Today I’m thankful for my sister.  She’s probably the single person I can tell everything to - unadulterated and unexceptional. She’s generally the first one to know that something is up - good or bad - and always manages to pretend she’s not shocked.  She’s had an amazing journey over the past year and it’s changed her for the better.  I could probably get rid of my fabulous shrink (not that I would ever do that!) and hire Risa instead.  My cold, stiff sister now uses words like “enabling” and “I feel statements” as easily as cursing out the dog for peeing on the floor. 

I have a friend dealing with some serious mental stuff.  My friend reminds me of me, a while back.  It goes a little something like this: 

I know there’s something wrong.  I’m wrong, I’m off.  Everything hurts.  I don’t have time to deal with it.  I’m going to ignore it.  I know the people who love me are suffering but it can’t be that bad for them.  I’m too busy to deal with it.  I’m losing friends over this. I am losing healthy relationships.  I don’t have time to deal with this.  I don’t have the money to deal with this (i’mscaredi’mscaredi’mscared).  Screw everyone who can’t deal with me.  I’m fine.  I’ve been this way forever.  Get off my back.  I’ll deal with this when I have time.  Just wait a little longer.  Give me a break, I’m trying to fix this myself! She’s crying again. I feel so bad.  I can’t fix this.  I’m unlovable - bad person - broken - screwed up. I can’t do this.  I don’t know how.  I can’t.

This whole mantra goes on and on, sometimes for years.  Eventually the circle of friends willing to put up with you narrows to a tiny cloister.  Your world narrows too.  So many things are off limits or scary or just feel wrong.  Sometimes you feel angry because no one “gets” you.  Other times you feel like a huge loser.  Watching friends, girlfriends, boyfriends come and go makes you sad and deep down you know you are the common denominator, but it hurts too much to really think about it, so you don’t.  You are living the phrase “If you meet more than one asshole in a day, look in the mirror”.  Frankly, regardless of the reasons or the excuses, you ARE an asshole at times.  You are so self-centered and miserable, there is no room left in your heart to be the person you were meant to be.  Therefore, your friends check in and out of you like a crappy Motel 6. 

The thing is, and it’s such a cliche, most problems just aren’t that difficult to solve.  Mental stuff is uncomfortable, sometimes painful, to poke.  But what’s the alternative?  Wallowing like a hippo in your own mental feces?  Great alternative.  I was stuck for so long that I’d take the pain or fear any day over that feeling of cement feet, being tossed off a dock.  It’s all about drowning, but it’s the slowest death possible, and it kills everything around you too. 

My sister understands the very fine line between tolerance and loving support and enabling.  She’s been on both sides of the fence.  At some point, in the very near future, I have to determine what side I’m on.  I don’t like watching people self-destruct.  It’s too painful to watch, and it reminds me of how very close I came to growing gills.  That’s how long I was underwater. 

In other news, a beautiful weeping cherry tree in our front yard died over the long winter.  Or so I thought.  I decided that I should procrastinate tonight and instead of working, I started trying to pull the dead tree out.  Nikki got in on the action and between the two of us, we generated enough arboreal testosterone to win.  Turns out the winter didn’t kill the tree - the f’ing VOLES did.  I can’t even being to estimate the amount of monetary damage those freakish blind rats have done.  Best memory ever:  finding the remains of a vole eating by a hawk in our neighborhood.  All that was left?  The vole’s nasty front teeth.  #awesome

Anyway, I was cursing the lack of men at first when I tried to chop it down. The hacksaw is old and about as sharp as a butter knife.  Sheer will and determination yielded this:

Who needs men?  Not me.  SO not me. 

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. 

My absences both from the blog and from a variety of friendships has gotten to the inexcusable point.  I know I’m going to lose some friends over my inability to communicate; it upsets me but from a distance, like I can’t feel those emotions clearly.  I know they are there, but they are inaccessible.

