Maybe Tonight

The sound of my bedside fan seems to mark the seconds that go by, as I lie in bed staring at the silhouettes of trees standing out against a red-tinged night sky. Seconds turn to minutes, minutes bleed into hours, and I’m no closer to sleep than when I got into bed. The only noise I can hear is the fan blades whirring, stirring the air and insulating me from the sounds of the night. It seems to be a metaphor for me, isolated from the voices of the rest of the world.

You don’t really grasp how valuable human contact and closeness is until you no longer have it. I spend most nights like this, with my soul longing for anyone to want to connect, but getting nothing but white noise whenever I try to reach out. I might get two word responses, or a polite haha, maybe even an emoji … All dismissals, done out of a sense of obligation or just habit.

I have a couple really good friends. Other than them, no one really talks to me. I don’t mean conversation for the sake of it or discussing the weather … I mean really talking, about feelings and dreams and fears and heartbreaks and joy. These are the things that matter, that connect us as humans to each other. But most nights, I lie here and wait for anyone to actually wish for that kind of connection with me. I wonder why people have forgotten me … How can they not see me anymore?

I’ve tried to spark a discussion. Most nights I end up making a fool of myself, sending random memes and one line messages, because I can’t find the words to say “Please want my company. Can’t we connect?”

With a couple of exceptions, and I cherish them dearly, people have all faded into the background of my world. Now I’m alone, shouldering an almost impossible task as a single mom, and at the end of my long days when I fall into bed exhausted, I set my alarm to do it all over again tomorrow … I just wish I wasn’t one of the forgotten.

The fan keeps turning, turning, kind of like the years of my life going by. I’m starting to wonder if it will always be this way, and why. I’ve always tried to do good for others, but at the end of the day … Maybe tonight, someone will want to talk.

Maybe tonight.

When Your Mask Slipped

First day of school!! No matter what those words mean for you (elation, ala the old Staples Back To School ad), or sadness that they’re leaving … either way, they’re momentous, for both parent and child. It’s a huge change, all new everything: teacher, classmates, environment, expectations. It’s so much more than the Back To School Bus Stop pictures flooding everyone’s Facebook feeds around the end of August/beginning of September.

For the record, I don’t think school should start in New England before Labor Day.

Facebook has this cool feature called On This Day, where you can see what you posted on this date 1 year ago, 2 years ago, 3 years ago, etc. I love seeing the pictures of my kids doing all the fun things we’ve always done. Sometimes, though, I see a stark reminder of the abusive, toxic, sick place I was in, and the people who intentionally held me there.

Today was one of those days. My On This Day showed me a picture from 4 years ago of my youngest (4 at the time) standing in front of a homemade cake. The caption was that my oldest (13 at the time) baked it for her brother (10 at the time) for his first day of school. Let me give you a little context for the enormity of this day … my 10 year old son had his first day of public school EVER, having been home schooled his entire life until that day. So, he wasn’t just having a first day of school. He was going to public school in 5th grade in a new town for the first time in his life.

In my mind, this called for a ticker tape parade. In his father’s mind? He opted to go out for a First Day of School Celebration with his girlfriend and her two children for their 1st day of school. This was not their first day of school ever. This was not a new town on top of that. For them, this was just another first day. They were not and are not his children … but his own children? They’ve been consistently pushed aside for his girlfriend’s children, and this night was no exception.

First I was told that the girlfriend’s daughter wanted a special First Day of School night out. Then it was “just her, her mom, her brother, and … my husband and my children’s father.” (check the rest of my blog for the crap I put up with while my husband cheated on me with my former friend) This “dinner out” lasted hours longer than any dinner with children. Did I mention with children? School is out at 3. They were out WITH THE CHILDREN until 10 pm. I messaged continuously throughout the night about: my kids missing their father, it being a school night, and when to plan for their arrival. I was lied to all night long.

My son, when he asked where his father was and I told him, turned to me with the innocence he was always known for (I use the word was because his father’s behavior has jaded him in the last few years … ), and said “But doesn’t Dad know it’s my first day of school too? My first day of school ever???”

My heart shattered for him in that moment. I think I might still have some pieces to pick up. My daughter (age 13, still home schooled at the time) happened to be in the room when he said that. Her face contorted into a mixture of fury and desperate sadness for her brother. And then it coalesced into a drive: she took it upon herself to bake her brother a cake to celebrate his first day of school, all herself. She frosted it and everything. When I came into the kitchen she said “He should get something special too – it’s his first day of school EVER!! And he should have been included!!”

I’m not entirely sure the fury from that day ever left her.

I’m also desperately proud of her integrity and love for her family.

