8 posts tagged “sadness”
October was a busy, almost manic month here at our house. There was lots of activity. Camping to pack for, parties to prepare for, festivals to travel to, house guests to host, weddings to attend. I am exhausted just thinking about all that we did in October.
October used to be my favorite month. Its the month when the weather actually starts to turn, when sweaters come out. Of Sunday with golden light and bright blue skies. Its the month when soups are appealing again. When the days grow shorter and we stay in with our loved ones, cuddling up against the coming cold.
Now I struggle with October. It is the lonliest of months for me.
Juan and I were married in October. We have so many memories of years of wonderful Octobers, of being new parents, of traveling to Mexico, of carving pumpkins and hosting parties, of decorating for the fall holidays. I loved rushing home in the darkening October days to rake leaves with him, or sit down to a spicy stew cooked just for me. October reminds me of all the things I cherished about being his wife, that I appreciated about our partnership in better days. And so now, even years later, even with all the water under our bridge, October without Juan feels a bit empty and hollow to me.
Its true that I still really miss him.
So I spent the month distracting myself. I did it on purpose--making sure that every weekend we had something to look forward to, an event that would allow me to build new memories of October, new associations with the beautiful life Max and I have built in the last few years. I surrounded myself with events and people that would allow me to hold October with happiness again. And it mostly worked. Each year that we pass through this month I feel a little less melancholy. This month I mostly felt blessed and happy. My focus was on my present not my past. I felt that I was exactly where I needed to be, for better or for worse.
But in the letting go of October I need to admit that I still feel the loss of him--need to face it so it doesn't haunt me like a ghost left over from Halloween.
My dear friend Stephen likes to remind me that the mark of a truly intelligent human being is that she can hold two completely contradictory ideas in her mind and know them both to be true.
I have said over and over again (and meant it every time) that the loss of my marriage was one of the most important events in my life, that it was a test of fire that shaped me in a truly positive way, that it provided the kick in the pants I needed to wrestle with some really mean demons and that as a result I am a much healthier and happier person. This was a journey I had to take and I am so glad to be on the other side of the mountain,
But tonight I acknowledge that even as I am blissfully happy in my new life, I am also terribly sad to have lost the old one. That while I am so happy to be on the road I am on, I sometimes wish I never had to go here. That I love where I am, but hate how I got here. That I wish I could share this magical place where I reside right now with him.
A few weeks ago, I stumbled upon this post by Kyran over at Notes to Self on marriage. At the time that I first read it I was stunned by the beauty of her writing and the honesty with which she told her story. I appreciated it for the literature it is.
Today I went back to it. I had meant to send it on to a couple of friends who themselves are struggling with their less than perfect partnership. I thought the empathy in her piece would be good for them, that the happy ending would give them hope. Just to be sure, I read the piece again, along with the long string of comments from readers who agreed that Kyran had just captured the beautiful essence of marriage.
Again, this piece of writing moved me, but in a way that surprised the hell out of me.
I wanted to throw up. For what I felt was not hopefulness, empathy or joy. No, what bubbled up inside of me today was raw, unadulterated, spitting envy, cynicism and derision.
Unlike Kyran and so many of those who left comments there at Notes to Self, my experience was not one of finding my way back to each other--I did not have that if you sit down and work hard and focus and negotiate it will all be beautiful fairy tale ending. Like them we worked hard at saving our marriage but ours was a journey of great pain, heartache and profound disappointment with no sunrise on the other end. A love that didn't exactly die but just in a fit of desperation gave up.
And I realized a few things about myself. I am completely comfortable in the company of couples that have healthy strong relationships, who dwell in a place of love and respect for each other. They give me great hope. I also have tremendous empathy for those whose true loves fell apart or who are struggling and not sure where it will all end up. But those people--the ones who were terribly unhappy but then figure out how to make it work and find their love again--the ones who are able to say they went to the edge of breakup and made it back--sometimes multiple times over--those couples make me want to spit with envy and call them things like smug. They make me a bit uncomfortable not because of anything else other than that they succeed where I failed. Because they have what I wanted. Because they won and I lost.
