Mourning the death of marriage

I drive by the same 2 cemeteries almost every day on my way home from work. I know a handful of people in one, and none in the other. I gaze at the stones, some dusty and broken; others, standing strong and proud, fresh flowers or flags gracing the presence of the deceased. 

A source of comfort for some: a resting place of a loved one,  a spot to visit, placing flowers on the headstone and losing time speaking to those gone from here. 
For others I know it is a place to fear. So many of us fear death (myself included, at times), so we can't  handle to have it shoved in our faces, so loud, so cruel and final. 

But what about the final resting place of something so very integral to our lives? Where do you go to mourn the death of a marriage? There is no stone, nowhere to place flowers and fill the air with our apologies. 

For two years, I have felt this post brewing inside my soul. I have talked with close friends who have gone through divorce, and there are similarities. There's a sense of alone-ness, isolation, unforgiveness. 

I mourned the death of my marriage by burying myself in my last 2 semesters of grad school. I sought comfort in my girl's face: her broad smile, her sparkling eyes, the never-ending affection in her words. I turned my back on the pain all day long, pushed the thoughts away, so I could keep putting one foot in front of the other. I smiled, I reassured everyone that I was okay as I bandaged their own wounds (mine gaping open, draining me of necessary energy).

The day I moved out of my home, and into my mother's, my bed was the last thing moved. I vividly remember standing in the middle of my bedroom, empty except for the elliptical machine, a pile of his belongings on the floor, and that bed. I thought of all of the ridiculous things said about "the marriage bed", and how many nights I had spent alone in that bed. The space and silence in the room overwhelmed me.

I have mourned the death of my marriage in this bed. 

It has been a comfort. It is where I long to go to cuddle my girl at night. It is where I curl up around the ball of fur that is Max in the dead of the night. I have cried here, slept, had nightmares and daydreams, died, lost sleep. It is where I have rehashed every conversation, every word, and where I cried for apologies unspoken. It is where I hide, when things get to be too much. It is where I have spent so many nights alone. It is where I have lost hope, begging and pleading for peace and touch. It is where I have cried myself to sleep, and prayed myself to sleep as well. 

Over these 2 years, this bed has become MINE again. Not ours. It isn't ours anymore. I cannot fathom that this is the same bed I laid on with the man I was married to. I cannot fathom that this is the same bed where we whispered in the dark, hushed voices full of dreams and plans.
It is now MY BED. 
As I have grown to feel that my loneliness is MINE. My isolation MINE. My fear MINE. I have all these feelings and beliefs and truths and semi-truths tangled in these bed sheets with my bare legs, and I realize that this death is long over; the slate was wiped clean of this marriage. Yet, just like the death of a loved one, the grief never really goes away. It hangs, comes and goes, ebbs and flows, and there are little (or big, king-sized) reminders that bring it all back sometimes. 


Where have all the cowboys gone?

I decided today that I officially need a vacation. Not gonna happen in reality, but I so need to get away. I'm just not sure from what exactly. I wake up, get my girl to school, go to work, come home, do mommy-related activities, put the kiddo to bed, attempt to read or write or watch some ridiculous tv, go to bed. Lately I have been packing. I unpacked a book so that I could read something. Something to distract me from my brain and my heart. They are driving me a little crazy. 
I sit here tonight in the dark of my living room, surrounded by boxes. And again, I feel that terrible feeling of loneliness. It is so ridiculous. I am annoyed with myself for feeling this way. I am put out with my loneliness and my stupid heart's desire to share my life with someone. 
We only live once, and I'm always saying that. And I see it every day at work: I love 60+ people who are at the end of their lives...time is growing small for them...and I enjoy their silliness, their sass, their crankiness....and I know damn well that my time will grow small soon too-my girl will soon be in 2nd grade, and then middle school, and then high school. I don't have forever, so I need to enjoy it! And I do, but.....
I feel myself growing more lonely. Not desperate. Not crazy girl. Just...lonely. I have some wonderful friends, and a handful that will check on me or be there in 2 seconds if I say "Yes, I need you". Ah. 
But I don't say that very often. 
But we all know I'm not talking about friends. 
I feel so ridiculous to say that I am lonely for a GOOD, HONEST, STRONG, KIND, GIVING MAN. Do they exist? 
I feel like I have a shit ton to offer someone. I feel like I'm a catch. ( Have you seen this???  *points at body*) (Kidding) I am not free of silly bullshit or imperfections, but I am good. And I just feel myself sitting here, wasting time for.... what? 
*shakes head* 
I need a vacation, people. Away from myself. 


