HomeSlice

A little Tears for Fears reference reminds everyone including myself that I’m so a child of the 80’s. 

I thought I’d hit rock bottom last September.  I’m guessing now that there is no real bottom - life goes up, goes down, goes sideways, busts off the rails, wrecks and reassembles.  I bounced down again last night, but I think that as horrible as the rocks feel right now, they are there for a reason. 

It’s really hard to see the silver lining in a snowstorm, but I’m trying.  All year I’ve been pushing myself to my limit and beyond.  The most important things in my life have been smashed down to make room for other, more pressing things.  My health has taken a serious hit.  I’ve already had one major health scare; this latest one isn’t a scare. It’s a fact. 

I’ve got to make some sweeping changes.  I have to take care of my children, then my businesses.  In order to do that, I have to take care of me.  This means that with the exception of work I have to do, I’m focusing solely on my kids and running and yoga.  That’s it. 

This past year has been physically challenging, but some of the emotional challenges have been far more demanding.  I’ve got some serious trust issues right now and they aren’t going to be resolved overnight.  And it’s no surprise to anyone that bad things happen to good people - all the time.  My friend Susan is a shining example of this.  I wondered, sitting up at night, if this is karma and I’m being punished.  Then I tell myself that these are all lessons, some packaged in prettier paper than others, and I need to be mindful and aware of what is happening to me.  None of this is accidental.  And maybe what it finally took for me to admit I need to slow down was a health issue. 

I’m trying to get over the part where I let people down, where I fail in delivering on things I said I would. I need to be okay with hibernating and protecting myself for a little while.  The hurts this year have come hard and fast.  Some of them were sucker punches; others were slow, drawn out kicks.  Nearly 12 months after this all began, I feel like I’ve been in a year-long car accident and my body is finally begging for mercy.  I’m giving in to it.  I’m giving it what it needs.  I’m giving it a break. 

It’s a mass crazy blog post, like a casserole of randomness!  Here goes.

It’s a hole.  In my nose. 

True to my mid-life crisis (thanks for that mom), I got my nose pierced on Sunday.  I’ve wanted to do it since high school.  I waited until I was slightly wrinkled and nose piercing was mainstream before doing it.  My friend Stanley went with me, and it was a good thing, because I passed out, had a seizure and was very ill after the experience.  He had to drive me home.  His hand has permanent impressions in it from me gripping him.  He also saved my life last night too, but that’s in a different paragraph. 

It was worth it.  I’m happy with it, it’s healing well, and no, I’m not getting any more piercings and I’m still tattoo-free.  It was simply something I’ve been wanting to do, so I did it.  My kids wanted to know why I didn’t get a “bigger, sparklier” diamond.  I told them that the little one already gave their grandmother a heart attack.  They seemed to understand. 

Kick Me Dating.

I’ve already got a book in the works about the year of separation and divorce. About 80% of it is written - I wrote it last year during NaNoWriMo.  The remaining 20% is being written right now, and it’s going to be about dating at nearly 40.  It’s been QUITE the experience.  I’ve dated an emotionally stunted boy who was old enough not to be a boy.  I dated a guy with more mental issues than myself, but unlike me, he wasn’t willing to address any of them.  I went out for coffee with different men.  One had hobbit toes and spoke exclusively to my breasts.  There was not a second date.  One guy thought I was wanting to meet for coffee during work hours and called me a loser for not having a “real” job (???) - turns out he misread my email and realized I was suggesting 8 pm, not 8 am.  There was no first date with him.  Another guy sent me a long-winded note through a dating site, explaining to me in elementary-school-appropriate wording that he wished me the best of luck as no one really wants to date a woman with kids, especially not an almost 40 YEAR OLD woman.  Then he asked me out.  Guess what I said?

Then, I dated a guy - as in - we had more than one date.  He was normal.  He was good looking.  He worked out. He was healthy.  He was over his past relationships.  He was not hung up or full of issues.  He was funny.  He was mature.  He thought Buffy the Vampire Slayer was a well-written show.  He liked kids, but had resigned himself to not having any of his own. 

He changed his mind.  I can’t fault him.  Having your own kids with someone you love is a pretty cool thing.  It was hard for him to tell me that he had changed his mind.  We were getting along, we were laughing, we were “fine”.  It’s one thing to decide you don’t want to date because you spot some warning signs or the person has an annoying, throat-clearing habit.  Or is afraid to drive downtown because someone might scratch their car.  Or because they talk exclusively to your tatas. 

A part of me felt really badly that having another child is just flat out something I’m never, ever doing again.  Two is enough and frankly, my body and my brain cannot tolerate the pregnancy experience ever again.  And for him, he can date younger.  He can find someone he is compatible with that is in their early 30s and still willing, able, and excited about having a baby. 

I learn every time I meet someone new.  After my first experience, I said I wasn’t going to date anyone younger than 37 (arbitrary, I know) and I wasn’t going to date anyone who was that age and had never been married (judgmental, I know).  Now I wonder whether I can ever really believe what people say.  I change my mind frequently about things - why shouldn’t they?  It is just unfortunate that he wasn’t a psycho jerk or an asshole.  He’s a genuinely good and decent person, just like I am.  It’s much easier ending a relationship with someone who calls you names or throws temper tantrums or is completely self-absorbed.

A note about dating and me.  There’s been some judgment, but most of it has been concern from family and friends that it is “too soon”.  Timelines are arbitrary as well.  I felt alone in my marriage for quite some time.  When I finally left the marriage, it was only physically.  That’s a hard thing to admit.  It is also the truth.  My goal was to simply date - just to get my feet wet, so to speak, learn how to talk to people I don’t know, date different types, be casual and have fun.  Part of me still wants to do this.  Part of me wants to curl up in a fetal position with my daughters and hide forever.  He told me how “strong” I was - how I was such a “good person” - how I “deserve better”.  Yes, yes, and yes, but the next person with a penis who says this to me is going to lose one, if not both testicles.  As my sister said, what choice do we have?  Strength is relative.  Of course I’m strong.  Duh.  Aren’t we all? 

True to my commitment to 2010 being the year of honesty, 2010 is also the year of gray.  No black or white ultimatums for me.  Somewhere in the middle of the wacky world of dating in middle age is where I’ll be. 

Stanley and Robey came by with champagne and laptops.  Robey gave me a stern talking-to and Stanley distracted me with chatter about the half-marathon training team we are starting Saturday.  Robey cleaned up the spilled champagne (I’m a clutz) and Stanley told funny and sad stories about his life growing up.  We are both Latinos and I understand the culture even if I suck at speaking the language.  We gossiped and I cried some more.  I fell asleep before they left.  It is those moments when your friends surround you, even when they are tired of seeing you cry, that you realize what strength is all about. 

The definition of “family”. 

I’m finally starting to do some volunteer project management/board work for GayRVA.com.  I have mad respect for the people who run it, and the person who created it (waves at Kevin Clay - hi Kevin!).  It fills a need in Richmond and it is full of passionate people.  In answer to my mother’s question, posed silently and hanging over my head, no I am still not gay and no not everyone in the organization is.  If I could have jumped the lesbian fence, it would have happened long ago.  Anyway. 

A post on the website yesterday generated a lot of interest. Reading it infuriated me.  As a private business, they can do what they want, but to say it’s because they follow Virginia’s definitions of “family” is a big cop-out.  Especially when you see how many other gyms offer family memberships to all kinds of families. 

Where do you stand on the issue?  Perish the thought that we might actually allow gay marriage in Virginia . . . but denying family GYM memberships?  As one person said, American Family has no problem taking their money as individuals.  As I said, they have no problem with their gay employees (theoretically - maybe they use don’t ask, don’t tell there?), or gay people working out and spending their money there.  But to offer them a family membership discount crosses some invisible line.  I truly don’t get it.  As a marketing weenie, the negative PR alone would be enough to make a company revisit their “policies”. 

That is all. 

