How the worst year of my life will lead to the best years
Yes, it’s been a while. I’ll be back to talk about what’s been going on with me but for the moment, read this piece I wrote about Amy Chua and her Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother and check out the fantastic Sexy Feminist (formerly Sirens Mag) website.
And check back here again soon. I’ll be back, I promise.
I haven’t had much to say lately…that’s not true. There’s been a lot to say and a lot going on but I’ve been busy living life and haven’t really been up for the whole public introspection forum. But then Mel Gibson’s little p.r. nightmare took me down a dark and windy road that I saw fit to write about over on Sirensmag.com. Thanks to the kind ladies over there for letting me have my own rant.
http://sirensmag.com/2010/07/echoes-of-abuse/
Have you ever seen the Chris Rock standup where he rags on n***as? “A n***a will say some shit like, “I take care of my kids.” You’re supposed to, you dumb motherfucker! What kind of ignorant shit is that?” (Yes, the “n” word is more offensive to me than shit.)
Well, I think I’ve been acting a little n***erish lately. Or at least I need to be on the lookout for slipping into a similar mindset. I’ve done my share of handwringing (even if it’s only in my head) about the burden of my responsibility… and how unfair it is that it all falls on me… and there’s been lots of giving myself a free pass for fun because, you know, things are sooo hard. Ugh, smack me. Would I have it any other way and not be the one responsible for my children? Hell no. Do I deserve to have fun? Hell yes, but it’s because I deserve to be a well-rounded person, making time for the things I find rejuvenating. Not because I need payback for making the hard decisions and being the grownup.
I signed on for this when I had those kids — granted, I had no idea the reality of what that’d mean but I signed on for this. And my love for them has me fully invested in making the right decisions for them and that’s the biggest, best motivator I could ever have. So I cannot insult that love by turning it into some loathsome thing that I need to escape at times. (But every parent I know recognizes that feeling of needing to be away from their kids sometimes.) Balance. I know that is what it’s about. And if I keep my mind right, it will all work out.
I’m waiting for a realtor who is coming to assess my house. I’ve cleaned as much as I can and it barely made a difference. I’ve warned her about the state of disrepair. She reassured me that she’s not there to judge. And yet… you know that’s exactly how I feel. Like it’s super clear that I couldn’t hack the last year of my life with the intelligence and mental juggling necessary to work full time, keep my kids on even keel and maintain a house I can’t even begin to afford on one salary. Yeah, intellectually I know that I did the best I could and damn sure could have done worse, and yet…
I did it. Two weeks ago I ran the half marathon I’d set as a goal just four months before. It was an amazing experience — running around Central Park, down Seventh Ave, through Times Square, and down the West Side Highway. I cried at mile 11, not because of any pain (though that is about when every lower joint I had began to complain to me). I cried because 10 months before I didn’t know how I would get through a day, much less run such a race.
Back then I was suddenly an overweight single mother with a certifiably crazy, vengeful ex and self esteem dipping to dangerous lows. I was unsure of my decision-making skills, having practiced them little on my own over the last 20 years. But on that March day, a 30-pounds lighter me who had negotiated one hell of a year was going to finish something for which I’d methodically prepared. I’d reinforced for myself that I can set a goal, make a plan, and accomplish said goal. Nothing could beat that feeling… though that shiny old-school subway token-like medal they gave out at the end was nothing to sneeze at.
Well, I rode that high for the rest of that day and most of the next. Out of nowhere I’d think, I did that! And it felt good. But it didn’t obliterate the rest of my life’s problems. But at 5 p.m. day after my triumph, which was a week after a trial for his mini idiotic crime spree last year, my husband of 16 years was convicted and immediately remanded into custody. I’d been tied up in knots about it all for weeks. I’d come to realize that didn’t need him to go to prison to feel like justice was served, so I’d agreed to having the DA’s office offer him multiple plea bargains that had no jail time. But his delusional thinking, bad choices, or just plain old craziness, kept him from taking the deals and off to trial we went. And now he’s facing a year in prison. And I had to tell our children.
On top of that I’d finally been served with foreclosure papers. Not totally unexpected but still… I couldn’t shake the feeling of failure. I know that my situation is unique, and no, I can’t afford to keep my house on just my salary. But I still felt like I could have handled his better. It reminds me of my inadequacy in dealing with my finances and just pushes all my self-criticism buttons.
So by the the night after the race I was firmly reminded that those 13 miles were essentially just one step in my rebuilding of myself. There are many finish lines to cross in achieving the life that I want. And I just have to put one foot in front of the other.
