Loneliness.

All day I was busy, working, moving, and momming. The kids were bopping around, alternately playing and arguing, requesting snacks, audiobooks, help with something, and more water. Their father needed help disassembling the rusty metal shed in the backyard, so I helped with that, too. My fingernails are splitting and dry from the work and the clean up. I made dinner for everyone, by myself, as the three of them went on with their lives in the house. No one asked if I needed help. No one offered to help. They complained while I made the salad. But no one offered to help me, so yes, you’re eating green things, I said. 

One didn’t like the red sauce, and her pasta was too cold. It was probably cold because she let it sit for so long. The little one ate plain spaghetti while listing about three hundred new toys he wants for his birthday. We played a story telling game while we ate, which had them alternately laughing and arguing. I sat down with my plate last, as I usually do, and the loneliness hit me. 

It was as if I was two people in that moment. I was mama, reminding my daughter to eat her salad and taking part in the story game when it was my turn, and then I was just me, floating somewhere inside my body, vaguely feeling the food go in as I chewed and hearing the three of them talking at the table as if I was hearing them through water or glass, with a sort of distortion like I was inside a bubble. I was there, but not there. They didn’t notice I was lonely. They didn’t notice if I felt anything at all. As long as the food showed up on the table and their water cups were filled, everything was fine in their world. They didn’t mind complaining about the dinner, because the fact that I may have had feelings didn’t occur to them. And that’s okay. They’re kids. But I felt it from their father, too. I feel it often, that my work and my efforts go unseen and unacknowledged. I usually absorb the complaints and the whining without reacting, because mama reacting upsets everyone, and their father will come back at me with a what’s wrong with you? or why are you always like this?. 

They don’t know what it feels like to have no one consider your feelings on a daily basis. I am four out of four on the priority list. The three of them went to the fancy supermarket to order sandwiches and buy food for lunch. We’ll text you what the soups are, he said, because last time there was an Egyptian red lentil that looked so good. I waited, cleaning the kitchen, loading laundry, and picking up the counters, checking my phone every few minutes so I didn’t miss his text. A while later they came back, with special lunches for the three of them and a six-pack of fancy beer. I set up the kids at the table with their food, and as they sat down to eat, I thought I wouldn’t mention it. It wasn’t a big deal. I could let it go. And then for some reason I said fairly quietly as I looked into the empty paper grocery bag, Oh, I thought you were going to text me about the soups.

He forgot, he said. He would go back. 

No. It’s fine. It’s really fine. And the three of them sat down to eat, while I straightened the kitchen.      

After I got the kids to sleep I texted my mother, a message she likely won’t get until the morning. I’ve been feeling so alone. I miss being with you. I love you. 

Upon realizing it’s all gone to hell around here.

“I’m hitting rock bottom I think.” 

I wrote to my best friend tonight. Our friendship is in a place where I can randomly send such a one-liner and she will know everything I mean. 

I don’t need to say that today I got on the scale hoping to see improvement but instead saw a number I haven’t seen since I had an almost full-term baby growing inside me. I don’t need to say that my oldest child is struggling in school and feels like she’s dumb and brainless and her teacher doesn’t seem to care. I don’t need to say that my youngest baby is almost seven years old and doesn’t seem to need snuggling as much as he used to, and that I am simultaneously crushed and yet proud of his new independence. I don’t need to say how much I hate my haggard, saggy, dull, flabby reflection and how I don’t recognize the woman in the mirror. She is proof of how far I’ve fallen and how much I have ignored. I don’t need to say I am starting to avoid leaving the house because I am so embarrassed about who I have become. I don’t need to tell her that my house is such a wreck that it looks as if someone turned it upside down and shook it. That between the overdue library books, the laundry, the endless dishes, the constant vacuuming of tufts of cat hair and dust, and the cheese sticks I made an extra effort to go out and buy today that are “too hard” and “just not the same as the other ones” and therefore inedible, that I am slowly losing my mind. She already knows there is no new status on my latest job application, that my marriage is in pieces, and that the income from such a job is necessary for my independence. I don’t need to tell her that my husband is still sleeping in my guest bed even though we separated almost four years ago, and that I can’t seem to get away and be happy, even for an hour. She knows I worry. She knows I am lost. She knows I am lonely. I don’t need to say that one small jam jar of pinot noir sometimes turns into three, or that I took the first few quick sips at 4:30pm because I needed it and couldn’t wait. 