In answer to the question of the day, No, We Have Not Closed Yet. 

There are lots of concerned people in my life and I’m super grateful for the fact that those people still care enough to ask.  But I hate never having new information to give.  It makes me a little more cuckoo than usual.

Nope, no closing.  An excerpt from the voicemail I left for Citi yesterday:  “You are about to lose what amounts to a half million dollar deal over $6500.  Either work this out, or come and foreclose.  There are no other options.”  I was NOT nice.  Between the lawyers calling and the realtors calling, my voicemail was #6 for yesterday.  Squeaky wheel, anyone?  It’s so insane that we are this close ... and yet, nothing.  Both banks are digging in their heels.  Neither is giving.  Neither is talking.  The rest of us are running around, trying to tell the two petulant children we have in our lives to please play nicely or we’re all going down in flames.  So far, threats of time outs and no stories at bedtime have not worked. 

We have no leverage, no ability to say no. The worst part about this process has been that we are at the buyer’s mercy.  We have no alternatives, they know we are backed into a corner.  I can feel the glee emanating from their corner of the world.  Tomorrow they take possession of the house, without paying rent.  If something breaks or they decide they are unhappy with something else (and there’s been plenty so far), we are on the hook for it.  In the meantime, Citi’s collection department calls me no less than 8 times per day (including Sundays!) wanting their mortgage payment.  Oh, the irony!!!  We’d LOVE to give you the money owed if you guys would get your heads out of your rectums long enough to let us close. 

In a “normal” situation, as the seller, making money off the deal, we could have said long ago, “take your money and pound salt”.  Because they are actually negotiating with the banks, we have no say in just about anything.  Every time I want to dig my heels in, my realtor tells me to take a time out or threatens to verbally spank me.  If we call their bluff, we could end up in foreclosure.  And to be this close - for all of us - and still end in foreclosure - well, let’s just say that there will be a lot of angry tears over the situation.  Especially for the buyers and the realtors.  We have no money to make, so it’s a bitter-making potion for us that everyone else is getting the benefits of the disaster that is our life right now.

I don’t know.  I want to be positive - I really do - but I would like to see something become final.  I would like to be able to go away this weekend knowing that the house in Wyndham is gone, baby, gone, and I never, ever have to go back there unless I want to.  I would like the weight of this house off my shoulders for the first time since January, and I would like to sit in the hot springs of Virginia alone with my thoughts about anything - literally anything - other than the house. 

Hi there.

I know we haven’t been talking much these days.  Hell, we haven’t been communicating in years.  I know you are angry at me, and I understand that anger.  It’s unfortunate that you can’t just scream at me or throw something and be done with it.  Understand that I too am angry.  Very angry. I am angry despite you thinking I have no right to be angry. 

See, I don’t mind cleaning up my own mess.  I say this even though I tell the girls that I don’t care who made the mess in the crayon drawer - it’s up to both of them to clean it up.  Okay, I’ll clean it up by myself because it’s my mess, and I “wanted” this. 

This mess has taken me literally months to clean up.  While you floated through your days, at work, spending your energy hating me, I was negotiating with people who make me sick to my stomach, fielding phone calls from collection agencies, begging, pleading, cajoling everyone involved in this process to please help, to work together, to make this go.  At the 11th hour, we are nearly there and are going to escape this (relatively) unscathed. 

For a month and a half, I spent my evenings tearing through the wreckage of our life.  I packed boxes that tore me to shreds.  I had to decide what things to toss and what things to keep for the kids, even though I felt like I was being burned at the stake looking through some of the scrapbooks and remnants of my now-previous life.  I found your wedding ring shoved into a toothbrush cover.  It was about to go into the trash; I heard it rattling and realized what it was.  I know it was your way of saying to me:  Go To Hell and Take Your Trash With You.  Message received.  Note taken. 

After the packing and the moving and more negotiating with a slew of extremely demanding and unsympathetic people, I spent more time unpacking, fixing, redoing.  I thought about the girls and the chaos and upheaval.  I didn’t sleep much, because I wanted to make things as okay for them as I could.  The weekends you had them, I unpacked and painted and scrubbed.  You probably spent more time hating me then too - throwing all that hatred into the pool as you soaked in the sun and watched the children we had together splash.  I know some of the hatred was obvious even to our children when Lily asked me about it, catching me unprepared as always when she drops those questions during a car ride. 

So it must be nice.  It must feel great for you.  It must be heaven to sit across from me in a lawyer’s office, signing documents that will relieve us of the biggest financial obligation or anchor we have, and looking me in the eye as you tell me you won’t help me.  As you stick it to me, you have legitimized your right to be angry and to make me “fix it”.  All the years of me fixing everything came rushing into that lawyer’s office and I nearly exploded.  The words out of my mouth were measured but you know me well enough to also know that there was fury behind them, mixed with exhaustion, mixed with desperation.  It’s FINE.  I will take care of it.  Put the nails through my hands and feet; I’m a martyr, and I’ll fix this like I always fix the messes.  You sit down, sip your beer.  I’ll take care of it. 

I wonder what would happen if I adopted your attitude.  If I stopped caring.  If I told everyone - realtors included - to go screw themselves and see what happens.  If the closing were to fall through, would you help out then?  Would the realtors step up?  Would anyone do anything to make the deal go?  It must be nice to shrug your shoulders and say, “You did this, now you take care of it.”  I’d like to say that to you as well.  You did this, now you fix it.  All that yammering in marriage counseling about taking responsibility - taking two to tango - taking two to destroy a marriage.  I think those were words designed to make me think you actually believed it.  You don’t.  This is squarely on my shoulders.  It is my spilled milk to clean up.  I’ll clean up yours, because it’s there too, mixed and curdling.  It’s too much effort to figure out where to divide the mess, and make you clean up your portion of it. 

I used to feel such huge amounts of guilt.  I used to think you were the victim and I was a terrible person for making decisions that were best for me.  I don’t anymore - or at least not today.  We both built this life, and we both ruined it too. At some point you will emerge from your rage and start rebuilding your life, as I have done with mine.  Maybe you’ll take a hard look at yourself and attempt to avoid the mistakes you made with me, just as I’ve done - tearing myself into tiny bite-sized pieces so I can make myself a better person.  Maybe you won’t.  At this point, I’m beyond feeling badly about it. 

Today, I know you’re feeling good.  The house is nearly gone, your wife is nearly an ex, and you only have to stomach seeing me through car doors or apartment windows.  Standing the elevator together, I could feel the hate steaming from your skin.  Where once we were magnets, the poles have been reversed.  We stood on opposite sides, as far apart as possible.  When we said goodbye, it was code for “screw you”.  Today, you stuck it to me.  You enjoyed the power of making me suffer, even if it’s just a little bit.  You can have that.  Enjoy it while it lasts.  One day I’ll be in the same position you are, and I’ll remember this, and I’ll do the right thing instead of letting my anger control me and turn me into the lowest kind of person. 

It must be nice.  For you. 

I’ve said it before, but sometimes I feel like the biggest mistake I ever made was not having an anonymous blog.  On the other hand, I always read anon-blogs as fiction, and part of my big chest-pounding on this blog is that it is real, even if it’s only my version of reality. 

There are two huge issues in my life right now that are off-limits to the blogging world, three if you count the intricacies of my impending divorce.  I can write about the general feelings or the good/bad days, but getting into specifics crosses the line I’ve put down for myself and eventually for my children. 

I’m reading Perfection by Julie Metz right now.  Although her situation is very different than mine, her feelings are similar to my own struggle(s).  But I can’t help wondering, as I plow through the pages, how will her daughter feel about this? She’ll be a teenager now, with a famous author as a mom, the intense, sordid details of her deceased father published for the world to read.  Her father can easily be categorized as a bastard because he was a cheater, and a liar.  He’s also more than that.  Her mother, sometimes neurotic, mostly spot-on with her feelings and her reactions - it’s all there too, including her first sexual encounters after the death of her husband.  I just can’t imagine Lily and Arden reading that about me until, well, never - or at least until I was dead and didn’t have to look them in their beautiful eyes. 