A friend asked me to go out for a glass of wine after Write Club last night - I simply couldn’t go.  I forced myself - literally forced myself - to go to Write Club.  The gods were on my side because only 3 people showed and they are all close friends of mine, so writing was not really discussed but plenty of other things were.  Even that small amount of time exhausted me. I’ve been really bad since last week.  Talking is an effort, explaining my situation(s) makes calculus seem easy to me.  Everything is hard, especially concentrating on work.  This is particularly annoying since I am extremely focused on getting some billable clients right now and actually have a couple of virtual assignments at the moment. 

I’m in some sort of hibernatory (made up word?  don’t know) phase right now.  I’m going on 8 months of personal turmoil, at times exhilarating, at times hellish, at times nearly bearable.  I’m flat out exhausted.  My brain feels like it’s mired in sludge, and I constantly feel like I need a nap.  If Nikki wasn’t around to help out with keeping the house clean, the 5,000 pounds of laundry my family generates, and braiding Arden’s hair every morning (her new obsession), I do not know how I would be functioning.  Things that used to come naturally for me - empathy, sympathy, understanding, the desire to be there for others - have flown out the window.  I’ve felt drained in the past, but it’s nothing compared to this level of emptiness. 

I can relate to things my mother told me about her life after her first husband left her.  My situation is totally different of course, but I still feel a bit like she says she did - like a RoboMom.  I go through the motions and occasionally I can break through and access my normal emotions toward my children.  Most of the time I am closed down, but able to cuddle them and feed them and do the things that need to be done.  I guess the major difference is that I don’t enjoy much of anything right now.  If someone else was talking to me about this, I’d calmly explain the symptoms of depression and emotional exhaustion and suggest therapy or medication.  I’m doing both, and working harder on my baggage than I’ve ever before.  I know that there is a light somewhere and I’m heading in the right direction.  I know that I have to trudge through this.  I know there are no shortcuts for grief or loss or mourning or recovering.  I must keep on going, because I’m convinced there is a better me on the other side. 

The buds are starting to appear and tomorrow it’s supposed to hit 71 degrees.  I’ve been running outside in the sun whenever I can because even though I resent those cheerful birds and drooling dogs crossing my path (stupid happiness!  How dare you!), the sun does improve my mood.  It helps mitigate the irritation and frustrations that are common in this ‘phase’ of the divorce process.  I know I am irritating the hell out of Mike; he is doing the same to me.  We are both extremely careful not to involve the children or forget their needs come first, and I’m proud of both of us in that respect.  No divorce, no matter how amicable, is easy.  We still have things to nail down, documents to sign, houses to sell. 

Spending yesterday on the phone with both of our mortgage companies was not fun for me in the slightest.  Few things make me cry anymore, but there are two guaranteed to turn on the waterworks.  The first is my children, if they express that they are suffering in the slightest.  The second is the house situation.  I cannot express the utter sadness and anger I know we both feel that we worked so hard on this stupid house and we are going to be ruined from it, at least for a little while.  I take solace in the fact that so many others are in the same boat, and I feel badly for all of us as a whole.  We made a bad decision (though Mike probably feels it is me that made the bad decision, forcing him into this house), and a bunch of factors went along with the decision.  Economy, my business, our marriage.  The situation is bleak no matter how you slice it.  The house will go on the market next week - and once the sign is up, the neighbors will start their gossip fest.  That part helps me be glad I will be moving, even if it means single-handedly lowering the property values on the street by having to do a short sale in the best case and deed in lieu of foreclosure in the worst. 

A friend asked me yesterday, “How’s it going?”  I answered, “It’s going.”  She responded, “Where is it going?”  Good question.  The only answer I have is “forward”.  Let’s hope that forward is the right direction. 

