The day you went away

I will never forget that July 5th. I woke with a hollow feeling in my stomach, but I tried to ignore it. I ate breakfast, went to get a haircut, and received that call. My sister telling me that she needed to meet me at home. She met me outside, beside the swimming pool. Sat me down and told me that you had died. I had been waiting for that news for years at that point, but it still broke my heart. I had divorced you because I loved you and I love me. I needed you to get the help that you so desperately needed. I waited, and I loved you. I dated another person, but I didn’t really love them. You were the only person who I had ever loved. I believed that we would find our way back to each other because that much love couldn’t be for nothing. That day broke my heart in a way that I didn’t know was possible. It ripped a hole into the very core of me that in some ways has still not healed.

Though, I am happy now. Married again, to a man that I love every bit as much as I love you. Something that I didn’t think was possible because I had never loved anyone before I loved you. We have a beautiful daughter. I am pursuing my dreams. Yet, despite all of this, sometimes I worry that I have changed my telephone number too frequently and you won’t be able to reach me. I wake up at night, and am shocked that the person curled next to me is not you. I miss you more than I can bear at times, because ours was a story with no ending. We loved each other and one day you died. You died because you were an alcoholic trying to get clean on his own. You died because your heart just gave out. You died because no one could ever tell you how to do something. You died, and no matter what happens in my life you will be the person that I loved first. I pray that someday it stops hurting so much during this time of year. I pray that at some point, your loss won’t drag me down.

What I should be doing

I should be writing a paper about racism, sexism, and other types of discrimination. What I am doing, I am fact checking some crap that my ex-boyfriend put up on Facebook. There are many reasons that he is my ex, and this is one of them. Dammit people, fact check, from reputable sources, or don’t post stuff at all.

And then there was today…

A few years ago my therapist suggested that I should write a blog. I thought, “screw that, who has the time.” She also mentioned some stuff about meditation and breathing exercises that I tried to follow, but even though I would really love to be that person I know that I am not. In the last few years, as my life has changed, additions, subtractions, and multiplications, I have collected anecdotes in my head, and on FB, and occasionally in text and emails only meant for those who understand my sense of humor.

Then there was today. I guess it could be any day in the last year, but it really had to be today. I am the mother of five. Before you start thinking, wow that last one must have just waterslided out, I am the biological mother to only the youngest. My other four kids are amazing, maddening, intelligent, and socially awkward. I never have a clue what the day will hold with them. Perhaps a funny story from my 11-year-old about why being a building contractor is the perfect life choice, or my 14-year-old being forcefully committed to a mental institution. The 7-month-old can be relied upon to scream, vomit, and otherwise show that being cute is the only reason that she is still with us.

But, today, with my husband hundreds of miles away, my kids with their mom, and me at my parents’ home, I realized that I am tired. I don’t just mean that I am physically tired, which I am, or mentally tired. I mean that I am deep down in my bones tired of everything. After trying to pick clothing for my 14-year-old daughter that doesn’t make her look like a daytime hooker, working on my master’s degree program, playing interactively and developmentally stimulating with my 7-month-old, and being unbearably cheerful, my sweet darling daughter vomited gallons onto the table (and me) at a nice restaurant. Okay, I realize that you shouldn’t take your 7-month-old to a nice restaurant, but other than the vomiting she was exceptionally well behaved. Also, I gave the server a crazy large tip. She earned every single cent of it. I was eating dinner with my father at the only restaurant in their small town that has decent food and decent alcohol. The alcohol is especially important after the vomiting. God bless a dry Grey Goose martini with extra olives. And, yes, I was the woman standing at the bar with her baby.

I need an outlet, or a place to voice all of the things that are on my mind. I need to be honest because I really think that I am failing at the whole being a mother thing. In my defense, I never planned to do it. It’s not that I don’t like children because I do, I was a middle/high school math teacher for a while. When I met my husband, I was a bit reticent about the sheer number of children. Seriously, four is A LOT OF CHILDREN. Then we married, and less than two months later I was pregnant. That man has (had) potent swimmers. Standard birth control was no match. Seven months later we have a baby. That’s a story for another day.

Maybe this is enough for my first missive. I’ve never done this before. Wait, I still haven’t said why today! Here it is, as I was downing my second martini and my father was bouncing my daughter, I realized that I didn’t have anyone that I could say the things in my head. I have friends who would be horrified, friends who would be all “yeah, welcome to parenthood,” friends who would ask “have you talked to your doctor,” and acquaintances who would be thinking about how they should coordinate their nail color with their child’s outfit in case of pictures. All of those things are fine, but I need to be able to share the craziness of my life, and it is crazy. Not just to me, both my psychiatrist and psychologist agree.