The blog is bad enough.  We’re going on a year now of a lot of sadness, introspection, criticism (mostly self-induced, I admit), failed friendships and relationships.  It’s hard for me to read, but I am compelled to keep writing.  I’ve also been compelled to start writing letters again, stored privately on my laptop, not sent.  Some of them are to myself.  Many of them are to other people: those who have “wronged” me, those I’ve wronged, the friends I’ve neglected over the past 12 months who no longer have patience for me, the friends who have stayed with me through lots of dark times and bad phone calls, who handed me tissues and told me I had snot on my chin.  One of the most difficult and draining relationships I’ve had has received a ton of letters that only my computer has read.  I rarely can bring myself to read them once they are written.  Eventually I can have a bonfire burning party and dance around the flames.  Instead of burning my bra, or censored books, I’ll be burning up all those words and tears and joy and maybe then I can move beyond the anchors holding me down and back. 

Between my therapist and my life coach, I’m mentally healthier - and more aware - than I’ve ever been in my life.  As I notch the days under my belt, each morning marks another small success.  I made it.  Each time I am able to love my kids, or cuddle them in the mornings when they smell of sleep and salt, it’s a victory.  Each time I allow myself a few minutes to cry or express the complete and total exhaustion I feel mentally, I’m winning the war.  So many moments curled on my bed in fetal position or stretched out on the floor of the screened porch while I ache and feel hopeless end up adding to the anthill of strength I’m home-growing with organic intensity.  I used to doubt I was going to survive this, but I’ve got no doubts about any of that.  I have no doubts regarding the decisions I’ve made, or the ugly path I’ve walked to get to this day, this point in the long process.  I have no doubts that I’ll emerge better, more content, more lovable: a better friend, a better girlfriend, a better partner, daughter, sister, aunt, niece, dance partner, designated driver, confidante, wingman.  Wingwoman. 

I had a major epiphany last night, out of the blue.  I was brushing my teeth and wham.  Suddenly the confusion in my head cleared.  I realized that I’ve been punishing myself for wronging my husband, destroying his life, dragging my kids through this chaos - into the land of camel crickets and shared bedrooms and non-manicured lawns.  I took on a couple of people - messed up in their own private ways, their sole purpose in my life to punish me for what I’ve done to others.  I allowed them to make me feel worse about myself, to control me, to put up with crap I never would have in my previous lives (let’s not count college, shall we?).  Even these people have served their purpose, but I’m done with that lesson now and it’s time to cut and run. 

The second piece of the epiphany was that in one case, I realized the relationship was so very similar to a past one where I had no control over anything. I acquiesced, I bent.  I pushed my needs so far into my chest I no longer realized I had them, except for a lingering sense that something was terribly off.  At a time when I am supposed to be expanding - doing the things I’ve wanted/needed to do over the past decade plus but haven’t, for so many reasons - I was retracting, narrowing my world, narrowing my expectations, giving up. 

The third piece was that I have no control over others, but I can allow them to control me.  For so long I’ve placed my own needs secondary to everyone else.  It is the epitome of selfishness to say that I truly want to focus on me for a while?  Healing myself, being a better mom - not only for the kids, but for me?  I don’t want to settle - for anything.  If that means many more days and nights of fetal positioning, rocking, and snot on my chin, I think I can survive it.  I’m hopeful.  All signs, says the Magic 8 Ball, point to ‘yes’. 

In the meantime:  this day is “bad”.  This day is hard.  I am tired of hard and bad days; I am tired of writing about them.  I am tired of being tired, exhausted really. I am tired of killing bugs and cleaning carpets.  I’m tired of drilling, hanging things, trying to make this home feel like home.  There are piles of laundry in 3 rooms.  I feel like doing nothing about them.  I feel like sleeping.  Instead of that, I will have lunch with a friend who puts up with me and has as of yet not deleted me from her life because I am so tapped out.  I will stick to my hard decisions even though they completely and entirely suck right now. I will also run 3 miles this afternoon in sweltering heat, and I will not pass out or vomit - at least not publicly. 

Later, I’ll make dinner for the kids and myself and we will sit at my cleared dining room table in a darkened room that still doesn’t quite feel like mine yet, and we will talk about Puffles, Club Penguin and summer camp.  I will do laundry, work, add inventory to my site.  Later I will get into my bed, still my favorite space in the universe, and I will stretch out because it’s all my space and there is no one to demand anything from me, including pillows or leg room.  It will be an odd mixture of terrifying aloneness and blissful solitude.  The house will make weird sounds; Thora will growl or sometimes bark.  She will end up, against my wishes, at the foot of the bed.  She is the only thing I will allow to share my comforter.  In the morning she will lick my face and I will awake, victorious that another day is behind me and a new one is in front of me. 

Sometimes being an adult is no fun.  Being a mom with kids is fun and of course rewarding much of the time, but now I find that decisions I made easily before (as a married suburban mom) are so very difficult right now.  Today I put myself first - my kids first - and although that is the “right” decision, it hurts a lot.  Quite frankly, I’ve tired of hurting all the time. Those moments where I feel peace, or joy - they are crack to me, and I want more of them.  I can sense that as I put one foot in front of the other there will be more moments of pure sunshine, but they are few and far between right now.

Today was bad enough that I had the telltale tingling extremities.  My face went numb, my heart went nuts, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe.  I never carry my emergency stash of chill pills anymore, but that won’t happen again.  I need to be more boy scout (always be prepared!) and less super woman (who needs drugs to manage panic?  not me!). 

Today was another tiny step, and another version of the realization I’ve had since this all began.  Nothing makes it easier.  Support helps navigate this mess, but I have to go through the emotions. There are no shortcuts, no distractions big enough to pull me away from what I need to feel. 

I am sitting in my living room and feeling completely and utterly overwhelmed by the stuff around me.  In other moves, within 1 week I’ve had everything neatly stored - in some cases, even the pictures were hung and the house was clean.  I’m more than a week into this now and it looks almost worse.  I have no energy. I want to sleep.  I want to eat, I don’t want to run, and I want to really hide in my bed for a minimum of 24 hours.  I’ve been here before and know how intense these feelings can be, and I know that they will fade and subside and I will be just fine. Or better than fine - I will be great. 

I’m going to write this down because I’ve been saying it in my head to many people:  because I asked for this doesn’t make it less hard. Going through wedding albums, reading engagement cards, picking through the things that my husband felt were too painful for him to deal with and having to throw those things away was heart-rending.  I’ve never been faced with the reality of the divorce more than I was putting things into boxes, filling trash bag after trash bag, forcing myself to not be overly sentimental, forcing myself to keep the wedding albums because I know the girls will want to see them one day. 

As I made yet another trip to the Wyndham house today, I wandered upstairs and felt myself coming unglued again. The house looks sad and bleak.  There are random leftovers from a life lived there; a tiny smiley-face bead from a necklace of Arden’s, rolled carelessly into a corner where it will be consumed hungrily by a vacuum.  Half of an earring.  A leftover scrap of Thora’s rawhide.  A stick of butter; a dying plant.  It looks like ghosts live there now, even though I can still smell the smells of my kitchen or bedroom, and feel the cool tile under my feet. 

This new house feels safe to me - it has so many locks and doors and places to hide.  Underneath the smell of animal from previous tenants, the good hardwood smells are still here.  Because it’s so different from my previous life, it feels welcoming. It also feels alien and a bit scary.  I have a few security blankets and I had to get rid of one today.  There’s a fine line between getting warmth from a blanket and being smothered by one. 

I’m trying to focus on breathing, and warming myself. 

