Four years ago I started this blog
for the sake of my sanity and creative being. And truthfully in part so I
wouldn't kill my husband and kids....or rather lock them out of the house
while I soaked in a bubble bath and ate dark chocolate and sipped Merlot.
(Who am I kidding??!! more like guzzling Merlot
.)
A way to vent about the normal trial and tribulations that plague
wives, mothers, sisters, daughters, women and basically any individual trying
to survive life.
A journey to navigate the distance I felt existed between the
What-To-Expect moments and the What-The-Fuck moments of my life.
Four years turned into sporadic and bumbling posts that relieved
the anxiety and pressure I felt was placed on me by society...by my family and
friends...and most of all by myself.
A series of posts that chronicled the hilariousness and
shallowness with which I seem to be failing at life coupled with bitter sweet
shit-just-got-real moments.
Then BOOM. Nothing.
It stopped as abruptly as it started.
I could blame it on a million different
things....but at the end of the day it's still just another fucking excuse.
Then a whole slew of horrible, evil and
wonderful shit happened and I lost track of time. And then lost track of life.
Somewhere along the way I threw it all by the wayside and collapsed. I
withdrew from all things requiring more effort, passion and energy than I could
muster. Hell, all the energy I could exert involved reaching for the
remote in my elastic-blown sweats covered in Cheetos.
I fell victim to self-loathing,
self-pity and worst of all: donuts.
One year ago last month down to the
exact day I laid flat on my back, legs spread and the world as I knew it took a
turn for somewhere in between the pits-of-fiery-Hell-catastrophic-worse and a
non-existent-blip-on-the-radar nothingness.
It's that grey area between, maybe some
sort of Purgatory if you will, that left a hollow space in between my heart and
gut. Metaphorically and physically.
A resounding silence filled my womb....and
I never imagined it would be so deafening, so grating.
And so devastating.
And I hadn't even a clue there was
anything....anyone to be heard.
My roller-coaster of a life is severely
marked by the whipped innards of my female reproductive organs so 9 times out
of 10 irregular symptoms are nothing to be alarmed about.
Except when you bleed for 7 weeks. One
visit to the dr. and I was that woman. The fat one who gives birth at
the all-you-can-eat-buffet in the loo because she doesn't even know she's
knocked up.
Yeah, THAT one.
Mind you I did everything medically
possible courtesy of the pharmaceutical companies to prevent this very thing.
Of course the irony of this doesn't escape me fully....I have a Depo
baby and Nuva Ring baby as proof of the sense of humor Mother Nature has had
with my ovaries.
Seems I only get in a family way when I
have medically induced balanced hormones.
Go figure.
So there I was laying there, streams of
salt falling on the scratchy sheet under my quivering mountainous thighs, and
an awkward glance filled with pity and boredom from a nurse who didn't look old
enough to be driving...much less holding my hand as my OBGYN ordered the
standard blood work and noted the said blip in my chart.
With little time to pull up my pants, I
was propelled into a surreal trek down the hall for labs surrounded by women
all swollen with seed.
And so it was I squeezed into the only
free seat I could find, seething in silence, disgust and jealousy as I scanned
the sea of bellies. And I sent my husband a text informing him of
our...non-situation.
A text. Because the tragedy couldn't play
out on a phone call that would inevitable take a turn for the loud and dramatic
amid the snortling of my blubbering.
Besides. Where would I make said phone
call? Trapped in my seat by the overcrowding of fertile uteri.
A text. That warranted a phone call. THE
phone call to end all phone calls.
His reaction still resonates with me
today. Perhaps this is what has created this cataclysmic divide between
us....perhaps this what has urged me to pick up the pen and begin again the
journey I so desperately attempted four years before.
Anger. Resentment. Hostility. All three
emotions bled through the phone as he hissed at me in disbelief as the blood
ran from my womb.
Granted the shock he felt with crippling
student loan debt, low FICA score, a college bound senior, junior
highschooler and destructive 5 year old wasn't already enough, he lacked the
compassion and solace I needed at that moment.