When you catch a glimpse of your wounded self in the mirror of your soul it is never pretty.
Every once in awhile something happens that causes me to shine a spotlight around the dark corners of my heart. The places where the air is stale and the cobwebs are thick. Today Kyran's piece surfaced in me the small jealous ugly self, the part of myself I rarely see anymore but who hasn't (much to my chagrin) disappeared completely.
More upsetting that the discomfort of the envy was actually realizing that this ugly part of myself still exists. Between my recent brush with insecurity and now this I am having some real quality time with the parts of myself I had hoped I'd outgrown.
Now the question is what to do with them now that they show up.
There was a time, not too too long ago when I would have given voice to my ugly self--when I would have given her permission to just go to town. I would have ranted and raved about the stupid smug people who actually believe in love and who think that kind of struggle is beautiful. I would have thought unkind thoughts. I might have even spoken them aloud.
Over the last few years, however, when the uglies have shown up I have been on a mission to lock them out. Their kind are just not accepted here in MY heart. I give them a good talking to and tell them why they are not welcome here anymore. I tell them exactly what I think about them and smack 'em around a bit too. I remind them that they are no longer part of me--thank you very much.
But tonight, driving home in my car, (the place where this drama all played out) I was too damn tired. I didn't have it in me to buzz with anger. I didn't have the energy to beat myself up either. So instead, I just stood on the edge of my emotions and put my arm around my ugly self and sat in silence--uncomfortable silence mind you--but silence. There was nothing else to do but sit with her and listen to Bob Dylan.
I am told that it is here, in moments like these, when we can actually feel grace. I'd like to say that something, someone came down and touched me and I cried tears of joy for finally loving my hurt and icky self. Or that my ugly, mean self kissed me goodbye and left.
None of that happened. Instead I drove to Target and bought some nylons for a wedding I will attend this weekend. But by the time I got there, the tears that had welled up in my eyes had dried. And when I got home, I had room in my heart to greet my ex who was playing with Max. I also had room in my heart to feel empathy for those who have been to hell and back. Empathy and envy mixed together in a murky muddy shade of gray.
And right now, that kind of a shift is enough. Its really just fine with me.
I have been told that you know you are healing from a great loss, not by the absence of suffering but by the fact that the length of time between each episode of intense grief gets longer and longer still. Its been awhile now since I cried over the dissolution of my marriage with Juan, since I dwelt on the reality that all I had hoped for as a young bride turned out so differently. I know I am healing because it has been months since I felt so sad. It is this fact that I cling to tonight even as my tears keep me awake.
And its true that I have noticed that I no longer feel the need to go to the sub sub basement of despair. I am now content to rest on the stairs between the ground floor and the basement of my emotions. A softer sort of sad.
And it is also true that I no longer fight my grief. I no longer am afraid of the waves of emotion. I know that they will tumble over me and that they will go and happiness and joy will once again rule my day. Over the last few years I have learned that I can sit with Sadness. I know that if I don't ignore her she will eventually leave. I listen to what she tells me. She tells me I am capable of great great love and deep forgiveness. She tells me that once I dared to live a beautiful dream. She tells me that I gave of myself so completely, that I learned to trust, that I gave my all for something. She tells me I was one of the lucky ones to have known love. These are beautiful things to know. And so I cling to that too.
These signs, not the absence of grief, are what tell me I am healing.
I have been waiting for months for Juan to sign off on some very important papers. Today he handed them to me. It is not the end of our process but it is an important step. Yes it is a very positive turn of events, one that enables me to move on. But as it is a milestone it marks our way along a path I did not choose, and this fact, this is what makes me grieve. I long for the path I started out on--for the path I was so happily treading along until the day he told me he was leaving. This path I have been on has been strewn with lots of rocks and mud and icky flies but also great beauty and new sights I never would have known. And I cling to this too.