...my best friend received a devastating diagnosis.
...I found out I need a biopsy (it’s happening tomorrow!)
...I missed some major warning signs about a person in my life and really screwed things up.
...I continued to put myself last behind everyone else and their brother.
...I asked for help from people i didn’t want to help me, but had no choice.
...I helped someone i love learn how to commit someone they love to a mental hospital against their will.

it’s no wonder i have gotten NO work done and am so far behind that at this point, i don’t think i will ever catch up. 

my best friend wrote to me a couple of days again, and something she said really resonated with me.  she said: 

I’m changing a lot of the priorities and friendships in my life.  It just makes you recognize how petty and superficial a lot of the shit in life is.  I’m trying to clear that out and make room for what’s important.  And for that, I am grateful.  I think a lot of people live their whole lives trying to gain the approval of others and over the course of the past six months, I have just about totally eliminated a lot of the bullshit.  It also means I am eliminating friends, but that’s OK.  They weren’t real friends to begin with.

i’ve been going through that process for the last 8 months.  and even though right now it feels like the entire karmic universe is pooping on my head for sins i’ve committed that i’m unaware of (well, some of them, at least), another friend mentioned that “god is trying to get your attention”.  that’s possible too.  my attention has been gotten.  i’ve been faced with just about every nightmare situation i can come up with, yet i’m still able to hold my children at night and breathe in their sleepy scents.  even in the midst of what is most definitely a hurricane of epic emotional proportions, i continue to write about gratitude, model good behavior for certain people in my life, and attempt to balance on the fine point between supportive and enabling. 

i need to follow my best friend’s advice.  life really is too short.  you have no idea what curve balls are going to be thrown at you.  my life’s goal is not to be happy; happiness is fleeting.  life is hard and full of moments of joy or sadness.  being content, or secure in the decisions you’ve made, is what it’s all about for me.  learning not to get wrapped up in other’s issues, and help and hold the ones who deserve all that i have to offer, has been a hard lesson for me.  oddly i feel stronger right now than i’ve ever felt. 

as i changed the water filter in my expensive high-end refrigerator that will be left behind along with the rest of this ridiculous house, i realized it was the last time i’d ever have to change it.  the new refrigerator has no ice maker or water dispenser.  it sits on a floor of yellowed linoleum that probably should have been replaced a minimum of 15 years ago.  for the first time, i couldn’t wait to get onto that linoleum and back to ice cube trays.  i haven’t been on my own since 1999.  having my own space, being alone with the girls and the dog, getting some breathing room and figuring out why this all happened and why right now, seems necessary. 

i’ve reached a level of peace with my situation and for that i am most grateful.  our short sale may very well fall through; the second mortgage company is still dragging their feet, and the buyers are getting very nervous.  we are reaching month 4 of waiting.  regardless, i’m moving out.  mike has already left.  the house will sit here, empty, waiting for either a new family to come in and love it, or for the bank to come and take it.  i realize that there is absolutely NOTHING i can do about it - and i’m totally fine with it.  i can’t control what happens to me financially at this point and am making the best of an absolutely horrendous situation.  do i still have guilt that the father of my children is being dragged into this hell unwillingly?  i do, but i also know that he will end up much happier without me and with someone else than he realizes at this point.

i’m getting ready to say goodbye to dan and nicole, two people who have never hesitated to help when i’ve needed it.  hopefully i’ve been there for them as well.  there will be a legendary party at the house on saturday - it’s a graduation party for one of the few people i’ve ever known who graduated summa cum laude and know how to pronounce it.

(when i pronounced it, it sounded like the title of a porno)

they’re totally worth the drive to blacksburg, however, and i’ll be darkening their doorstep as much as i can, probably with two kids in tow. 

in the meantime, i’m going to keep focusing on the gratitude.  and trying to learn from my mistakes. 

The toilet overflowed in the bathroom. 

The pond’s pump stopped working.  I’ve done everything I know how to - still isn’t working.  The mosquitoes are having an orgy in there and breeding like there is no tomorrow. 

Thora’s life was saved when Lily stuck her hands into her mouth and pulled a toothpaste cap out of there.  She was about to swallow it whole. 

I am total Robo-Mom this weekend:  “Does not compute. Danger Will Robinson.  Children Play Quietly.  Mommy Needs A Martini.” 

My schedule is killing me.

The house is falling apart.  It’s dirty a lot these days. 

I accidentally threw out a 2 page fiction story Lily wrote. She’s been crying for the last 2 hours.  Major #momfail.

I am upset with a lot of people.  Most of them are upset right back at me. 

My upcoming weekend without the kids just got shot down. 

You should see me up in this stupid home - running around with towels, mopping stuff, cussing out the pond, wondering how I’m going to squeeze these little facets of my life into boxes and move them somewhere.  I look like a maniac.  I’m thinking of filming myself so the self-deprecating laughter comes more easily.  Right now it is very, very hard to laugh about anything.  I feel like I’ve been pulling all-nighters for 6 months.  The high I had two weeks ago is not with me anymore. I no longer feel like SuperWoman, able to leap divorces and bankruptcy in a single bound.  I am very much human, very much flawed, and very much in need of some respite from my own brain. 

I made the mistake of thinking it was almost over.  Seriously though, it really is - but for some reason now that the majority of the hard stuff is done, I am faced with stillness and I have to think and digest everything that has happened.  I don’t regret anything but damn, I want my life to stabilize so I can be a friend to others, a better daughter, a better mother.  Despite feeling fat, I’m as thin as I’ve ever been - in the sense that I’m stretched to the breaking point in all directions.  Self-pity is something I loathe, but I am wearing it like a comfy bathrobe these days.  In my head:  “I did this.  I did this.  My fault.  Live with it.  Deal with it.”  I follow it with affirmations like “This is the right thing.  I’m doing the right thing.  I will survive this.  It’s all noise, emotions.  They come and go. For every depth of despair there is a peak of joy to offset it.” 

When I run and my hip doesn’t feel like it’s going to fly out of my skin like a surgical discus, everything falls away.  I understand the addiction now, but I can’t indulge in that.  It hurts too much.  So I spend the days thinking, being still, making long lists I don’t complete anymore.  Most of the times I meet my deadlines but sometimes I don’t.  Sometimes I don’t call people back.  More often than not, actually.  I am scared to crawl back into the hole from September.  I am deathly afraid of it.  I can see the edges of it and I dance around it.  Distraction, writing, therapy.  Medication that mixed with the aforementioned has saved my life in the most literal way. 

I love the cheesy phrase “Is that the light at the end of the tunnel, or just an oncoming train?”  It sums up any kind of journey, or deviation from how your life was supposed to look. 

So, I’m not sure what the light is right now.  My heart tells me it’s the end of this particular tunnel, but I’m not dumb enough to assume that’s the only tunnel.  The dark parts make the light so much brighter. 

The house sold.  We are now waiting on bank approval for the short sale.  Our first mortgage company will probably grant it; the second, well, who knows. They aren’t going to get paid at all.  President Obama recently announced a new program that is supposed to help people in our exact situation, where the 2nd mortgage company holds up the short sale.  Not sure it’s going to be really underway in time to help us, but hopefully it will help others.  Today contractors are being deployed to look at a “huge crack” in the garage floor.  It was there when we bought it, but our home inspector never said a word about it.  I just assumed all garage floors cracked over time.  Stupid me. 

I know the people buying our house.  Their daughter is a good friend of Lily’s.  I haven’t gotten around to telling her that in all probability, her friend who has spent the night here before, may be living in “her” bedroom.  I had a mini-pity party yesterday as I looked at the first rental house on the list.  It was quite undesirable.  Arden’s first words as we pull up to the house:  “This house is HIDEOUS, Mama!”  Lily’s words, a few minutes later, “What is that SMELL?”  followed quickly by a whispered, “Mommy, I don’t want to live here.  This house is scary!”  Scarring my children by looking at random weird houses is really not fun.

It was a cross between the homestead on Little House on the Prairie and a crack house.  $1200/month I might add.  Pass.  Next.  Looking at 3 more today and one tomorrow.