That moment. It lives in infamy. And cut a
jagged gaping hole in the ground where we stood and has left us on the edge of
a great divide....that is precariously threatening to swallow us whole.
Solace I sought was found in the
stepfather who drove me to said appointment so I wouldn't waste the time and
money fussing with valet when I felt so wretched.
Solace found in the moment he took my hand
and allowed me to cry with a force I never knew my body could handle.
Compassion found in the moment I realized
what I had lost. And how much I never knew I wanted it. And the screaming he endured for my sake as I
headed back to the life I had left behind one hour before.
Compassion in the random phone calls said
father figure makes on any given day to make sure I still am holding my shit
together. Or the impromptu workday cupcake delivery to strengthen the
quivering facade .
All because I mourned the loss of
something I never knew I had....and grieved the loss of someone I never knew I
wanted.
It doesn't fail me the blessings I have
had in this lifetime. And it started with my daughter.
I wrote a friend of mine recently and
explained the importance of my sun, my moon and stars: my daughter I
don't know if it's a general feeling most parents feel when you welcome that
first babe or child into your home and heart....but I like to think it's
something kind of special.
A one of a kind non duplicated feeling
that only she can emit from me. I love my children with every fiber of
being and soul. Equally.
But my girl represents, IS something more
than anyone can understand. With her first breath in this world she
became the catalyst that lead me here. She is the reason I am still
alive, and didn't die of an overdose in some back alley or on some asshole's
floor amid a bunch of life sucking losers.
I may have been sober and cleaned up my
life, but she gave me a reason to stay that way. The bond I have with her
is selfish, self-serving and maybe a bit co-dependent if examined too closely.
Let's not. Take it at face value:
she was/is my rebirth. She gave me a purpose I never cared to find, and
led me to the family I built and nurtured the growth I needed to be the mother
I am.
The mother of tattoos, warts and mouthy
G-D's and all. Like I said, a work in progress.
The grief I felt on that day, in the
coming months which brought a laparoscopy, more doctor visits, and more space
between me and everyone else was all-consuming.
At times it was so suffocating I was left
breathless, gasping for sanity amid unexpected bouts of crying in meetings,
lunchtime anger complete with breaking of pencils and slamming of office doors.
Locked down in my office for hours at a
time with little to no contact with any one person who may give me that
oh-so-sorry look or soapbox about Angels and babies and Heaven and God.
They could take their fairy-tale Gods and
Angels. I had no time for them. Leave me the ones of the old...the ones of
fresh moist Earth, the swaying branches of the trees, the sweetness of the
jasmine outside my house. The ones who didn't damn me for the
nights spent angry and cursing at a starless sky.
Who didn't condemn me for the scathing
stares at strollers, onesies and pictures of newborns proudly displayed.
Like I said. It consumed me. And it
left me faithless. And filling with a darkness that allowed no room for the
love I so wanted to give.
So it was I pushed away co-workers,
friends, my children and finally my husband.
And when I was all alone, I realized even
I couldn't stand myself. This hate and anger building was burning
through my body, leaving me scorching everything in my path.
I needed a change before I sobbed my way
out of a job. Or was institutionalized .
Trips to understanding therapists brought
countless yellow plastic topped salvation....a short-lived and bitter dry mouth
aftertaste followed. And I managed.
I managed to make it through.
Through the motions of work. Home. And living.
An echo of the person I once was, I found
myself trudging through the motions. Until those motions were not even enough.
Until the endless popping of yellow tops
became futile and I found myself staring down the drain at a the tiny blue and
white beads of sanity.
And hope.
So I sought hope elsewhere. I
perused MD Web, Pinterest, Facebook and every other outlet I could find
inspiration, motivations. Salvation.
Hours spent huddled over my desk, late
nights in the dark losing myself in the world wide web seeking a savior for the
husk I felt I was becoming.
The dry whispers of my former self were
out there somewhere....I just had to find them.
