Posted on by She Never Sleeps

Rebirth

It’s been a good long while since I’ve published anything to this journal. Not long after my last post, there was a pandemic followed by the very real separation from my ex husband. And to be honest, a year ago this time, I was NOT doing well.

A year ago this time, I was depressed, heart-broken, apathetic. I wasn’t eating, drinking a bit too much to escape the long hours of the night, knowing full well The Dread would still be there when I awoke, sober and unwell. I cried a lot, face splotched, eyes red and swollen, stopping only to start again. Screamed into the gaping maw of the abyss, wishing I could vanish into The Aether, disintegrate into the culminated quintessence of the outer realms.

And then there were the moments of passivity. The lethargy keeping me in bed, unbathed and indifferent to the outside world.

At those junctures, I sat with the grief. It was uncomfortable. It was loathsome. It broke me in new ways which I had not before encountered. Were it not for the care and compassion of my roommate, I probably would have made some decisions of the Not-So-Great variety.

Time trudged. Wounds bled. Sleep rarely came.

Currently, I write this feeling quite disconnected from that place I was in a year ago. Though it didn’t originally feel like it, it didn’t take too long for the clock to pick up the pace. Hours turned into days, days into weeks, etc., etc. I eventually came to accept that what I was mourning was The Potential of What Could Have Been, not What Was. And that no matter what I did, no matter how much work I put in, no matter what I would sacrifice – it would simply never Be. We were two diametrically opposed people when it came to what was necessary for us to thrive in a relationship, let alone a marriage. And I could only be responsible for my part, not his.

I threw myself into work, art, pool. Finding things to fill the empty spaces in my schedule. Soon, solitude seemed like this girl’s new best friend. I could not and would not be emotionally available for anyone. I was an island. A Remote, smack dab in the middle of treacherous waters, guarded by jagged rocks, full of poisonous fruit and wildly violent animals, Island.

To say I was at peace with this would be a marked understatement.

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Over the summer, I slowly dipped my toes back into the dating pool. I went out for dinners. Multiples were duds. I questioned my worth. I considered a nunnery. I did manage to find a couple people I liked and were all around decent humans, but there still seemed to be an emptiness within. I was content with this, though. My Island approach was perfect in keeping myself a safe distance from any usurpers to my Peace.

During this time, I reconnected with an old acquaintance whom I hadn’t really spoken to in years. We always had a mutual respect for each other and genuinely found one another pleasant to be around in group settings, but nothing truly out of the ordinary. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t always felt drawn to his energy and person, but I knew nothing would ever come of that. A harmless personality crush of which I shoved to the back of my mind. And I knew nothing would come of it now as I was enjoying my life with zero romantic commitments or things of that nature. Bit by bit, we began to a build a real friendship which never had a chance to get off the ground because of life in general. There was an immediate comfortability, an unabashed openness in conversation, an exchange of the ups and downs we had both gone through in our lives.

A mutual understanding, empathy, and compassion for the traumas we suffered but survived. Devoid of pity or condescension. It was refreshing and ultimately freeing. No pretense, no facades, just two adults being straightforwardly earnest.

One day I woke up realizing… I had been usurped.

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It’s been a couple months now. I feel things with him that I never thought possible. A warmth, a genuine understanding of why I am who I am. We share knowledge of each other which has not been outwardly exchanged. Simply an unspoken comprehension of where we’ve been, what we’ve gone through, who we are at this very moment. I have never been as emotionally available and vulnerable as I am with him. Communication is constant and key. Neither one us has ever had the idealistic idiocy to believe in the romantic notion of “Love of My Life” but we cannot shake the kismet of our being together, considering the impressions we have made upon one another and all the ways we have come in and out of each other’s lives over the past decade.

“It was never the right time” is a phrase which comes and goes. We joke about the Universe and how we had to experience the things we did in order to find our way to This Place, where we both reside. We talk for hours and hours, late into the night, fighting through the bleary eyed arrival of sleepiness just to get in one last sentence. We are happy together, sad and “homesick” when we are apart.

It is all so vomit-inducing sappy.