The Property and Settlement Agreement (a nice way to say, All The Crap We Agree To Before We Can Get Divorced) is signed.  Neither of us got everything we wanted.  Actually, Mike wanted none of this entire thing, so he really got the short end of the stick.  I am still trying to figure out how I’m going to live on my monthly allotment.  When I heard the papers had been signed, I was on my way to Yorktown to visit Anja and family.  I cried in the car.  I was careful not to get snot on the interior, however. 

A few people have made it clear they have no sympathy for me.  I don’t want sympathy so that works fine for me.  What these people don’t get is that even though this was my “idea”, it’s still hard. It’s hard to get your marriage boiled down on 17 pieces of paper with neat paragraphs and lines dividing your assets and debts, dividing the two of you.  If marriage is an unnatural state, as many have asserted, divorce is a genetically engineered goat with 5 heads. 

I cried again last night while eating cheap Mexican food with Robey and Nicole. It’s easy to point to my hospitalization as the reason for my divorce.  Writing me off as crazy is a quick way to say, “She’s stupid, and doesn’t know what she’s doing.”  I personally believe that my visit to CrazyTown was the end result of not being crazy, and not the other way around.  There were some factors that finally pushed me to separate from my husband, and those factors pushed my brain to separate from my body.  If it makes it easier for others to write off my behavior as irrational and bipolar, I’m okay with that.  It fits into a nice box and is easily dismissed. 

That is not what happened, however. 

The factors that led me to the place where I realized how it really was for me are hard for me to look at now.  I don’t want to be reminded of anything that resembles the hospital, the music I was listening to at the time, the smell of the ambulance, or my lack of sleep.  Something happened last week that reminded me of that time in my life, and it threw me for a huge loop.  I couldn’t figure out why at first.  Robey kept poking at me last night, asking questions, digging.  She knew I hadn’t figured it out yet.  Turns out I associate many of those things with the end of my marriage, and looking at them even months out is very, very painful.  It was truly the worst time of my life.  I was weak, I was needy, I was exhausted, and I wasn’t rational.  It is an understatement to say that I wasn’t acting as I normally did.  No one wants to look at that kind of stuff again, once you are past it.  Being forced to look at it wrecked me for a couple of days.  I didn’t even bring it up in therapy.  I promise to next week. 

There are many endings happening right now, followed closely by beginnings.  I’m started to feel less like I’m living in a nightmare and more like I’m living in a resigned state.  Resignation by its very nature is not a negative state.  It means finished and accepting.  I am resigning from my old life, and starting a new one.  It may not be the prettiest year of my life in terms of finances or high end furnishings, and unless Robey can get me a big discount on designer jeans, it won’t be a year of dressing well either.  It has been harder than I’d like to admit letting go of the house and the suburban perfectness that is Wyndham.  I hate it, but seeing my kids looking at me with big eyes made me want to crawl under the Lexus SUVs in the carpool lane at school and end it all. 

(reality:  kids are resilient, and pretty bedrooms don’t equal happy children)

(reality:  i am not going to shrivel and die without a sunken tub or a screened porch or grass to cut)

For now, one major obstacle is over.  We wait to sell the house; I wait to sign a lease.  After that, there is a wait for the divorce to be final - which will be at the end of August.  And after that, I find out if it’s a train or a beautiful blue sky with lots of sunshine. 

Every time I think I’ve had one of the hardest days of my life, or hit the biggest speedbump, I can be sure that there is another larger, bumpier and sharper one up ahead.  It’s good to have this mindset because life is definitely a journey, and it’s not always smooth. 

Ever heard of collaborative divorce?  Now you have. 

Mike and I had our first meeting with a “divorce coach” this morning.  If we proceed down the collaborative path, she will be our main point of contact.  Involved in the collaborative process will be a child specialist, a financial analyst, and two lawyers trained in the collaborative approach.

I could go into the details of how it’s supposed to work, but I’m really quite raw and very tired from this morning and I don’t feel like it.  If you’re curious you can read all about it at the link above.  One thing I came away from the meeting with:  if divorce is a shit sundae, collaborative divorce is a scoop of ice cream with shit sprinkles.  It puts the family first, especially the kids, and contractually binds you to negotiate the terms of the divorce in the most reasonable way possible.  There were a lot of tears during the meeting.  There’s nothing like saying the words outloud to make reality set in and force you to face what you may have been avoiding.  It was not easy and it was more than a little bit heart-wrenching, but we took that first step and it was a doozy.

Someone once remarked to me that ending a relationship is a series of tiny steps.  The doubt in your head, the acknowledgement of issues between you, the first vocalization that something is not right - they are all tiny steps in one direction.  Sometimes they can be repaired and turned back.  Sometimes they can’t. 

After all the head shaking and confused looks we’ve gotten after explanation how we are doing our separation, it was very validating to be commended by the divorce coach. She commended us for truly putting the kids first even though she can tell we are both suffering from our living situation.  For those who aren’t aware, the girls stay put in our house and the parental units rotate in and out of it.  We rent a small room about 25 minutes away from here where we stay on alternating weeks.  It is difficult even at its best; for Mike who hates change in any shape or form, it’s incredibly difficult.  She also told us that if the kids are still not acting out in school, we are doing something right.  The Child Specialist will help us to determine how they are actually doing and suggest therapists for them if it comes to that.  In the meantime we try to be open with them, answer the questions we are asked, and reassure them that we love the hell out of them. 

Divorce is a terribly sad thing, no matter what.  Mike and I still remain calm and mostly quiet with each other.  It makes it worse.  Neither of us seems to want to fight about things - at least not yet - and that makes it worse. There is no anger to propel me forward.  I’m sure there will be on his side, sooner rather than later, but I just have a large empty hole of sadness and it makes me want to take very long naps. 

This whole process will be draining, financially and emotionally.  It adds another layer of guilt onto a sandwich that is already piled precariously high with guilt meat and mustard and shamed lettuce and pickles.  This process is going to be expensive.  The divorce coach and child specialist run around $175/hour.  The lawyers require retainers.  If we both end up with a divorce coach instead of using one, it will be twice as much.  The financial analyst takes a retainer too. Emotionally the costs are not countable, at least not now.  We fumble toward some resolution, mostly in the dark, trying not to fall down.

Nothing lights a fire under your butt like a signed lease on an apartment you can’t afford unless you are gainfully employed. 

I’ve been job searching earnestly for about a month now. Me and 400,000 other people.  Marketing jobs are notoriously hard to come by.  Add this crap economy into the mix and it is nearly impossible.  Still, chin up, campers - something will come through.  With my shining positive attitude, razor wit and intrepid personality, who WOULDN’T want to hire me?  Really.

I got my first rejection letter. A friend told me about the position.  She knows the CEO well; she wrote a letter of recommendation that made me blush.  I’ve known one of the business development people for years; she also went to bat for me. The interview went well, I thought - the job was nothing particularly difficult and everything they wanted were things I’ve done a million times over the past 12 years.  I was flexible on salary - I know the base I need to make - and was willing to take less in exchange for flexibility with days/hours.  I did not tell them that - I know you wait until you are offered the job to start negotiating.  Apparently there was someone better than me (I know, unbelievable), and it’s entirely possible they had experience in this industry whereas mine was in a parallel industry.  I have to keep going - I have no choice.

Thankfully I had another headhunter call me today for another position that pays WAY more than I actually need to make to survive, but will probably require way more out of me as well.  It’s hard to let go of being a part-time mom and part-time business person.  However, I must.  Unless the ideal part-time job that pays me well falls from the sky, I’ve got to be prepared to slog into work between 8 and 5 daily and be grateful I even HAVE a job.