I get a ton of music from a friend who has better taste than me, and always has something new to share.  Hello Bishop Allen.  I’ve always been drawn to bands with smart lyrics.  If you can’t string a sentence together, it matters not to me how good the background noise is.  Whoever these nerds are, I love the lyricist.  My favorite song so far: 

The News From Your Bed

You were saving the date
But you woke up too late
Pulled the covers down over your head
You haven’t left your front door
For a week maybe more
Tell me, hey, what’s the news from your bed
You know your face is all covered with your birthday cake
That you’re eating in the kitchen at home
Another banner year, a splendid day
Another inch or two that you’ve grown
But it’s hard to celebrate on your own

There’s a mouse in cupboard that nibbles your crumbs
And you talk to him every night
You say, “Hey, Mr. Whiskers, I’m bored and I’m numb
You can stay if you just treat me right.”
Just last year you were fortunate baby
And your friends circled around you in droves
Are they thinking of you? Maybe just maybe
But not a one has bothered to phone
Tell me where oh where did they go

Called a car an hour ago
You’re gonna take yourself out
Despite the cold and snow
Did they forget about you
Are they in on it too?
You’re sitting looking in the mirror
At your dancing shoes

When your family calls you make nice to them all
And assure them you’re fine and you’re great
Then you cry in the bath, cry so hard that you laugh
Then you watch television til late
Who do you need? Nobody.
You’re lucky nobody’s around
I can pour my own drinks
No thanks, Mister. Go on, and get out of town
And you’re gorgeous in your evening gown.

This song sums up the last few months of my life, only I don’t have the luxury of hiding under the covers nor will Weight Watchers condone birthday cake in the middle of the night (or really, anytime).  It’s a quirky song, not depressing in the slightest, and as I listened to it while sweating profusely on the elliptical, I started laughing.  My life is pretty funny right now, and my humor is the backbone of everything I do.  Laughter gets me through it.  Laughing at myself makes me fly over the obstacles.  It’s also flat out good for the soul.

Writing is also good for my soul.  During NaNoWriMo, I wrote about some things I haven’t dared think about, let alone write about, in many years.  While NaNoWriMo was going on, I was primarily focused on reaching 50,000 words.  I’m very competitive when it comes to writing, but only against myself.  I have many things to catch up on, but before I forget, or it becomes completely worthless, here are my thoughts on being a NaNoWriMo virgin and reaching the goal.

1.  Follow the bars.  Nano’s site gives a helpful day-to-day breakdown of words.  If you aren’t sticking with the goal (around 1667 words per day, though I always rounded up to 2000), you’re going to get behind and it may be impossible to catch up.

2.  Utilize writing buddies, if it works for you.  I had a few people consistently writing with me.  We would take breaks every once in a while, or exchange humorous stories.  It was helpful to have people around me doing the same thing, and listening to their fingers on their respective keyboards.  The only exception was weeding out the NaNos who really had no intention of finishing, and were not motivated.  Making a social club out of writing is fine, but I was in a totally different place with NaNo.  Breaks were fine; long conversations were not.

3.  Schedule, schedule, schedule.  I’m a pretty busy person, although Bradley likes to say that I just sit around all day, being awesome.  Between the online businesses, therapy, job searching, child-chauffeuring and general life stresses, I absolutely had to schedule my writing.  It required a lot of self-discipline, headphones and an area that was conducive to writing, but the only reason I hit my goal was sticking to the schedule.  Friends can attest to being kicked out of my house at a specific hour because I “had to write”. 

4. Speaking of music, find whatever you need to help you write.  In my case, it’s music, but it has to be a specific kind of music.  It needs to be very familiar so I don’t try to listen to it intently; no dirge and depression, but no sugar pop either.  Some need complete silence; some need white noise.  For me, I cannot write without music.  Well, I can, but the words are worse than usual. 

5.  Outline.  All my nerds from WriteClubRVAwill tell you that I bitched and moaned about outlines for at least two weeks.  It was harder to write the outline than the novel.  I hated every minute of outlining.  Even though I did finally do something you could call an outline, it was half-assed at best.  My writing mentors shook their long fingers at me and told me I needed to do this since all I’ve ever written in the past were short stories.  I also write from the gut - planning is something murder mystery writers do.  My characters aren’t all that complex.  However, they were right.  Without the outline, I would have never made it.  I never had to think about what was next in the novel because it was planned for me.  I simply finished one chapter, looked at my outline, and went merrily on. 

