Posted on by She Never Sleeps

The Last Sliver

Marriage counseling is the last bastion. It is the taut and tenuous thread.

And the weight of us might be just too much to bear.

You say you don’t understand why I’m still here. You expect I’ll leave.

I say, You said you wanted to try and make it work. If you have no desire or will, refuse to put in the effort, then tell me to go.

It’s a game of chicken.

This has once again become what our marriage used to be. I do a good portion of the emotional and mental heavy lifting. You stand idly by.  I step forward. You step backwards. I reach out. You pull away.

And it’s okay if you can’t forgive me for my transgression. It’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to look at me with the simmering hatred of someone betrayed. But it is not okay to expect only one person to mend the fence when it took the two to let it fall into ruin in the first place.

I am not the only person at fault. Yet, am taking the full blame. I am not the only one in this marriage. Yet, working double time to try to make things right.

As always, my thin sliver of hope eternal keeps me going. My preposterous belief in a new day, a better tomorrow. The idiocy of my idealism is transparent and laughable, especially when you have already left, years ago.

“I don’t expect her to wait around for me.”

But I did. For a long time, I did. And still am.

But only because you fed that thin sliver that had faded to near nothingness. You fed it enough so it knew it was hungry, but not enough to keep it full.

I/it … again wasting away.

 

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

It’s Not About The Waffles

I’ve taken a step back from journaling my life. I do that every now and again. Depending on how badly I want to hide from reality at hand is directly related to how long my sabbaticals last. I’ve been trying to push myself more lately, delve into the things which are currently spinning my head and heart into debris flecked tornadoes traveling in opposite directions… despite my natural ostrich-like instinct to bury my head in the sand.

But that isn’t progress, is it?

So. Since my husband and I have been in counseling, I’ve dug my heels into my marriage and have been full throttle, “We’re Gonna Fix This!” Perhaps it’s just the Virgo in me. Or Oldest Child Syndrome. Or a smattering of this, that, and the other. Who knows, we are who we are. However, it hasn’t been lost on me that this has slowly turned into a one person effort and now I have been left to pick apart and analyze what’s worth fighting for and what isn’t.

It often helps to have a person to bounce such things off of. A living breathing sounding board to offer their own insight and perspective. I have long been a person who will come to my own conclusions on my own time, not swayed by others thoughts and opinions on how I live my life. ( Just picture the “I Do What I Want” meme and you’ve got a clear idea of my personality) However, this doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate the input of others experiences. In fact, lately I’ve been seeking exactly just that – other people’s own struggles which I consider similar to mine, not for advice or definitive answers, but for some unconventional form of catharsis. I recognize and value the worth of their own encounters, their personal stories. I consider it an absract variation of education. Learning through the trials and tribulations of friends, family, and strangers by osmosis.

I met with a friend not too long ago. And this was exactly that kind of situation. Commiseration over food and coffee. (That always helps) During the back and forth, he shared a story from decades past, when his 3 yo child asked him if he’d like to sit and have waffles with her. He politely declined, saying he wasn’t very hungry for waffles. She responded, “It’s not about the waffles, Dad.” Aside from learning his daughter was a tiny Confucious, it also was a lesson in Basic Life Meaning. After sharing that very amusing and profound anecdote, we discussed how that is a general application to any close human relationship. A few more laughs, a bit more coffee, and I left having a touch more perspective than with which I had originally arrived.

We’ve had Therapist Recommended *coughassignedcough* Date Nights. I’ve attempted to include him more in the activities I enjoy. There have been more-than-I-can-count Days and Nights where the politeness and courtesy is suffocating and I would just like an ounce of genuine person to person interaction. And while driving yesterday, when I asked (since he wasn’t working) if he’d like to show up to my pool match this week, I half-hoped there’d be a Yes to quiet the volume rising truth which my Heart has already known. Instead, “No. I’m gonna stay home. Why waste money on a sitter.”

In the back of my head, as my eyes teared up behind (thankfully) shielding sunglasses,  “It’s Not About The Waffles” danced around all the fragmented bits of my rationale. My Heart kicked me in the shins, muttering “I told You so.” I remained silent for the rest of the car ride and felt the familiar vacuity of loneliness. Intermingled in all of that, a memory (one of the very few) of my Dad telling me about a breakup of his while imparting onto me some sageness which I did not fully comprehend until years later.