I signed a lease on a 1 bedroom apartment about 1/3 mile from our house.  Actually, WE signed a lease.  Since I’m completely dependent on Mike for money, I couldn’t qualify for a lease even if I wanted to.  Oh wait, I do want to.  The apartment is directly across the street from Lily’s school.  In my worst case scenario, if I do not have a job by January, I will pull Arden out of daycare which will free up about half the cost of the apartment per month.  The other half will have to be squeezed (blood from a stone, really) from my business or from thin air.  I looked at our budget; it’s already cut to the bare bones minus some little things that don’t add much to the bottom line. 

Mike and I will share it.  Each of us will do one week and weekend on, living at the house.  The other will be in the apartment.  At the end of 7 days, we’ll switch.  Although it’s about $100 more than some places per month, its location makes up for it.  We haven’t told the kids yet.  I don’t think we’ll have to until right before it happens - preferably after Christmas.  While looking at apartments, the leasing agent kept trying to steer me to the more expensive “upgraded” apartments.  They had granite countertops, polished nickle track lighting and black appliances.  The “unrenovated” apartments are exactly the same, except they have Formica, no microwave and *gasp* WHITE appliances.  I laughed out loud and said, “I’ve had enough granite countertops to last me the rest of eternity.  Formica is FINE.  White is fine.  It’s all fine.” 

It will take approximately 15 minutes to clean the apartment, and that’s being generous on time.  It’s tiny and I’d be even more excited if I didn’t have to keep cleaning the monstrosity, which takes more than a day.  Mike and I are of one mind on the house - we both know it’s a huge anchor pulling us down and we need to cut the chain.  Unfortunately, until the market turns around or we stop paying the mortgage long enough for the bank to take us seriously (and therefore consider doing a short sale), we are stuck with it, and I have a very large bonfire under my butt crackling and spitting and saying, “GET A DAMN JOB, YOU!”

So I’m looking.  If I can cobble enough small projects together, and writing gigs, I can scrape by without selling my soul to The Man again.  My business friends have banded together and are trying to throw me enough scraps to keep me in Ramen noodles (or just a tiny apartment), and I’ve been applying for a ton of freelance project work through a couple of legitimate sites.  I wish I could channel Julie’s old neighbor in the Fan, who was always doing things with Chakras and clicking her fingers together.  Her favorite saying?  “The universe will provide, my friends.  The universe will provide.”

Hey, Universe?  Pay up. I need you now, buddy. 

I’ve always heard “Bad things happen in threes.”  If this is the case, I’m home free, baby, because I have paid my dues.  If it’s not the case, please don’t enlighten me.  Positive thinking breeds positive results. 

Thanks for all of you who commented, emailed, DM’d me through Twitter and generally reached out after my last posting.  I know I’m a great big sobbing embarrassment to parts of my family and sharing it with “the world” (as if everyone in the universe reads here - if so, I’d be making so much from ad revenue I could retire) was hard for them to swallow.  I appreciate their restraint in not lecturing me about it.  Some of the most poignant comments were sent in notes, privately.  People came out of the woodwork to either share their own stories and their own experiences with behavioral health issues (i.e. going crazy!) or family members or the old-fashioned version, the “nervous breakdown”.  When I started to read the comments and emails, I knew I had made the right decision to share it.  And I’m probably not done sharing it.  So much happened there in 4+ days - it will take a while for it to come out.  Someone laughingly asked if it was like Girl, Interrupted.  Unfortunately, no one as hot as Angelina Jolie was roaming the hallways and there were no straightjackets or shock treatments.  I did occasionally long for a lobotomy.  I’ll admit I longed for one again today, albeit briefly. 

Life on the outside has returned to normal - mostly.  I worked this morning, did laundry, cleaned the downstairs, worked out.  I started returning the 42,000 emails and calls I got.  I’m hoping that my friends are patient with me because I am easily overwhelmed and I get tired of talking about my crap all of the time.  I’d much rather hear other people’s sad stories than my own right now. 

We start marriage counseling very soon and I’m seriously considering just giving up the whole separation and living together while we try to work through our issues.  It’s super hard on both Mike and I and frankly at this point, I’m willing to try just about anything.  Being away from the kids at night and in the mornings has made me feel even more detached and I don’t like it.  Friends of Mike’s reached out to him and told them about their marital issues last year; counseling helped them immensely and they still attend every once in a while to keep the lines of communication open.  Somewhere along the way we really stopped talking to each other, and we let life get in the way.  Distracted by work, children, obligations, financial worries, business problems, insurance, housework, a yard that never stops growing . . . it is easy to just push all the ugly things back into a dark corner and forget about them.  Over the years those ugly things were watered with Miracle-Gro and got bigger and bigger until one day they sprouted 18,203 legs and crashed through the door.  By the time they did, I felt it was too late.

I’m not sure it is too late.  I’m keeping an open mind.  I’m dealing.  I’ve had some incredibly self-esteem-destroying moments over the last few months.  I’ve lost a ton; I’ve gained a lot more.  It constantly amazes me that blogging opens so many doors.  @Snarketta - I’m looking at you.  People will help you in the strangest ways when you are weak enough - or strong enough, depending on how you look at it - to ask for help. 

I hurt a friend’s feelings on Twitter the other day.  I’ve apologized, but I’m doing it here as well.  Sometimes when I’m tired and beaten down I say things without thinking.  That was one of those times.  I could argue my point and say all the reasons I had every right to say what I said, but I never meant to hurt their feelings and I don’t like being mean.  Getting out of the hospital, I was confronted with more stress I wasn’t expecting and I just reacted.  This particular friend has tried to be there for me, even though I’m really a very difficult person to be around these days.  It’s another friendship that has gone down in the collateral damage of my personal bombing campaign.  Eventually I will stop hurting people on a daily basis when I figure out how to balance my needs against the needs of others.  I feel like an accident victim learning to walk again.  I fall a lot. 

On a happier note, I was able to repair another friendship yesterday. It’s one that is very important to me and I’m glad we were able to talk things out and make some progress.  I’m still not batting 100% on anything, including being a mom, but I’m making headway.  Maybe soon I’ll have an uplifting light-hearted rainbow and unicorns post to share with you.  In the meantime, I’ll point you to the review page where you can win some saucy stuff. 

Hey, internets.  I’ve missed you.  Being without any kind of connection to this part of my life was difficult, to say the least.  I did a ton of writing while I was on “vacation” but I had to do it by hand.  Man, has my handwriting deteriorated.  I could barely read it and my hand kept cramping up whenever I wrote for too long.  I would have sold my soul for a computer while I was gone.

When I finally reconnected today, I had 283 messages, a ton of voice mails, and 12 orders to process.  Thankfully I was able to do a lot of yoga breathing and only freaked out when I realized Mike had tried to “fix” the wireless and actually ended up connecting it incorrectly.  It took about an hour and a phone call to Verizon, but I’m online again and halfway caught up. 

This post is not going to be pretty.  I’ve spent a lot of time deciding whether I was going to write about where I’ve been since Wednesday, and in the end, I’m doing what I always do.  I’m accepting who I am and where I’ve been and if you want to ride this train with me, there will be ups and downs.  I went through, and am currently going through, the lowest point of my life, hands-down.  The blogs I read are other writers who can be honest and raw and brutal with their lives. It appeals to me, and has helped me immensely when I’ve gone through my own trials and tribulations as a wife, a woman, a mother, a daughter, a business owner, a friend, and a writer.  I wear a lot of hats - and this hat I’m wearing right now is not something to be ashamed off.  So much stigma surrounds mental health and depression.  Here, within the confines of the borders on my blog, I’m creating a bubble where it is perfectly safe to discuss what I’ve been through.  If a future employer or random person from my past stumbles on this post and thinks, “Holy batshit this girl is crazy!” then so be it. 