So all day today I have not been able to control the leaking of tears from my eyes. I have been sniffling uncontrollably, hoping that all those who see me attribute it to a bad cold or allergies. I don't mind the sadness but I do mind being so publicly sad. And I mind it when sadness robs me of precious sleep, of the comfort of my bed.
I know from past experience that eventually I will sleep. Sleep will help. So will tea and warm oatmeal with apples. I will be a different person tomorrow. If not tomorrow then the next day...or the next.
Joy will eventually return and I will know I am one step closer to healing.
It is cool and rainy today. An August Monday disguised as a rainy November Sunday. It's a sleepy sort of day that reminds me of bookbags, and rainboots and being 8 years old again, curled up next to the fire with a Laura Ingalls Wilder book.
For the third time in a week, something happened today where I thought I had been left out only to later realize it was a mistake and that I had been included the whole time. I have to admit, even though I imagine myself strong and tough, this week I have found myself touching a vulnerable part of my heart--the part that feels really hurt not to be included in the game. It surprises me how strongly it stung to feel, even momentarily, like I was on the outside looking in on my precious little tribe.
Even now, thinking about it, I wonder why I, someone who feels so well loved and cared for, am so in touch with the feeling of being left out. As a child it was the theme of my school day angst--much to the bewilderment of my parents. Is it the fact that Max will be starting a new school that has brought up all my own childhood anxieties?
I ask myself what I need to learn from it, as long as I am feeling it. I breathe in and think about all the people in my life who might be feeling like that right now. I wonder if there is any innocent mistakes that I make that leave others feeling a little more lonely. I remind myself that I need to be careful and vigilant to be inclusive and expansive and welcoming and not to treat my community as an exclusive club but rather to think of it like a mecca of connectedness.
And I smile a slighly bemused smile to learn that being included even now at the ripe old age of almost 38 I still long to be part of the gang and that my heart is still as tender as it was when I was 8. I marvel at how being connected and included and wanted and not forgotten still is powerfully important to me. And I find myself arguing with myself over whether this discovery is a good thing (self discovery, in touch with the tender inner part of our hearts) or a bad thing (I am too sensitive, not rational, childish). My inner mother ends the debate by declaring it just is and reminds me that this sensitivity is usually a signal that I need to hold myself with a little bit of kindness and love for awhile. That maybe I need to rest and drink tea. And be thankful for the big loving and expansive community that does hold me and has me feeling loved, cherished and appreciated.
The racoon family in my chimney moved out. Its been a week at least , maybe 10 days since my morning was punctuating by their noisy banging. It was the pinesol that drove them out. These racoons appeared to be great fans of Jimmy Buffet and Broadway musicals but the smell of pinesol was apparently too much for them to take. A few nights ago Max and I saw them, a mom with a babe scampering up a big tree where they had apparently made a new home.
But despite their decision to leave, over the last few days the house had really started to smell. I thought it was the 100 degree heat that made the old racoon droppings especially ripe. It was not a gagging, foul make me sick smell--just a ripe barnyard odor, unpleasant and ever present. Like garbage left out on a sunny day somewhere down the block. Nothing I go do would remove the smell. I banged around the house in an increasingly foul mood. Grumpy, angry, agitated. Irritated. Impatient.
Today at work I got a call. It was Juan.
J: I have good news and bad news. What do you want first. The good news is really really good.
M: Give me the bad news.
J: Don't you want the good news first?
M: Just the bad news hon--if you tell me the good news first the bad news will just bring me down...
J: One of the baby racoons is dead. It was left in the chimney. That was the smell.
A sadness washed over me. I had really wanted that little family to make it. I wondered about the mother--the loss she must feel. At the same time my own mother instincts went into high gear. I was revolted thinking about the carcass so close to my son, thinking about the decay. I wondered: What the hell do I do now? How am I going to get a dead racoon out of my chimney? What a mess!
M: The good news?