I am okay with this. I am not who I was a year ago. I am new, I am open, I am reborn with all the enthusiasm and faith of someone who believes in Santa Clause and making wishes upon falling stars. I look forward to the future and whatever it may hold. I am in love with a person who loves Me. The Real Me, not the idea of or a projection of what they think I should be.

And it’s fucking beautiful.

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

A banner year… Not really

I don’t even know where to begin. All of it seems almost surreal.

I’ve had friends die. Almost die. Find out they could die.
Hearts broken, relationships gone to shit, marriages end.

People I never thought I’d give a hundred and second chance, I’ve opened myself to again – hesitantly. Wearily. But with hope. Because I am a soft soul at my core and can’t help but think that there is a speck of good in everyone. That a tiny particle has the ability to grow and blossom if given the opportunity.

I’ve taken stock of the absurd, the unfortunate, the blind ignorance (and arrogance) of so many. I lose myself in contemplation often. I think too much. I always have, lately has not been any different.

I’ve finally come to accept that even if you’re direct and straighforward, others don’t necessarily feel the need to do the same.

Even if you give of yourself completely, that is not usually how another person operates.

That your own truth may not match the truth of someone else.

Sadly, I’ve also come to find that sometimes the best option is simply walking away. Not every battle is a war. That there will be moments in life when conceding defeat is a victory, even if it doesn’t seem that way at the time.

And right now, I really need to take that last part to heart.

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

Fuck You, Shop & Save

The day started innocuously enough. Busy but mundane, small victories (new washer! a surprisingly decent tax return!) peppered the afternoon and I was in good spirits. Picked the kids up from school and headed to the grocery store. My 6 year old was especially excited since he did really well that day and I told him he could pick out some cookies from the fresh bakery. Shortly after our arrival, cookies in cart, we headed towards the deli. I plucked my ticket and hoped against hope that I didn’t get the ONE employee who rubbed me the wrong way. The last time I had him help me, while I was friendly and polite, he rolled his eyes and acted as though my very presence was draining his will to live.

Holding my number between my fingertips, my chances looked good. Only the gaggle of kind and laughing Polish ladies seemed to be working and I relaxed.

Until he emerged from the back. All women were elbows deep in assorted meats and cheeses for various customers.

Being serviced: #24
My ticket: #25

So he called my number. But it had been a good day thus far and I wasn’t going to let that bring it down. I just shrugged my shoulders, “Eh, luck of the draw.” and decided to roll with it. Until he decided to try and make conversation with my son.

“What’s up four eyes?”

And I just froze. My son, who wears glasses, didn’t hear him. And I – I!!! – was not sure how to react. I lost my voice. My brain fumbled and I could only stand dumbly as he repeatedly tried to get my son’s attention and then followed with, “What’s the matter, you don’t speak English?”

Then, with utter lack of assertion, I spoke. “He speaks English. He’s just shy.” He jabbered on while preparing my order but all I could think of was how this asshole just insulted my child. And I said Nothing. He passed me my package of sliced ham and asked if I needed anything else. I did. I needed many other things but I was so upset, I shook my head no and with a tense grimace of a grin on my face, walked away towards the checkout.

I didn’t want confrontation. I didn’t want to make a scene. No. Nice women don’t do that. Your kids are here. Is this the example you want to set?

I was so warm. I could feel the sweat gathering around my brow, dampening the creases of my shirt folded into my armpits. I wanted to cry. I couldn’t think straight. I almost left but ultimately forced myself to make a complaint.

I spoke to one of the assistant managers. As I described him, she held up her hand and said, “Let me call the manager.” Apparently, this was not a new thing for the people he worked with. He had quite the reputation for being an inappropriate shithead. However, I was the first customer to say something about it.

Manager arrived, I again gave the details of what had occurred. And he apologized. Told me he’d give the worker a strong warning. He could see I was upset, No, don’t get upset, Don’t take it personal, He’s not that bright….

And I let him talk me down. Because I didn’t want to start bawling in front of a grocery store full of people. Because I knew I was letting him talk me down and I didn’t want the trouble and I hated myself for all of it.

Yesterday, I was upset.
Today I am angry.