Wednesday was, um, a pretty bad day for me.  Some of my friends who know where I’ve been have asked what happened.  To the best of my ability to explain how this happened, these are the factors that lead up to Wednesday:

1.  I hadn’t been sleeping well in about 4 weeks (averaging 3-5 hours a night)
2.  I had separated from my husband and was going back and forth between two houses, all the while trying to keep up with the normal household duties I have. 
3.  I had a lot of stress and despair over a couple of relationships in my life and I was hurting pretty badly. 
4.  I was trying to pretend to EVERYONE, even my closest friends, that all was a-okay and I was fine and strong and clear.  With the exception of one person (hi Susan!), I didn’t let anyone know how hellishly bad I was feeling.
5.  Wearing a mask 24/7 takes a lot out of person.
6.  I was expending energy on things that weren’t giving any energy back to me.  Think black hole. 
7.  I wasn’t eating very much.
8.  I was trying to figure out my financial future, and it looked very grim. 

So back to Wednesday.  I had a realtor come to the house and give me a comparative market analysis on our house.  She looked grim when I came to the door, so I knew it wasn’t going to be good.  Because she is a friend of mine, she told me she cut commissions to the core (1.5%) and still had no good news.  We bought our house at the peak of the market and proceeded to renovate and redo a bunch of stuff.  We still had an equity line from our old house that we rolled over.  The short version of the long story is that we are upside down on our mortgage.  The house is worth $100K less today than it was when we bought it.  Yay us! 

Some other factors on Wednesday that will remain private happened right after the enlightening discussion with the realtor.  I literally felt like that last vestige of hope I had was stripped away.  I was thinking that if Mike and I stayed separated, we could sell the house and both of us would end up with a small nest egg and we could start over.  Even if we stayed together, I wanted to get rid of this house - it’s come to represent a lot of things that I feel are wrong and fake about my life.  I’m not stupid enough to think that it’s the house’s fault - it’s just brick and mortar and light fixtures - but it’s symbolic. 

I held it together while I picked up Lily from the bus. I smiled and waved and did my Robo-Mom impression.  I made snacks and got juice out of the fridge.  I changed a load of laundry and folded some.  I even ironed.  Then I just felt everything fall apart.  I literally stood up from the ironing board and felt as though my insides were falling out.  I sent the girls downstairs and put on the electronic babysitter (tv).  I started crying.  I called Mike at work.  I told him to come home, that I couldn’t take care of the kids.  I went upstairs and I got in bed.  I had my second panic attack in two weeks.  My heart was pounding, my face was tingling, and I couldn’t breathe.  By the time Mike got home, I had totally lost it.  I couldn’t form a sentence and I was trying to call my therapist and talk to him at the same time.  Somewhere in those two conversations, the therapist suggested going to St. Mary’s since they have a mental health unit.  We dropped the kids with a neighbor, called my parents to come up, and left for the hospital. 

Thankfully I have a few good friends in Richmond. I was able to text them on the way to the hospital and all of them immediately went into action mode, sending emails, canceling things, helping me with my website, telling me not to worry, sending love, just virtually holding my hand. 

I find myself unable to really talk about St. Mary’s and the time I spent there.  It truly was the darkest time of my life.  When one of the docs asked me if I was suicidal, I think I responded something to the effect of ‘No, but I don’t want to be here in this body anymore.  I can’t take one more piece of bad news.  I thought I was strong but I think I’ve broken and I don’t know how to survive this.” 

During a blood draw, I passed out and had some sort of seizure and kicked over a table and bumped my head.  When I came to, I was only conscious for another minute before I passed out again.  When I woke up the second time, I was in a bed and I was literally sweating ice.  I was shivering and nauseous and panicking because I had no idea where I was.  There were no beds available for me at St. Mary’s, so I was transferred elsewhere.  By the time I got through intake and was screened and searched by a nurse, it was 4 am. 

Thursday was a haze.  I looked like a b-grade zombie actor trying to function.  I kept thinking I was going to wake up from my nightmare.  When I realized I wasn’t allowed to have hairspray in my room (I might hurt myself with the aerosol nozzle), I knew where I was and the reality hit me like a ton of bricks.  I was ashamed, embarrassed, scared as hell, needy, isolated - you name it.  Unfortunately the first person I came into contact with was not very affectionately nicknamed “Bible Lady” on the ward - she got messages from God in her ears and by laying on floors and predicted things like the Lions winning the Superbowl this year based on God’s word.  She also said I was going to end up married to another guy on the ward and that another guy was going to become a professional boxer and be trained by George Foreman.  My first experience was waiting in line for vital signs while she sang “Amazing Grace” at full volume.  This was at 6 AM, and I had no caffeine in my system.  I thought that if I wasn’t crazy before, any more time around her would make it so. 

Then I met a couple of other people who made a huge difference in my stay.  I attended every group session, every group meeting, every activity, and I wrote like my hand was on fire.  I wrote letters to my daughters. I wrote one to Mike.  I wrote one to a close friend of mine.  I wrote to myself.  I forced myself to talk to people.  My medication, which had been at a literal pediatric dose, was doubled.  I learned ways to manage my panic and anxiety attacks.  And while I was there, I realized I was about to lose another friend in this whole process.  I could feel it coming, and I used some of my time there to deal with the sadness I felt.  Some people in my life can hang with me right now and just comfort me by being there.  Others can’t, and I respect the honesty it takes to admit that I am too much for them to handle.  At least I have no illusions about where I stand, and clarity is half the battle.

I got a chance to sleep a little bit.  When I met Chris and Amanda, both suffering from severe depression and some other stuff, I had my unit buddies.  We ate together.  I learned how to play Spades.  I had long conversations with Chris about what it’s like to raise kids alone (he’s only 29, and his wife died 4 years ago).  Amanda and I talked about our children and we shared the stories of how we ended up together.  We were an unlikely bunch from various backgrounds, but Chris said, “Hey, just because we’re in here doesn’t mean we’re crazy.”  That single statement sustained me.  I was there to get better for my children. I was there to learn how to cope better.  I was going to have to make some painful cuts in my life, and I needed to build up as much strength as possible in order to do so. 

People who give up and off themselves are the biggest cowards alive.  It’s such a cop out and it leaves the rest of the world to pick up your mess and your pieces.  I knew that I was hitting the wall, and I knew that I had to take drastic steps to get better. 

I will be honest and say that coming home today has been hard.  Dealing with the pile of work on my desk, a friend breaking plans with me, seeing how Mike looks, being hugged by my children and feeling the guilt of being gone wash over me - it was all a bit much.  I used some of the tools I learned in the hospital but I’m taking it minute by minute.  As usual, a bunch of people stepped up today and are there for me.  I’m having coffee with TCG, Bradley said I inspired him to do something major, and Dan has been listening to my litany for weeks now.  I made a difference to Chris and Amanda in the hospital, especially when Amanda got some bad news.  I made people laugh, which makes me feel better.  I realized what a great mom I was and how much better I could be if I only would focus.  I told myself the rest would work out, and it surely will. It’s just never the way you think it’s supposed to.

So that’s where I’ve been.  Can’t wait to take a shower and shave.  I look like Chewbacca, but the idea of shaving in front of a nurse held no appeal for me.  I’m mostly glad to be back. You can only hide out in the ward for so long before you try out the new legs you’ve grown while inside, and take the first few steps. 

First, the good news and the easy news.  I’m down 31 pounds - broke my first MAJOR milestone.  I’d like to lose another 15, but at least I can live with myself now.  I also got a haircut today. I desperately needed one - it’s been since June.

Second, the not good and not easy news.  Richmond’s a very small town, and some membes of my family have very large mouths.  That’s okay, we’re a bunch of height-challenged emotional Mexicans - what can you expect?

(Note to my mother:  Stop reading here.  Seriously.  Close the browser and step away from the computer.)

(takes break to allow mother time to stop reading)

Okay.  Blogging is a weird thing.  You develop an online persona, but it’s never truly who you are.  With blogging you choose what and when to expose, and you can make things look pretty or ugly depending on the way you shine your literary light.  During coffee with The Checkout Girl earlier this week, we were discussing the dreaded Mommy Blog and how someone she knew who was fairly famous was going through a divorce.  Unfortunately this person makes money giving parenting advice, so she was feeling like her life was over.  Or something like that.  We were talking about how refreshing it would be if people would just come clean about their realities.  If you’re divorcing, just say it.  No one expects us to be perfect.  Well, maybe some do, but we can just ignore those people.