She sent me a heart, which burst into lots of little hearts and made bubble sounds come out of my phone. Tomorrow I will make changes, but for now knowing someone is listening is enough.  

Redeployment, Part I

It was finally the day. He was coming home from a year long deployment to Syria and Iraq. So naturally I vacuumed the house, wiped dusty baseboards, cleaned both cat boxes, swished the toilets, and corralled loose, scattered toys into baskets downstairs. I had flowers on the coffee table and new guest towels folded in thirds in the bathroom. I had recently ordered a box of vintage Waterford wine glasses, so I took off the stickers and hung them in the china cabinet. I was a grownup, damn it, and determined to look like I was pulling it off. Forget that just a few days prior I found hopelessly stale and hardened pieces of chocolate chip waffle under the couch, often spent depressed mornings sleeping in jeans under a pink, fluffy afghan, and that I got to the point that buying a whole new stove seemed vastly preferable to attempting to clean the dried gunk puddles around the gas burners. I was going to do this. It was going to be a happy day. I had patriotic mylar star balloons that read “Welcome Back!” and spent fifty dollars on a single layer, round chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting from the fancy bakery on 17th Street. I realized I needed to leave a bit more time for getting ready, more than my usual routine of topping braided, unwashed hair with a gray denim radar cap. So that morning I showered, curled just the ends of my hair, and wore smudgy, purple eyeliner. Prepared, organized women have time for eyeliner.

The kids were up early as usual. I was so focused on frantic, last minute cleaning that I didn’t technically feed them breakfast and felt a little guilty about it. I stepped around their board game on the floor and noticed my youngest was eating honey dijon potato chips from a wooden bowl. I reminded them to eat strong food, trying to remember if I still had a bag of organic cinnamon graham crackers in the console of the Jeep, as I circled the room gathering napkins and an armload of things that belonged elsewhere. My eight-year-old looked like she was ready for the floor show, dressed in a silver and black sequined shirt with only one transparent long sleeve, black tights under shorts, and a glittery stars and striped top hat. My youngest wore his red shirt that said “Remember Everyone Deployed” in large letters over a picture of a Blackhawk helicopter. Of course it was raining in Portland that morning. We donned our hoods, loaded the balloons in the car, and headed for the airport.

Grieving.

When my mother’s husband died, it was an average day. A warm breeze, blue sky, scrambled eggs for breakfast sort of day. After this breakfast, Lee turned pale. He had trouble breathing. And then the chest pain began. Momma gave him an aspirin and called 911. The ambulance came on the country roads, past cornfields and vineyards. Not fast enough, but she didn’t know that then. She packed him clean underwear and fresh, comfortable clothes, expecting the uncomfortable recovery and days of bland hospital meals on covered plastic trays. Lee never liked spicy food anyway, but it wouldn’t be like their suppers at home together. “Just come sit by me,” he’d often say after a meal from his spot on the big sofa as he flipped through the channels looking for a movie to watch. He would say,“It was a long day today,” and take her hand in his.

She texted me after she called 911 to say she was leaving for the hospital, to follow the ambulance because they wouldn’t let her ride along. He was still alive in the ambulance. Those precious minutes.

In Portland, my phone rang just a few hours later. I was so relieved when I answered and heard her soft, familiar laugh. Lee had bought her first smart phone for Mother’s Day, after she left her faithful, old phone on the hood of the car and driven off. She had called me accidentally. I heard the background noise for several seconds before she laughed. The laugh brought me a wave of relief. He must be okay.

“Momma?”

“Mom, it’s me. I’m here. Can you hear me?”

“Momma?”

After several seconds of silence, enough for a long breath in and time to hold it before letting it out slowly, I heard the sound again. It was not the laughter of relief or the wonderful agony of knowing the loved one will be okay after something horrible has happened. It was a long, drawn out sob. A moaning cry of grief so deep that it lingered, and continued, and seemed endless. It was a sound of such pain and disbelief. I stayed on the line, listening to my mother wail and to the mumble of the doctor in the background. I heard him tell her that Lee’s heart just didn’t make it through the procedure. They had tried to save him. They tried to look with a tiny camera.

I will never forget that sound, the sound of my mother’s grief. Several minutes went by and she just couldn’t stop. I sat on the kitchen step stool with one hand holding my phone, the other stuck to my heart, three time zones away, unable to do anything to help or make this not be happening, while my children played with legos in the living room. The sound of their chatter filled one ear, while the sound of her despair and disbelief filled the other.