“I stopped respecting her time. She invited me to a party and I said, No. I didn’t feel like it. She’s a busy person and she didn’t have to include me in her plans. I clearly didn’t think that was important enough for me just to spend some time with her and I realized this wasn’t going to work anymore. When someone stops caring to make Time for You or to appreciate the Time you are making for Them, then do each other a favor and stop wasting each other’s Time.”

Cold. Very. But the truth is seldom warm.

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

The Missed Miscarriage

I’m on a few hours sleep right now. I am surprisingly alert yet I am also not sure how long this strikingly coherent state will last. In short, I am writing this before I lose the will and/or energy to gather up my loose thoughts before they roll away into the ether mist of the back bits of my brain.

I had a missed miscarriage. In case you are not familiar, it is when the fetus dies but the body hasn’t recognized the death. The mother-to-be will still feel pregnant, symptoms and all, but in actuality, isn’t. It was something I knew of, yet apparently didn’t completely grasp.

There was no amount of self-preparation that had me readied for the ultrasound technician to softly utter, “There isn’t a heartbeat.” Of course, I knew there might be a chance for loss of pregnancy. I just turned 40. We didn’t plan this. I had still been eating and drinking like a savage before finding out that my sickness was of the morning variety. So, yes. I repeatedly reminded myself that I could lose this surprise baby at any given moment. And that logic and rationality helped to keep my composure in the face of these nameless hospital personnel peering at me with saddened eyes. I cannot stand for the pity of strangers, so “losing it” or expressing anything other than reticent calm was  not an option. I let the kindly woman know that it was okay. I knew there was a chance of this happening. I’ve been preparing myself for something like this.

And when I saw the doctor to discuss how to deal with the dead fetus in my womb, I didn’t shed a tear. She shot it straight and listed my options. I could wait for my body to expel the tissue on its own. I could take some pills to force the miscarriage to its completion. I could have the surgery which would in essence be vacuuming up the no longer useful or needed remains of a new life that just didn’t make it. I sat straight in that chair, the absolute pragmatist, and asked which was the most cost efficient.

Ah. Pills it is.

After finishing up the talk with discussion of future birth control methods and “Don’t forget to make a follow-up appointment”, I left. No time for tears. Still have to drive home. Oh, it’s nice out. Maybe we can finish putting up the lights. What should we have for dinner?

It wasn’t until the pharmaceutical assistance kicked in that I understood and truly felt in my soul what was happening. Why did I choose this? What – was I some emo depressive teen locked away in my room with my razors and angst, needing to associate physical to the emotional, or else it didn’t matter? The cramping itself wasn’t the problem. It was the rapid expulsion of what could have been.

It was after 6 a.m. My husband was barely at work 5 minutes before he jumped in his car and drove right back home. He held me as I cried and apologized for ruining his birthday. He whispered Shut Up into my birds nest of bed head hair as I sobbed quietly, not wanting to wake our other two boys across the hall. He helped to mop up the blood and gross seemingly masticated chunks of tissue that was just falling out of me sloppily, with no warning or difficulty. Once my tears stopped, in between the sorrow of loss and the mourning of a life that would never be, there happened a void. A numbness, an emptiness that carried with it no descriptive or tangible explanation. An emotional black hole – an oxymoron.

After a while, the pain and bleeding subsided. I was physically exhausted, dehydrated, and famished. It didn’t take my body too long to recover. Water, food, rest. All is well.

But is it? While life as my family knows it has continued to move forward, I find myself swimming in reminders that Hey, we never planned another child. That this is for the best. Well, now we don’t have to figure out A, B and C. Things will be much easier financially. Etc., etc., etc.

Yet, all of these constant prompts do little to quell the ache. I will finish decorating. I will grocery shop and meal plan. I will do laundry, wash dishes, make vet appointments for our cats, eventually hang out with my friends and enjoy a dinner out with a nice glass of wine. And I will take care of my two little boys while doing my best not to wonder what it would have been like to have a third in our new house that still needs so much work…

Maybe it’s not the best solution towards recuperation, but it’s the one I’ve got.