Because I have had such trauma in my head over the past few months, and because I have to self-censor here to protect the innocent, I’ve been really feeling neglectful of this blog.  I’m holding up a Photoshopped version of my life right now because that is what is expected of me and that is what certain others are comfortable with. 

Again, if you are becoming uncomfortable, stop reading and go to your happy place.

Obviously I am not going to discuss the deep and dark specifics of my issues.  This isn’t because I’m embarassed of them, but it’s because my drama involves someone else (my husband) and I can’t tell those stories.  For every inch that I am open, he is a closed door. 

That being said, I’m just going to cut down on the speculative emails I’ve been getting today and say that yes, Mike and I have separated.  It is not a bad thing. It is not a negative thing. It does not mean we are getting the big D. It means that he and I have some stuff to work on individually, and we are both working very hard on that.  The space gives us the chance to do that without feeling like we are walking on eggshells all the time.  It allows us to both focus all available energies on our children, and that’s really the most important thing right now. 

Marital problems are a big no-no in our family.  That doesn’t mean our family has none, it just means that they aren’t discussed and no one divorces.  Stay married and be miserable, dammit!  That’s just how we roll.  Even though most of us are non-practicing Catholics, Catholicism has a way of seeping into your bones at a young age.  It’s hard to forget those lessons beaten into us during our tender years. 

I’ve just found that I’m already so very tired of being asked, “Does so and so know?  Oh my god, what about the holidays??? Who will go where?  And so and so wants to come up, whatever shall we tell her,” complete with hand-wringing.  It just seems so much easier to tell my family and friends:  yes, we are separated, no we are not getting a divorce tomorow, yes the kids are fine, no we don’t hate each other, and let it go at that.  It is private, between Mike and me - but I’m not going to pretend the reality of the situation does not exist.  Is it serious?  Yes.  Is it sad?  Yes.  Are we surviving?  Yes. 

The great thing about my husband (and myself - hell, I might as well give myself some kudos while I’m writing this):  his primary concern is our children.  We are doing everything we can, at great personal cost, to keep their lives stable and as comfortable and normal as possible.  Although we’re doing it in a fairly non-traditional way, we’re doing what works best for our family as a whole and trying to put our individual needs and wants aside.  Those of you with opinions on the details or the hows or whys will just have to be satisfied knowing that we have discussed everything and are a united front.  We always have been. 

It’s been a simulatenously amazing and sobering experience to realize that some of my friends are going to be there for us and some are not.  People I didn’t think gave two craps about me have come out of the woodwork.  Others that I thought would support me no matter what have not supported me.  In a few cases, my perception tells me that a back has been turned on me.  Family members I thought would be judgmental have shared their own stories with me.  Other family members have freaked out on me.  It’s like living in Bizarro Cristina World where everything is upside down.  I realize that when you admit you are having marital problems, many people with their own panic because it makes them insecure or afraid.  I remember when a close friend told me she was divorcing. I felt personally threatened. I went home and clung to Mike and said, “God I hope that never happens to us.”  Thankfully I was still able to support my friend, even though it scared and saddened me.  Not everyone is able to do that right now, and I am trying to forgive and understand. 

So there you go.  This post negates the need to put unicorns and rainbows up daily, which is good, because all of the graphics I could find were getting progressively more disturbing. 

At the end of the day, this is my blog.  It is my space.  If you are uncomfortable with what I’m sharing, please do yourself a favor and don’t read it.  You can be assured I won’t be sharing any more than this in terms of details, but I will be free, in my own space, to say that I am having a bad day, or that I am doing better, or that I am concerned for myself or for Mike.  Otherwise, this entire blog becomes a big fat lie and a huge waste of my time. 

As per usual, a bunch of #hashbrownnetworkers and twitter geeks descended on Richmond’s Canal Club to support our very own local burlesque show, Richmond Varietease.  I must say Miss Magnolia was in rare form last night (not that she isn’t always in rare form).  Some highlights of the evening: 

1.  Miss Magnolia’s impression of a skanky woman on Cops with only two pink acrylic fingernails and a baby as a drink coaster.
2.  Miss Magnolia’s reverse motorboat on the back of a friend’s head (sitting right next to me). 
3.  Seeing @rvafashionista pick up an apple on stage with her throat only and win some bubble gum for her trouble. 
4.  Sitting next to Laura, and hearing my favorite quote of the night:  “Holly can spend some money on a go-go dancer.”
5.  Having Miss Dolli show us what an “assle” is while performing to an acoustic odd version of “Baby Got Back”.  Note: it’s not a tassle, but it’s close. 
6.  Miss Magnolia’s “Vigantic - my big big love” song at the end of the show.  Un-freakin’-belieavable. 

In all seriousness, I think one of the main reasons I love the show and burlesque in general is that the idea of “bodily perfection” goes right out the window.  Each of the performers are uber-comfy in their skin (obviously), but it’s really remarkable for someone like me to watch it.  Seriously, it would be hard to imagine myself up there unless I looked like Kate Beckinsale (i.e. no cellulite, body fat, stretch marks, moles, scars, etc).  To watch these women perform with the self-confidence they have, not to mention the joy in doing what they want to be doing, it’s really quite inspiring. 

And yes, go ahead and laugh at me for being inspired by a burlesque show.  That’s fine. I can take it. 

Best of all, a good friend of mine met someone last night and love was in the air.  I hope that love continues to flow his way as he certainly deserves it. 

* * * * * * * * *

For those of you who tweeted at me or sent me emails or posted comments on the blog about the therapy post, a big gooey thank you is being sent your way.  My family cringes when I tell “too much” and I get that.  I’ve been on the other side of the fence where so many women who were braver than me wrote publicly about their struggles. I read those struggles and I related.  Those public admissions of trauma or pain or mistakes helped me get right with my own, so I don’t mind sharing in the hopes that it’s doing it for someone out there too.  It’s pay it forward in reverse I guess. 

To answer the questions I got about the therapy post, yes, it helped.  I got lucky since shopping for a therapist has about the same success rate that shopping for jeans has for me - it usually takes multiple tries and a lot of tears and cursing.  I liked her right off the bat, felt entirely comfortable, and spent the entire hour using up a box of Kleenex and snorting my way through a discussion.  She’s razor sharp and asked questions that cut right to the core of all the questions I don’t want to answer, and I respected her for that.  I respected her for not telling me that everything would be okay, or by diminishing the amount of inner turmoil I’m feeling.  She gave me some very specific recommendations of things I could do right away to a.) sleep at night and b.) feel less awful during the day, so I immediately implemented her ideas and began to feel a little better. 

One of the suggestions she gave was very helpful to me and can be used in a lot of situations, so I’m sharing it with you.  I’m an iPhone geek and it’s rarely out of my reach.  A main problem over the past few months is that I wake up frequently and my brain kicks into overdrive.  At night, the thoughts come fast and furious and they eventually spiral down into some ridiculous future that will never happen but depresses me nonetheless.  She suggested that I put together a playlist of music/sounds that relaxes me and to focus entirely on the music.  Now when I wake up, I reach for my phone, plug in the headphones and force my brain to focus on lyrics and bridges and notes instead of the craziness that is my night brain.  So far, so good.  Eventually I might be sleeping through the night again. 

I’ve got some tough decisions to make in the coming weeks.  Thankfully I am graced with amazing friends who tell me things I don’t want to hear, even though I know they are right.  I am sorting through the advice and trying to decide what the best thing for me is at the moment and for the long-term.  I’m slowly coming to grips with the sacrifices I’ve made in the past, and how they affect me today.  I’m also planning for many more sacrifices in the future, but this time I’m going to be well aware of what I’m doing when I walk through that door.