I think of that deli worker and I am PISSED.

I am pissed that after years of stripping away the behaviors I was taught to use to handle awkward and uncomfortable situations, all that work was for nothing as I froze and fell into the waxed face armor of a polite smile and managed strained but weak laughter as he continued prattling on.

I am pissed that after a lifelong struggle of finding my voice, learning how to not only stand up for others but for also myself, finally realizing that decades of letting offensive jokes slide because “you don’t want to be THAT person” and not putting up with it anymore, I lost all confidence in myself to Speak Up and Say Something. Especially, for my own child, even if he didn’t hear any of what was being said.

I think of that manager and I am FURIOUS.

I am furious at his demeanor. I am furious that he didn’t march over there and tell his employee that you Don’t Say SHIT LIKE THAT to a CHILD. I am furious that he treated my visibly distressed emotional state in the typical fashion which all men have dealt with “those hysterical, frantic and fragile females.” A condescending “There There”, the eyes betraying the boredom of having to deign to bother with such petty trivialties.

But I am most incredibly furious with myself for Letting Him. For allowing someone to tamp down my rightful indignation. For NOT keeping quiet. For NOT making a scene. For NOT setting the example to my kids that yes, Women have a Voice and They Should Speak The Fuck Up. I am not only enraged but so disappointed in myself. While I have strived to be the kind of mom who would always have the backs of her children, quadruply so because it was something sorely missing from my own mother (she was and still is the exact opposite of that), I failed. I failed miserably. And I am having a very hard time with this, right now. I would easily give my life for any of my children, but I couldn’t call out an asshole. I couldn’t raise the biggest stink.

I am also lost in childhood revelrie.

I am reminded of every time my great-grandmother and I were out, how she’d be ignored when she was asking for help. After some time, she would then act like she didn’t need it anymore and we’d leave to go somewhere else. I am ankle deep in memories of my grandmother getting the wrong food, item, etc. and then laughing it off, saying “Oh it’s fine. I don’t want to make a scene.” And she’d just deal with whatever it was. Nope. No complaints.

How stoic.
How affable.

I am not those things.
And I do not want to be those things.
Ever again.

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

Splashes of People

Again, ruminating.

TLP – Transitional Living Program.

That’s what they called it. Before we could be trusted to be let out on our own (but still under the state’s supervision), before we could be even considered for an Independent Living Program, we had to prove that we were capable of being self-sufficient, functional, upstanding(ish) members of society.

We were in Wilson* House. Essentially a 4 unit apartment complex (each unit with 2 bedrooms, each bedroom had a bunkbed) which DCFS had given permission to rent out (i.e agreed to pay for) as a TLP for girls between the ages of 16-18. One unit was set aside for staff members to occupy, because after all, these girls were not yet trustworthy enough to be on their own. Anyway, the idea was to give the aforementioned wards a taste of adulthood and the accompanying accountability with which it came.

What it actually was… A 4 unit apartment complex with 12 teenage girls who gave zero fucks for rules and accountability.  A myriad of backgrounds, attitudes, gang affiliations, abuses, and overall baggage, not to mention raging fucking teenage female hormones – I carry the memories of that place with both hesitance and fondness. I could recount the numerous in-house rebellions, fights, and all the other related drama, but today I’m thinking of Aiesha.

Or “A” as she liked to be called. Understandably.  A couple years previous, the song, Iesha had been a huge hit and there’s only so many times a person can handle people rapping the same song again and again involving your name right at your face. In any case, A was the sweetest and funniest girl in that volatile environment. Such was her aura of genuine affability, not one person, staff or resident, ever had any ill thought or feeling against her.

I remember her tiny little body bouncing in, “Hey C!!!”, Backwards hat, oversized tee, basketball shorts, giant grin and smiling eyes. She was swimming in her tomboy clothing, but that was the style then and to her, it came natural. I liked her. I was sincerely fond of A’s happy-go-lucky demeanor despite the fact that she was in the same madhouse as the rest of us, sullen and sulking, hatching schemes on how to get away with breaking curfew, how to get out of this TLP bullshit and into our own ILP studios. We all felt like we were ready. We were “grown”.