“Do you want me to help you call someone?” a woman’s voice in the background asked her. My mother mumbled something incoherent, and the phone shuffled. Her breath came louder and closer to me.

“Momma, I’m here. I’m here.” I repeated, because in that moment there was nothing else I could say.

“He’s gone.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “He’s gone.”

Self Care and Coffee.

I don’t often get time alone. I stopped in the cafe for coffee and a sandwich. I am a pseudo-single mama, stuck in marital separation limbo. Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” was playing, reminding me that long ago I was a kid. My daughter looks like me in the 80’s. Apparently neon and ruffled skirts are back.

I went into the cafe stressed and tired, slightly sick, deepening the horizontal line I’ve been etching into my forehead. One might think a mama out alone could order a sandwich and coffee and eat in peace, but I made my own internal noise.

There was an old woman at the table across from me, with perfectly round, fluffy white hair. She was wispy like a wishing dandelion, quietly sipping coffee from a chunky white mug. She had passed the worrying years, while I am in them, trying to keep a clean home and plan meals, worrying about money, avoiding Pinterest because it makes me feel less than, hoping my children are happy, feel loved, sleep enough, get time to play, dig in the dirt, run in the grass, eat enough vegetables, and know that I love them until the stars turn to fish, even though I feel like I’m screwing it up nearly every day. Just drink the damn coffee, mama, I told myself.

My children want their dad to live with us in our house again. They don’t understand that sometimes parents need a vacation from one another and need space.

The coffee was supposed to be relaxing. Self care. But it is not self care to sit quietly and mentally beat up one’s self. The dandelion lady was gone. A fresh-faced, blonde haired tween in skinny jeans and Ugg boots took her place, coffee in one hand while the other picked an enormous muffin apart into manageable chunks. She licked her fingers between bites and said “like” every ten seconds. She was happy and talked with sticky muffin hands. I am somewhere between the muffin girl and the dandelion lady. My coffee got cold.

I Did Cold Yoga. Slow Yoga.

I’ve been feeling lost since my beloved bikram studio closed. I cannot use hot yoga towels for anything other than hot yoga, damn it! And I have two rolled up at home eyeing me, clean, ready to go, and silently shouting, “Use me!”

Alas. No more bikram for this mama. For now. I had a choice. I knew I could easily weep, gnash my teeth, and rend my shorty shorts, but I decided instead to try a yoga studio quite close to my house. But it was regular yoga. Flowing yoga. Probably with silk eye pillows and sun salutations. Likely with music and poses that seemed more like a soft dance than a workout. I wanted to sweat. I wanted to work. I wanted to push and growl at myself in the mirror and flex. Yet the class descriptions online listed “Yoga for Athletes”, so I figured I’d give it a go and bought a Groupon for an unlimited week.

Mistake number one: I must have mixed up the calendar. I showed up expecting to find Yoga for Athletes and found myself right on time for Restorative Yoga instead. The teacher was gracious. The space was cold and dark. Several students were already on mats, each with at least two Mexican blankets, foam blocks, round bolsters, and a long cotton strap. One student was wearing a cardigan. Oh Toto, we’re not in bikram anymore. We stayed in each pose, completely supported by the blocks and bolsters, for several minutes. No need for the muscles to do anything. Relax, muscles.

Mistake number two: I wore bikram clothing to cold yoga in December. When I should have been breathing and otherwise restoring myself, I spent my time envious of the girl next to me who knew enough to wear sweatpants, wiggling my cold toes, and making sure the blankets were tightly tucked around me.

Inwardly I dubbed the class “Sleeping in Yoga Poses”. The studio was clean and well appointed. The teacher and students were welcoming and kind. But I have been using yoga to figure out my life, or to escape it. I have been searching for answers. I need yoga to be a strong presence at a time in my life when I don’t feel strong. I need it to move through me and make me change. This particular style wasn’t for me.

My husband rents a little house nearby so he can still see the kids. They are happy and loved, but I know they feel the effects of the separation. He travels for work, and they miss him so. As much as I need restoration, I think I must do it the hard way.

 

 

 

It Started At The Greek Restaurant.

Back in November of 2012, over plates of souvlaki, while my mother took Herself to the ladies’ room and Himself was too young to understand, I told my husband I wanted a trial separation. As it turns out, I didn’t really need the crowded restaurant to help me avoid an awkward conversation, because he didn’t have anything to say to me. Later he agreed. Even later he blamed me.

In May 2014, we finally separated, two months before our seventh wedding anniversary.