I get it. It’s a cliché for a reason but I hate that it’s true. I hate that it is only by going through a process (which often involves more time than I wish it did) that I can say I’ve truly learned a lesson, made some progress, or feel ready to move on. I can’t shake that desire to have things happen once I’ve decided I’m ready for it to, once I’ve intellectually processed something. But that’s not how it works.
I recently realized that I spent the first six months after my marriage went nuclear sort of in stasis. Despite all my big talk of empowerment and moving forward, what I was really doing was healing. Healing my heart and soul and sense of self. Laying in the cut as I decided I did have what it takes to be the person I want to be and live the life I want to live.
Yes, time does heal all wounds. Just not always in the ways you think or as quickly as we’d like. But I’m learning to just be thankful that it even happens.
I had something happen the other day that made me feel bad about myself and I was in the middle of squawking about it to a friend when he commented how hard a time of it I’d had recently. I paused and asked what he meant by that. He listed this litany of things that had had happened in the last three weeks that had either brought me low or otherwise set me back. And I was actually stunned because at the moment I was complaining about the current crisis, I didn’t feel altogether oppressed. It was just another thing to bump up against, figure out how to manage (both practically and emotionally) and then move on from. My process neccessitates me stewing in it at first and talking it out with my friends (thanks, guys) but thankfully my life is so fluid I don’t have time to wallow too long.
It dawned on me that I was either becoming inured to trauma/adversity or was simply learning a valuable lesson. My therapist articulated it when he picked up on my language in describing these days/instances as good or bad. He advised me to stop assigning such qualities to what is essentially the normal ebb and flow of life (though, admittedly, my life seems to trend to the extremes). Accept the impermanence of everything–nothing good lasts forever but nothing bad does either. Amen.
I rang in the new year last night with friends I love dearly the same way we have for years, talking and eating and laughing, just minus one person. Today I cooked lots of food as friends stopped by and watched movies with us. And there was more talking and laughing. Somewhere in there, despite the massive hangover I woke up with, I went on 30-minute run that just made me feel so good. I had a great day.
I am tired and plan to sleep well. The future is still unknown but I am more sure than ever that I will be alright.
It’s been six months since I had my husband arrested for choking and beating me. He’s been back to the house only once since and that was with a police escort. And this morning I realized that his bath products still sat on the top shelf of the shower caddy.
I’d bounded into the shower after a spectacular run on a sunny and mild winter’s day. I was thrilled to be heading off to church alone, not having to prod or coax any defiant children into church-appropriate clothes and into the car. Music was blasting (I forgot how much I loved Live’s “Throwing Copper” album), I was thanking God for granting me the peace I’d prayed for as Christmas approached. And then there it was staring me in the face. I also realized that his razor remained on my bathroom sink, his cologne sat on my dresser.
Guess where they all are now.
I’ve been absent for a few weeks because I could not bring myself to write. It was all I could to remain functional in my main roles: diligent worker, loving mother, scattered bill-payer. Productive writer was not gong to make the cut. I’d hit the next stage of this lovely process I’m in: the seriously intense sadness. (It wasn’t depression: the awesome therapist and I agreed on that.) When my marriage broke down, it was marked by one crisis after another. The overwhelming emotions early on were anxiety, fear, confusion and yes, some hurt. As things have calmed down and the new realities have set in, the other emotions have come up. The ones that tap in to every flaw I see in myself, every childhood scar and every woman-done-wrong cliché. And then the holidays arrived foisting the happy-family ideal on us and leaving those of us in the decidedly not-happy-family corner feeling more than a little inadequate.
I’m über aware of the importance of me feeling everything I’m going through and remaining standing and positive. Whatever the payoff is on the other side of this (the full and complete me that awaits) requires that I remain present and attentive to all of this. But I don’t like it. I want to run away from it. I want to block it out or mask it. The old me, the teenager who didn’t know what to do with these feelings, would have blocked it out with anonymous sex or alcohol. It’s been years since I realized that causing that kind of chaos to distract myself for the realities hurt way more than it “helped.” Plus I have others to think about now, so despite the phantom urges I can’t go there. So what do I do now. I probe it when I can, step back when I need to. I run. I write (when I can). I find joy wherever I can. I talk it out with friends (good Lord, do I ever). And I listen to my own Greek chorus that tells me that the hurt and pain are not a sign of weakness. That the very fact that I continue to survive and even thrive proves my strength. And I build on the minor triumphs of making it to every new day.