I began with a solid 3 week regime of boot
camp. Losing weight and gaining the pride and self-confidence I felt I
lacked seemed to be an easier solution than divorce and cheaper than therapy.
Besides, my years of latent vegan-ism
might bring the peace I was so desperately seeking.
And so it was I signed up, committing for
a solid year. Motivated by the excellent and genuinely sweet girl who
was our trainer, I began to feel....well, to feel.
Emotions beside anger and pity.
Emotions that didn't leave me reaching for food, flight or fight.
Emotions I knew I wasn't alone with.
And the acceptance of setbacks and wins was even more powerful than the
negative energy that had become my norm.
Until August hit. There I was belatedly
Spring cleaning my desk and I found a page torn from last years desk calendar
stuffed in the bottom of a drawer.
Unearthing that scrap of paper, the
bleeding red ink slashed through the 10th and right into my motherfucking
heart.
A heart so hardened with ice I have spent
the last 13 years attempting to chip away.
A heart now puddled at my feet and
splattered on my crisply tailored heels.
A heart I feel cannot be fixed.
The floor dropped out from under me, and I
stopped living. I have laid in bed numerous mornings wasting both my
money, my trainer's time, and shamefully pulled the covers back over my head.
The floor opened up and down I fell down
this spiraling hole, Alice-ing my way through homework, Open Houses and manager
meetings.
Sand digging aside, I have wallowed in my
postponed acceptance for as long as I could. Postponing the
closure I so desperately needed for as long as humanely possible.
Because it's a goodbye I never intended on
having.
Amid the unwarranted judgment and advice
from co-workers, so-called friends and even family alike, I secretly longed for
things to be different.
Longed for that day I laid splayed like a
turkey for stuffing to have a different ending.
Mind you I have a fabulous life....on a 40
oz in brown bag budget.
I have 2, nay 4 pretty fabulous
kids...when they want to be....or want money or Legos. or bail money.
And who don't hold it against us when we
say 'no'. Or stumble and crash their castles of plastic. Or leave them in
the holding tank.
Who with their door slamming, Iphone
tweeting, sticky jammed fingers, infrequent phone calls and emails and dropping
trow in the front yard selves weaken me at the knees.
And leave me in this
bursting-at-the-seams-awe induced state....that I get to wake up everyday to
this. To these people. No matter the distance, that some pieces of my soul have
attached themselves and are floating around in them. These people I love and
adore. And who hold this infinite power of my existence.
Damn. It makes it sound like my kids are
horcruxes. But I guess in a sense they are.
And then there is the husband who may be
an asshole 7/10ths of the time, but he's a well meaning asshole. Sorta.
What he lacks in wealth, he doubles in
working two, three jobs, tackling college at middle age and occasionally
bringing home the free swag/fruits of said labor in the form of baseball
t-shirts and Koozies.
And mowing the lawn of all the neighbors.
And B-B-Q'ing some awesome steaks.
And getting me drunk and giving me a laugh
or two.
But now those laughs seem few and far
between.
And that between is what brings about this
last part.
I don't know where to hit the restart
button. I don't know how I get to the part where I rekindle the love, the
passion, the want I felt before...the fleeting sense of completeness I failed
to grasp tight enough.
The part where I get past the business of
dying and the business of living. Where I apologize to old friends when I am a
no-show in their hour of need, yielding mop, bread and needed vino.
Where I cringe and freeze over the
simplest things like ordering pizza over the phone, putting on pants or going
in public.
Where I beg mercy for the deadlines left unmet.
For the words falling on inattentive deaf ears time and time again from the
little voice hitting me at the waist.
Where I press fast forward to the part
where my daughter cuddles on rainy Sundays, the unspoken bond and comfort in
her embrace as we lounge around in our Snuggles watching Olivia do her thing.
Or the time machine I need to backtrack to
that day. That day I laid flat on my back. The day that time stood still
for me.
The day I lost my hope. My faith.
I am still looking for it, and now seems
as good a time as any to resume that journey I started four years ago.