J: I cleaned out the chimney. Its all done. Poop's gone, hair's gone, nest is gone. It was a huge job. I removed the carcass--had it dealt with. I knew you couldn't do it. It smells better in the house now.
M: Thanks. You're right. I couldn't.
And then it hit me.
M: Juan, Do you think I killed the little guy? With the pinesol and the musicals and everything?
J: Oh, I don't know. Maybe. Probably not. His little foot was caught in the flu. Probably he just got stuck and couldn't get out for food and water. His mom probably left him there when the rest moved on. Its life, you know, survival of the fittest and all...
I remember the last night when I heard the crying--the night I yelled at the chimney--MOVE ON ALREADY! Poor little one was alone and dying and I was screaming at him. He must have felt so scared, so betrayed. My heart broke for him. I started to weap softly. I thought no one would have been able to tell but Juan knows me well enough to hear the tears.
J: This is good news Meg. The racoons are gone. The smell is gone. Its done.
M: I know. Thanks. You are a saint for doing this. Really. I really appreciate it.
And its true. I walked into the house this evening and felt immediately lighter. My patience with my own imperfect life seemed to flood back, hope washing over me. My grounchiness subsided. The relief was palpable.
Was the energy of a death so close so very strong that it hung over the house and colored our moods? I am certain of it. The hopelessness of his struggle was what had drifted in and clung to our clothes, our curtains, our rugs.
I walked over to my altar and lit a candle for a baby abandoned by earthly mothers. I prayed that he had found a home in the furry bosom of the great mama racoon in the sky. I also lit a candle in thanksgiving for such an unexpected kindness from the most unlikely of people.
Six little words. Six little words were all it took to let Sadness in the door. And last night at this time Saddness she was sitting on my chest, refusing to get off.
Mondays are Max's day with his dad. For me, they are a rare break. At first they felt empty and alone. I would stay long hours at work or wander aimlessly through the downtown. But lately I have claimed Monday nights as me-time. I write. I draw. I wander with purpose. I eat ice cream. Every Monday I arrive home between 7 and 8. Technically, I am not back on duty until 8. But Max loves having Juan and I in the same place so much. Its now part of our routine. I come home a little early. Juan leaves a little late. We play a card game. Kick a ball around. Watch a movie. The three of us. The whole family. For twenty minutes, once a week.
Yesterday we played a made up game with the Pokemon cards and we asked Max if he was excited about his impending graduation from pre-school. He was thoughtful and serious. "Yes," he said. "We are going to sing. But don't tell anyone. Its a surprise for the parents." We pinky promised the three of us. As Juan kissed him goodnight, he said to him "I will see you tomorrow, mijo. At your graduation." "Yes," Max said wide eyed and solemn. "The whole family will be there".
When Max says "the whole family" he does not mean a carload of siblings, or a parade of grandparents, cousins, uncles and aunts. No, for him the whole family means Papi, Mommy and Max. Sometimes when he is feeling generous and expansive he includes Rosie the cat. But usually its just the three of us. Together in one place.
Having the whole family together is something most of his friends take for granted. Its a weekday supper, a Saturday morning, a regular, banal affair. But for Max it is a rare treat to be savored. A holy serious and noteworthy occasion. And I hate this. I hate it with ever fiber of my being.
Long after Max had laid his tired head to sleep, these six little words left me sobbing audibly, mourning all he has lost and all that which I too have lost through this separation--this soon to be divorce.
Because those words signified a deeper truth that none of us dared whisper--Our family is not whole. And this has left all three of us a little worse for the wear.
As I tumble through the never ending days with their up and downs I am saddened and angry that I cannot process the day with the only other person who loves Max as much as I do. I am lonely in my worry about his cough--"Did that sound OK to you?" I ask to noone in particuar. There is only a journal to reflect my memories back at me. No one to giggle with over the silly jokes at the dinner table.
And I know that Juan mourns too. But his pain must be so much worse. For he must feel a deep emptiness that comes from not being there to bear witness to this great life he helped create. Most days he misses so much.