We were fucking idiots.

But A, always the one At Her Own Pace, she wasn’t in a rush. Time and again, she’d nonchalantly advise against trying to leave so quick. “Ladies! The world will still be hungry for y’all ig’nant asses next week, too.” Always with a smile and a chuckle so it was never taken as malicious or mean-spirited. Because she wasn’t. We passed our time mostly playing Spades and joking about the one lesbian of the group who was trying to sleep with all of us, “Nah C, it’s been a long time, but I’m into dick!” and I could have died laughing at her delivery. I let her braid my hair once – and that was a particular torture which I will never forget. I taught her how to cook grits so they wouldn’t come out lumpy. Low heat, cream and constant stirring with that whisk, girl. She didn’t involve herself in the pettiness of the female shit-talking, which honestly is a rarity among women, teenage girls even moreso.

We eventually all got placed. One would leave, another would slip in and claim their bunk/room. A new girl to get used to. It was only a matter of time before A was gone, too. It was amazing to me the amount of change in the general atmosphere of the home when she left. Huh. I wasn’t there much longer. I just upped and left. I wouldn’t say her being gone was a deciding factor, it truly wasn’t. Though I did miss her brightness. I was simply a 17 year old girl who had enough of idling by. Funnily, my “going on run” actually got me placed – because the powers that were needed good numbers. (I would have made for a bad statistic.)

That is the summary of it. I think of many people often, but on days like this, days when I am lost in thought and I find myself slipping into some of the sadder and more painful memories of my past, it’s nice to have an Aiesha as a reminder that there were still good people who found their way into lighting the darkness for many. That there ARE still good people doing that presently. It’s a small blessing dropped into the larger cruelties of Life.

I hope A never changed. What a horrible loss that would be.

*name changed because reasons

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.

 

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Joe

Everyone has that one friend who knew you Before. Before you knew what you wanted out of life. Before you tripped over the pebbles of immature mistakes. Before you ran into the sharp jagged boulder obstacles of Adulthood. Before everything. If you’re incredibly fortuitous, you’ll have two friends like that. But usually one is enough. And for me, that is Joe.

My first high school boyfriend, he Saw me. Maybe because he recognized the same in himself. He knew my mom was a cokehead. Pretended he didn’t. I knew he knew. And was glad for the feigned ignorance. We each had our own dysfunctional backgrounds. We both managed to be the crazy class clowns despite that or maybe because of that. We had already broken up when I first started running away. We had remained friends though and he hid me in his basement so I wouldn’t have to sleep on the streets. Throughout the years, every so often we’d reconnect, catch up. Always a brief respite from the world and problems around us. We were both the family and life-in-general fuck-ups so sharing the pain and loneliness was easy, comforting. A few days ago, after 3 years of zero communication, I sent a short but familiar message.

Tell me everything is going to be okay.

“Everything is going to be fine.” The response came seconds later.

“You alright?”

I’m all kinds of fucked up. But thanks.

“Well I’m here for you.”

Thank you.

And that was all I needed for that day. Just knowing that there was still someone I knew who knew me. Because they knew themselves. I pondered how the most compassion comes from those who have been most persecuted. The least judgment from those who have been repeatedly judged. I was overcome with the sadness of it all.

Then today…

“Hey, just checking in on you. How are you doing?”

Ever have one of those months where there’s an ugliness inside of you, devouring everything which was once good? A simmering rage, a gnawing pain from which there seems to be no end?

“Several. But you got to be easy on yourself. You’ve got this. You’re not alone.”

Oh, Joe. If it were only that simple. I really fucked up.

“Okay. How bad did you fuck up?”

Cheated on my husband bad. Separated for the last two months bad.

“Well, shit.”

Yeah. Told you. Big fuck up.

“I ghosted someone who I was in a long term relationship with. It’s been 2 years now. I still cry about it. I have not forgiven myself. Not that it compares with what you’re going through, but I’m familiar with the ugly feeling inside.”

It’s in the same vein. Hurting someone you cared about. Breaking their heart. It’s a very unforgiving self-loathing.

