I remember playing with my friend Amy.  She had a Ken doll; I did not.  We spent hours making houses out of shoeboxes and cardboard so that Ken and Barbie could live in sin (we would always forget to have their wedding first).  I was fascinated by all the stuff they could have:  barstools made out of old deodorant, a store-bought swimming pool, a stable for their horses, a hideous pink canopied bed.  That game never got old.  Hours were spent rearranging the furniture, or moving Ken and Barbie somewhere new (like into the closet, which I guess is akin to moving to the suburbs). 

In adulthood, I’ve spent hours and years rearranging the furniture.  One of my favorite verses comes from a Jonatha Brooke/Story song:

My mother moved the furniture
When she no longer moved the man
We thought nothing of it at the time
She painted walls, painted smiles,
Checked herself in the mirror one more time,
Then yoked her heart to a whim.

In the past, I’ve been known to rearrange rooms of furniture or rip down the paint to symbolize a change in my life.  I get bored with furniture placement and colors easily, and am forever shifting things around to suit my saturnine personality. 

Since I moved back into the house after my release from Poplar Springs, I’ve been playing house.  First I was so exhausted I just wanted to forget everything that had happened and write it off as an unwakeable nightmare.  When I couldn’t wake up from it, I moved to the third floor.  I actually am trying to pretend it’s like an apartment, and put things in the drawers and closets.  It’s the closest I can get to a physical separation at this moment in time.  Although I know this is what’s best for the children - and the least disruptive to my sleep and ability to keep up with the house - it’s hard on Mike and it’s hard on me.  Although I am the anti-Barbie and he certainly is no Ken, I feel like we’re playing house, keeping up appearances. 

We will be in limbo and it will be for a while.  We start marriage counseling next week.  Those who know would agree I’m not very patient. I am an incredibly decisive person - decisive to a fault.  Once my mind is made up, it normally takes something akin to a Mack truck hitting me to chage it.  This “limbo” period is difficult for me on many levels, because I cannot afford to assume my mind is made up and I must work to stay open when all I want to do is shut down into a very small steel box of a girl. 

There’s so much joy in between the bits of sheer hell.  Allowing myself to be helped and supported by my family, by my friends.  Spending an hour sipping overpriced lattes with a friend, recounting our experiences, holding them up for each other to compare.  Sitting quietly in the moonlight on the screened porch when everyone else is asleep.  Listening to other people’s sad and happy stories.  Tentatively poking my heart every once in awhile, just to see if it’s still beating.  Talking to Mike before I realize how strange I feel around him, like my husband is a stranger.  I tweeted the other day:  “it’s a weird sensation when the most familiar things feel scary.”  This is my life now.  Those things that used to give me comfort now make me anxious.  Half the time I’m frantically digging around inside, asking myself, “How do I really feel about this?  Is this good? bad? indifferent?”  Most of the time I can’t even answer the basic questions. 

At therapy on Thursday I had a major epiphany.  I can’t believe I didn’t realize it sooner, but better late than never.  Mike asked me in a letter if I thought my weight loss had anything to do with all the stuff I’m going through.  He thought that perhaps I was losing weight so I’d feel happier, and when I did, and wasn’t, it caused a depression.  I immediately said no. 

As my therapist and I discussed something else, I mentioned my weight loss.  And we started talking about it.  I literally felt like a Jesus postcard - you know, the kind with the dark clouds being parted by a shining beam of light.  It was all very clear.  For years, I’ve been pushing down all my emotions with food.  Whether I was starving or eating, it didn’t matter.  I don’t use drugs or drink to numb myself, but I certainly do use food, and I have really been numb since I was pregnant with Lily.  Because Weight Watchers is really a lifestyle change, and because it makes you eat properly, I couldn’t abuse food any longer.  As soon as the food was gone, all of the feelings started to come out. I didn’t notice it right away, but they crept up on me from the farthest corners of my mind.  With nothing to keep them at bay, they blew through their containments and exited through my mouth and my tear ducts.  So yes, Mike, in retrospect:  yes, my weight loss has something to do with all this mess I’ve handed you on a platter.