But mostly I mourn for Max. He recently shared with me that he can't really remember what it was like when Juan lived at home with us. He only knows that he misses it. That it is somehow a little sadder without his papi around.
We are trying, the three of us, to make something new out of the ashes of the old. It will never be the way it was--it cannot be. And while I mourn what is lost, I am proud that we are trying to make something meaningful out of the messiness. I know too many families who cannot be together for their kids--they split up holidays, birthdays, trade off on special events. Their children will never even know what it is like to have the Whole Family There. We lurch about gracelessly but at least we try.
Today Juan and I sat together, side by side and watched the singing, the parading. I cried in the beginning. Juan teared up at the end. Together we heard Max's teacher talk about how he wants to be a policeman just like his Uncle Sean and we smile at each other knowingly. "Of course," we say "Yes." Together we beam with pride. Max beams back at us and points us out to his friends. "Look" he says--"my mom AND my dad" giggling with delight. His friends look at him blankly--they do not know the joy of whole family-ness even though they experience it each day. And maybe, just maybe, Max is rather blessed to learn at such a young age to appreciate such a precious gift.
This morning for just an instant we were whole again. The whole family was there together. Different, maybe not better, but most definitely for a brief moment whole.
.
Life has been a little crazy here this last week. Yesterday Max and I went to the dentist. He is OK, although he has a few cavities. The loose tooth that made me so crazy the night before will fall out on its own in a matter of weeks. While the dentist wouldn't have given me the prize for Dental Mother of the Year he also refrained from calling me a bad mother. And perhaps I only imagined the dirty looks.
Last night when getting ready for bed Max was complaining about his foot. He has lots of small aches and pains my wee one. Nevertheless I turned on the light and took a good hard look. A foot that was perfectly fine just hours before when he was running and jumping at the pool was inflamed. A strange sore had grown upon his big toe and the infamous red streaks all moms dread were creaping up his foot. I took one look at his foot, and bundled him up to take him to the emergency room.
I was a mama bear acting on pure instinct. I had put shoes on that foot just hours before when it was dirty but otherwise normal. Who knew how bad the infection would be by morning? As I rocked him while the doctor lanced his wound, cleaned it out and gave him a shot of antibiotics I knew I was no bad mom.
This morning we woke up to a new crisis. A stomach bug and bronchial thing had taken hold of his poor little body. I called in sick. My beautiful little angel needed me more. He was having a rough couple of days.
I have been back to work for all of half a week and already taken 2 days off. I will need to take Friday off as well to shuttle him to follow up appointments. I think about the work piling up, the patient colleauges who are getting restless, all the things that are getting put on hold. I think about the house which in the matter of three days has turned into a complete disaster zone. About the laundry to be done, the lack of clean underwear, the lack of healthy food in the fridge.
At times like these I have been known to throw open the door to a pity party. I want people to feel sorry for me and to acknowlege how hard it is to be a single mom. I want them to give me permission for my bad mood, my frustration. I want them to give me a pass on the things that won't get done and to give me permission to stop at Cold Stone Creamery and buy two half gallons of ice cream. I want them to let me sleep.
Other times I steam with the unfairness of it all. I even indulge in a little envy--the friends with partners who will split the staying at home with the child shifts, who have the grandmas who live close and will run to the drug store or better yet will take a shift. I think about how much easier it would all be if only I could JUST be a mom and put the crazy career on hold. If managing the stuff of life could be my full time job. I dream of winning the lottery.
Sometimes, I plow through these days with humor, laughing at the absurdity of it all so that I won't break down and cry. I keep my head down and pay attention to the most important things--Max, trying to work from home, getting to the drug store, the doctors office. I step over the clutter piling up in my house and triage the crises at work. I try to block out the voice inside me that likes to lecture and blame.