6.  Write without editing or looking back.  This was a tough one for me because I’m a narcissist and love looking at what I’ve written right after I’ve written it.  Then the love turns to despair and I begin chopping and rewriting.  There is no time in 30 days and 50,000 words to start editing.  December, January . . .the rest of your life - that’s when you edit.  During NaNo you write.  Period.  I threatened one of my writing buddies:  “If you can’t stop editing, write one page, email it to me, and delete it.  At the end of the month, I’ll give you your pages back.”  This was after she deleted a huge chunk of her novel because she was frustrated.  Thou shalt not delete or edit. 

7.  Get support.  Write Club was invaluable to me.  Writing buddies are good, but having writers better than me (and much more prolific) proved invaluable.  Just like the insistence that I write an outline, advice was given and I was open enough to take most of it.  I am by my very nature a hyper-critical analyzer of myself.  My writing is one area of exception.  I keep reminding myself that simply because I love to write doesn’t mean I’m good or that many millions of others aren’t better.  There are some amazing writers in Write Club; I’m fortunate to have them around me. 

That’s about it.  Now, I just need to finish my novel (one chapter left), edit the hell out of it (and the crap), then allow specific others to read it (scary!). 

(non-sequitur)

I know most of you could give two burps about my writing stuff, but it’s easier than talking about, you know, the big elephant in the room. 

Mike’s been riding the roller coaster with me.  As much as many have judged me about not taking my vows seriously or working hard enough, I actually have 50% of that equation in the bag.  Marriage for me was not something I entered into lightly.  I took it very seriously.  I got married later in life.  It wasn’t a rash judgment.  We dated for 2 years.  I’d had plenty of experience with both “good” and “bad” relationships.  (note:  classifying relationships as good and bad is something I’m trying not to do anymore.  Every relationship I had, or every man I loved, had good and bad within.  Even in my most destructive relationships, there were things I learned or things about the other person that were truly fantastic.)

The part about “not working hard enough” may be somewhat true.  However, unless you have walked in my shoes, you can’t really understand what it feels like to be completely detached from someone yet told to act like everything is fine.  Honestly, there were things I thought about my marriage that didn’t seem fixable in any universe, so I felt that flogging Mike with a list of perceived shortcomings was both unnecessary and cruel.  I say “perceived shortcomings” because though they are things that I’m not sure I can deal with, they may be things that another woman or wife would have no issue with. 

I have been very upfront with my therapist, the marriage counselor, and Mike about how I feel.  I also knew that if there was a chance of saving the marriage, I had to get over my detachment and do what Laura used to say back when I first started my business.  I had to act “as if”.  Sometimes the simple act of “as if” can make things real again.  Staying upstairs and pretending to be separated wasn’t working.  Signing a lease on an apartment and not getting the job I thought I would was not working.  I had to attempt “as if”, and I had to actually work.  This means doing things that are uncomfortable to me.  Things like having dinner as a family are so familiar that I don’t think twice about them.  Other things, like setting up a date night, seem as extreme as a hike in the arctic circle.  I have shared more in the last week of marriage counseling than I have in months.  I am doing my part.  I am trying very hard.

I’m also incredibly lucky to have the therapist I do.  She sees right through my bullshit and calls me on it almost as quickly as it leaves my mouth.  She does it in a very nice way - but she still does it.  I trust her implicitly and I know that she will tell me when she thinks I’m making unhealthy or rash decisions. 

So, we’re working on things.  The apartment is on hold until we can dig out the financial hole we are in or until I get a job or both.  It’s hard to accept that I have to wait for a real separation, but that’s the reality of the situation and I need to face it.  Some days are better than others. 