We enjoyed the cake as a family, sans their father who had better things to do (an omen for the future), and I put the children to bed. When their father finally stumbled home, it was half in the bag, the girlfriend worse, carrying travel mugs of tequila … WITH her children. Her son took me aside and asked why his mom and my husband were acting so strange at “dinner.” (The adults only had margaritas, no food. I guess it wasn’t enough after $100 worth of booze at the restaurant because they hit up the liquor store after). I tried to laugh it off to her son, but I think he knew. His mom was at that moment trying to log onto his student account and gyrating on the chair while laughing with my husband who was responding … while her kids watched in horror.

I steered everyone upstairs and tried to put people to bed. I was told I was a wet blanket (for being the only responsible adult in the house taking care of innocent children’s minds) and laughed at by the other adults. And the next morning I was told “I don’t remember anything from last night.”

That’s ok. I do. So do your children. Ask me again about the first day of school? About you being a parent? Ask me about the wounds inflicted on my children by you.

Ask me. I dare you.

The Proof Is In The Pictures

I have spent hours going through old pictures. I needed to find something. What was I looking for? I wasn’t even sure at first. But it was this ache in my chest, this pain when I saw anything that reminded me of my past. It felt like a hole in my heart.

My past is couched in terms that are almost opposites. At the same time that I weep for the all-together family moments, I feel fear/anger about the horrible abusiveness I endured at the hands of my partner. I realized recently that I’m grieving a “family” that is half manufactured nostalgia, courtesy of my sentimental nature + the good memories. And that’s been hanging me up.

So I went through all the pictures.

All the videos.

All the journal entries.

Yes, I went through everything. And oh my, do I have a lot of things: so many pictures, so many videos, so many entries. It made me pause. I looked at the other pictures: the kids, the trips, the little things done all the time with them. I looked at both together.

I looked at both together.

That’s when it all hit me. None of it was real. I’m feeling nostalgia for a mirage.

Before I go too far, I am NOT saying that the memories with the children weren’t real. Those were basically the only real things during those dark years. But there wasn’t any real connection between me and my partner. The control and pain he chose to put me through had lasting damage on me. I don’t think of him … like ever. The only time I do is in the context of “Oh god, what now??”

I was ridiculed. Called names. Threatened. Belittled. Berated. Raped. That’s the glossing over. But hey, a close friend said he was an oasis for her as she tore my life and my children’s lives to shreds for her own personal gain, so … who am I to judge a little abuse?

The proof is in the pictures, though. That’s the key. The things we did with the kids, I wanted and not only did but enjoyed as much as they did. And even though I’m now a solo parent, my pictures of our fun times haven’t changed. Not at all.

The only thing that is different is the absence of an abusive spouse. And I don’t miss a moment of that. I have never once thought “Hey, I really miss being shuttled around because I’m not allowed to go anywhere by myself. And it’s been awhile since I was told I was a stupid b*tch. Above all, I haven’t had some guy dragging my life down to his gross and base level … I should fix that.”

Um, no. I’d rather pull my own teeth than ever be controlled and verbally abused again. He really made sure to keep me under his thumb. Well, until I broke free.

Me? I’m still playing with the kids and loving it. We do as much and even more than before. The smiles and giggles are constant.

I don’t need to be nostalgic for my family. They’re right here. They always have been. 💓

Codependent? Not So Much!

Today was a pretty amazing day. Why? Well, nothing major happened from an outward view. It was a typical Monday: I got all 4 kids up and off to school with home cooked lunches packed, threw some random food in a container for me and scooted off to work. After work I picked up the kids, worked on homework, thawed frozen pipes, made dinner, did dishes … I basically made life happen as a capable single mother.

I know, nothing in that sounds particularly amazing. But, in the midst of all of that, something truly earth-shattering did happen. Have you ever seen a movie where the main character has a “coming-to-God-moment” where they sort of step outside the action and view it from a new perspective? That’s exactly what happened to me today. I was granted a unique perspective on my life and on the things that have been said to and about me.

I had started to believe that I was something I’ve never been. I actually started to believe I was codependent. Today I realized: the reality couldn’t be further from the truth. I’ve always been fiercely independent. Over the years, I allowed that to be snuffed out, and it’s my own fault that I didn’t fight harder for myself – literally, my self. And for the last 3 years I stood no chance, because I was already a broken, empty shell. I needed to heal from what I’d been put through, not go through the back-burnering I received but didn’t deserve.

Today I saw the person I used to be: an independent person, completely engulfed and eclipsed by another. It’s sort of like boiling a frog: it starts out cool, then gets hotter, and hotter, and hotter, until eventually you never go anywhere alone and can’t even figure out the last time you did anything for yourself.

I don’t miss that loss of my independence for one second. Getting it back is worth all of it: the tears, the emptiness, thawing my pipes by myself … it’s all worth finding me again.