And sometimes, like tonight, it dawns on me that this suffering that I am feeling is really quite universal. I am grateful for the moment when I can feel at one with all the single moms who are trying to keep it together. I think about the moms who can't work from home: the waitresses, the store clerks--the ones who lose a days pay on days like this or worse yet lose their jobs. I think of the moms whose "helpful" families make them feel small. I think of the moms and dads who need to calculate how many days off they will need to give up in order to pay for the visit to the emergency room, the dentist, the doctor. Knowing that my frustration, suffering and pain, while real, is just a tiny drop in a great sea of mom suffering doesn't make me feel better, but it makes me want to take a pass on the pity party.
Sometimes my life needs a little unraveling. Like when I am knitting. Sometimes I will look at the last week's work and realize that it is just not right. It always pains me to throw days of work down the drain as I pull out row after row but ultimately the finished product will be better. There is something to be learned when the universe pull on our loose ends and unravels our supposedly perfect plans. And I dear friends am a work in progress. A little unraveling won't hurt.
Max and I don't seem to be very lucky with lotteries these days.
Me, I play the powerball every Wednesday and Saturday. Its my dollar for hope program. Funny, I never have won a dime--not even a $1 for getting the powerball right. Its just how it goes. I keep playing, just in case. I don't expect to win, but how does the jingle go--You got to be in it to win it? And I have to admit, when the numbers come in I feel a wave of momentary disappointment wash over me like a little light breeze before I feel thrilled for the winners. (and I DO always feel thrilled for the winners)
Today we learned that Max lost the lottery that would determine who would get into the Spanish immersion elementary school. Not getting into the Spanish program is not that big a deal but this is the school that ALL of his neighborhood and preschool best buds will go to (those who aren't going to Catholic school that is). Instead of climbing on the shiny yellow bus with all his friends, he instead will go to the neighborhood school where he knows noone. Disappointment hangs over our house like a thundercloud.
Its one of those really intense lotteries--10 people entering for each spot etc. but we must have a lucky group of friends. And while we both knew the odds were really against us, we had been staking our hopes on it. (If everyone you knew had won the powerball wouldn't you have bet a $100!) This is a child who has so much transition and disappointment in his young life I was really hoping that kindergarten could be a bit easier for him--that he would be able to go to a school where he knew all the big kids, and plenty of the little ones too. Where his friends could tell him all about the teachers, the festivals, where it would feel so familiar--so much like home. All he knows about elementary school he knows from these kids and he had really been counting (perhaps too much) on learning the ropes directly from them. We had wished upon a star for it.
I too, was hoping that I wouldn't have to start over again either. New parents, new community, new rules and noone to show me the ropes. How much easier it would have been just to get the skinny on all things elementary school from my own precious community. Instead both Max and I will go at it alone. The pouty me wants to add for very dramatic emphasis...AGAIN.
Not getting into the school feels a little too familiar--being on the outside looking in. So many in our group have so much that we don't--happy marriages/dads that are around, financial security, immediate family in the area to help out when in a bind--and now they are together at school while we sit on the outside again, just Max and me. I haven't been jealous at all of any of my community and the abundance of gifts they have until just this moment. And now I practically poisonous with all the envy I am spitting.
I am sure the Universe has some greater and different plan for us--some lessons we will learn--some new and amazing experiences etc. I know all too well that normally when doors are closed, windows do tend to open---blah blah blah. I can't listen to that anymore than I can listen to a friend tell me that Max will be OK--it will just be hard the first few weeks etc etc. I can't bear to watch this precious little boy who loves being part of a tribe as much as I feel lonely and left out again for even more more minute. I can't stand to ask him buck up one more time. Not now.
It is quite true as friends have pointed out that we might be on the waiting list, that a spot might open up, that perhaps I could write the principal and beg him to take pity on us. Tomorrow all of that will make a lot of sense and we will move from there into action or acceptance. Tomorrow I am sure the jealousy will fade too, and I will be thrilled that they have what they do and I will be grateful for all we have--for we truly do dwell in abundance. I know it intellectually.
But tonight we sit again on the outside, our noses pressed to the glass wishing we had something different. Disappointed with how it all turned out.