One amazing thing that has come out of the last two months:  I am finally on medication that, for the moment, is working wonders.  Even though I have ups and downs, they are nothing compared to the crippling lows and frightening highs I used to have.  I admit to missing the fantastic beautiful colors of my soaring days.  I’m willing to give them up when I realize I’ve been “fine” for more than a month now.  I feel normal, or at least what I think normal should be.  I don’t freak out, I’m not mad or irritated all the time, I’m more patient, I don’t think about dying or erasing my existence.  I have remorse but it no longer consumes me.  I still have my humor and occasionally I am still fun to be around.  I still go out, interact with others, have conversations. 

If I’m grateful for anything, it’s that this whole thing has brought me to my knees.  The view from down there was frightening but because I survived, my payback is stability.  It’s never felt so good, even against the backdrop of a very bleak present.

As I write this, I can hear things being kicked and thrown upstairs.  Every once in a while, I’ll hear an ear-piercing scream followed by a stomp.  Arden’s upstairs, making her face bright red and freaking out in general.  Everyone always wants to know what sets her off, so here you go.

I’ve been wanting a neti pot for a while now, but after reading that sinus washing can help eliminate flu risk, I figured it would be fun (remember that I said fun) to take Arden to Walgreens after I picked her up from preschool.  I had a prescription to refill anyway.  As soon as I told her we had to pick up something, she started asking what she could buy at the store.  First candy, then a toy. I said no to both and calmly explained (for the 80th time at least) that every time we go to a store doesn’t mean she’s going to score something.  She started whining as soon as I got into the store.  When she realized I was serious, she literally sat down on the floor in front of a Barbie display and refused to speak, but was making her pre-tantrum noises, which are a mix between Chewbacca from Star Wars and a rabid dog growling.  Sometimes she sounds like those Gremlins from the movie.  I knew I was doomed.  It’s only 10% of the time, once the growling noises start, that I am able to break her out of a tantrum.

I managed to grab a neti pot and made a dash for the pharmacy, literally pulling her behind me.  Of course, there was a long line, and Arden’s growls became closer together and louder.  I had promised that we could go on a bike ride to the park today, so I told her if she kept up the whining and asking me for everything (including a pack of Nicorette gum), she was going to lose that privilege.  Guess what?  The growling became more pronounced.  I waited until we were at the doors, exiting Walgreens, to tell her there would be no park today.  Good thing, because the first thing out of her mouth was her world-famous, death-blow-dealing scream.  In the middle of the parking lot.  This was followed by trying to buckle a screaming, kicking 5 year old into her car seat.  A few minutes later, shoes were off, being thrown at the windows, then the socks.  In the span of 15 minutes, she lost her bike ride, and 5 days (a world record for Arden) of book reading at night. 

I really subscribe to getting away from the 1-2-3 warnings.  They don’t work with her, and they’ve made her worse.  She just blows me off.  Then I started telling her one time that her behavior was going to result in a punishment, and I gave no further warnings.  Today was a prime example.  It’s really hard to get through it because I know she’s going to freak out and turn into exorcist child, but I have to stay the course.

Her rages freak me out too, because now I’m wondering if I’ve passed on my ultra-emotional states to her, and doomed her to a life of wondrous highs and devastating lows.  Then again, she’s 5.  And I put it into perspective. 

I have found one great side effect to serious depression:  I’m pretty calm.  While I’m irritated easily still, I don’t fly into a rage or scream and yell quite as much. It takes too much energy to get that upset.  When Arden freaks now, I tend to find myself entering some weird, calm zen-like place in my head.  I’m able to sing along with the radio and ignore the raging angry red-faced child in the backseat, until a shoe hits my head or the snot dripping out of her nose burns through my gross-out factor.  I’ve been looking for anything positive out of how I feel, and this is definitely a plus.  Depression makes me tired, somewhat irritable, but a lot better able to handle the stranger my child becomes when she flips out.

Everytime I experience one of her rages, I tell myself that soon, this too shall pass.  But I wonder.  It never really passed for me, and I’m 38.  I just learned to deal with it much better, and I’m hoping I have the patience to guide her to a more peaceful stage.  If not, we’re both going to end up deaf from all the screaming.