A half-assed update of sorts

An update of sorts, because my brain is so fried from all of it that I can't imagine writing something brilliant right this very second: 

My mom and I put an offer on 4 houses. This last one stuck. We close May 3rd and start moving May 4th. Relieved and stressed and worried and tired. It's a beautiful home, but worried a bit about it not being big enough. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it's smaller than any of the other homes we put offers on. I'm sure it will be fine, and it's definitely larger than we have now. 

In the market for a new job. Feeling very unappreciated and dismissed. Not by the residents. They are fabulous. I love them. But by those above me. It feels fake. Does that make sense? Hmmm...I may need a post about this. 

Did I mention that about a month ago a dumbass man hit my truck and DROVE OFF? Did I mention how I chased his ass, approximately 5 miles? Jerk-off had a suspended license. Yes, I know: "Did you call the police?" No. I'm a dumbass. I am a dumbass kind social worker that gave him the benefit of the doubt when he and his "boss" told me they would pay for it to get fixed, rather than involve the police and insurance companies. I am a dumbass. I.AM.A.DUMBASS.  They stopped returning my calls. It happened on a Thursday and I called my insurance on Saturday. They won't return my insurance company's phone calls either. Shitheads. So I don't exactly have the extra cash to pay my deductible right now (See: buying a house), so I'm driving around with a busted tail light, a nice dent in my truck bed, and some fantastic ripple-like dents. Ugh. 

I started playing dodgeball. The whole "If you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a ball...". I am a fantastic dodger, but I am terrible at throwing them. I am also not competitive at all, so there's that. I enjoy the laughs though.

I am sick of the dating game. It is largely a GAME. Ugh. I am disgruntled about it. I am lonely and vulnerable and sick of both feelings. 

Lastly, my ex had a baby with his girlfriend last Thursday. Yeah. I wish I could say that it doesn't make my list of "shit that has been going on in my life lately", but it does. Sadly, it affects a lot...my girl has mixed emotions and is struggling a bit. I know all kids have a mess of feelings when a sibling is born, but I know for a fact that it feels even more different when it is a half-sibling (I have one, although I have never thought of her as such). And when she is hurting, it hurts me. I want her to feel good about it, feel confident that her dad will love her just the same, be happy, and feel safe. I know I can't control for everything, but she is my priority and it makes me ache. 

So much more to write. So much more to say. But so tired. 
Please come back. I will be writing more. Better. More. 


Look Beyond

She sits in the grass on the outskirts of the playground, attempting to use words (on fresh white pages) to drown out the insistent voices of children screeching, squealing. It almost works, until she hears his words plain as day, above all: 
"Words mean nothing."

He blurted it out in passing, talking of things surely meant to impress her. A tiny seed of worry sprouted as he continued speaking...speaking as though he had not just sucked the air out of her lungs. Words mean nothing?

She had lived her entire life, so far, on the firm foundation of words: those that smoothly rolled off the tongue, those that stuck to the roof of the mouth like peanut butter toast, those that clung to the heart... 
...When she was younger, she had such a thirst for other people's words: she read well above her age range, she listened to adults speak in church, at parties, at parks. As she grew up, she began to find her voice. She began to fill page after page in journal after journal with her own words, seeking peace between the lines. When she was lonely, scared, angry, lost, she sought words that would both soothe and transport.

...And now he spoke three words that were supposed to change how she felt about words, about the core of her? No.

She closed the book and laid back in the grass, staring up at thick clouds and bright sunshine. She was at a loss. Again. 

How do you defend something that is such a crucial part of yourself, without pushing away the first person that has wrestled his way into your core while your head was turned?