sure. Following the rules. Having clear countertops. Failing. Failing at taxes, being ignorant of what you need to get by in the world. Not knowing the loopholes, not knowing the structures to climb. Not knowing what you do not know.
there is something that unravels in your chest when you are in the right spot. shoulders let down, breath slows.. its a piece of you that you don’t even always recognize as being wound. (this one is tricky. not a wound. but wound, the tightly wound spool of thread…)
I think, even in a good marriage, you forget to take those moments of unravel. but I don’t know, surely, as I only had a good marriage for a short while.
it is akin to surrender, this unraveling, as a vulnerability in and of relief, a certainty that you are in a safe spot.
seems so simple.
but hello. it isn’t.
all the tiny steps you take to get there. to unlearn and relearn and step out and step back… those tiny steps to move away from a gigantic broken, blistered heart? ‘tiny’ being a euphemism for ‘each and every one is a gigantic, monolithic mass of granite that you can’t see the top of when you first approach. we’re talking rock climbing every step of the way, with our out-of-shape, middle-aged everythings. I’m talking bloody fingers every reaching hand, every single one. and then the release. that spot.
hot apple cider, available at the coffee shop. not coffee. and boy, when you ask for it plain, you get a look. however, this is new England and hot cider is a required force on a fall morning.
cider smells like breast-fed baby poop. i’m happy about that. also glad that it doesn’t TASTE like breast-fed baby poop.
I ran out of my kitchen (at 8:30 am) because my tenant was there. she lives there. I don’t have any problem with her. I just ran away, because.
I am afraid to talk to people at the ‘real’ health food store. because I feel guilt for fast food, and high fructose corn syrup and not enjoying cooking, and so I feel a fraud, or like I have to confess. Makes for an awful lot of drama.
So many people here are still wearing flipflops, or sandals of some sort. I don’t care about toes but I do care too much about warmth and chilly-ness. too much, I know. but hats are imminent, people!
there’s all these women with babies under 6 months old. some mommy and me class must’ve just finished somewhere.
plus, its gone from before 10 am to after 10 am and the place is hopping. who lives these lives? I wish they would all stop by my table and tell me. (not really, maybe. maybe.)
I’m too distracted by my phone. memes can be really funny. i’m still tired of snark though.
I don’t ever want to be around pumpkin spice. i’m a purist. apple cider. i’m going to make a flag for my pickup.
maybe they are nannies. this one does not have a body which has carried a child. are nannies a thing here? maybe i’m in the wrong end of town.
I have to go back home to take a walk, and to hear me some more Mother Teresa. because. what else would you do while waiting for the work to roll in, right?
I think a dozen is a pretty good place to stop. I imagine my Lionness getting down with the apple cider too.
(seriously, where the hell are all these babies coming from? there are SO many babies here! a meet-up?)
shitcakes and fuckery. I wrote that this week in a shared space and made two women laugh. and man that feels pretty great.