“There is nothing new under the sun… we haven’t done anything that hasn’t been done before. We should show some restraint with how hard we are on ourselves. We are human. If the punishment doesn’t lead to a better self, then it is the wrong punishment. I forgive you. And I hope you make amends the best way you know how and can.”

Thank you for being my friend, Joe.

“Thank you for being my friend.”

It doesn’t erase what I did. Nothing ever will. It doesn’t negate the years of loneliness which led to my betrayal. It doesn’t magically fix everything. I am not being showered with rainbows barfed up by unicorns. But in times like these, when we hate ourselves, when we find no trace of goodness left in our souls, when we contemplate the world being a better place without us in it, having someone like Joe in your life is the smallest and biggest of blessings.

I have stumbled drastically. And before me, his own knees scraped and bloody, he is the outstretched arm offering a hand up. Thank you, Joe.

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Miscarriage of Marriage

A year ago, I lost a baby.

Now, almost exactly to the date, I lost my marriage.

One could make the assumption the former might have something to do with the latter, and they’d be partially correct. But not even close to completely.

The longer I’ve dwelled on our past, as I cycle through the years we’ve spent together, I am seeing here and there, the spots we needed to nurture. The moments we had a chance to love and support one another, but instead shut down into silence and resentment. We should have… We could have… but all too cognizent of the We Didn’ts.

When I lost what would have been our third child, I did what I always do. I shrugged it off and continued on. Because that’s what Strong Women Do, right? We keep going. We shake that shit off. We straighten our backs, square our shoulders and with a head held high, just keep fucking moving. Time stand stills for no one, for no thing, especially the loss of life.

I kept the house. I minded our other two children, who were oblivious to the fact that they were swindled out of a third partner in crime. I had moments of severe heart-wrenching grief when the tears would just tumble out unannounced and unwanted and my sobbing became desperate gasps for air. They’d run to hug me causing my body to shake and convulse, for their love and concern was too much for my already broken heart to handle. Of course, this all happened when he wasn’t around. He was a hard-working man, already stressed about so many other things. There was no way he’d be able to handle this.

And the divide grew.  What was once a ravine, became a valley.

We were well on our way to becoming the Grand Canyon.

The disconnect had always been there. He equated love with sex. I equated sex with the previous abuse and long term wear of being a woman. I wanted kind words. Appreciation. Tenderness. He wanted physical touch. Blowjobs. Wild fucks.

I wanted to feel loved as a person.

He wanted to feel loved by being considered desirable.

And we never found a way to intersect. So, we drifted. And drifted. Until we were both two people who loved the idea of who we thought the other person was when we first met. But we obviously weren’t.

I felt he didn’t love me.

He felt I didn’t love him.

We both gave up.

Losing the baby was just the impetus towards the downward spiral. If there had been any chance for saving what was left our union, it was now gone. Yet, we went through the motions. After all, we had a new house needing attention. Two little boys we loved and were trying our best to parent without letting them see our lack of care for the other. I reverted to my failsafe shell of apathy. He started drinking more and staying out and away from our crap existence.

But eventually, it was me. I was the one who put the nail in the coffin. Self-preservation is cold. Heartless. Indifferent. Self-preservation is a wounded wild beast with only one directive.

Survive. It didn’t matter who got hurt or how, but survive. Get out, Get out alive and with what you have left.

I sit here writing this, the unfaithful wife. The woman who strayed. The disloyal. The selfish. The fork-tongued Jezebel. I blink away the wetness gathering at my eyes. Did I get out alive? Yes. Unscathed? No.

But what exactly do I have left.

The scraps and remains of something which was never real to begin with.

 

 

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Doubly So

It’s cold out.

I’m cold. Beyond the chilled tips of my fingers and numbing toes, as the remnants of a migraine subtly thuds at the back of my skull, I find my heart has iced, frosty chips affixed to the frozen ventricles, glistening like tiny gems in the darkness of my chest cavity.

There are no flaming bonfires of hope keeping it beating. The last flicker wasted to an ember turned to soot and minimal ash. It has all been swept away.

I am a tundra.

Nothing lives. It is quiet save for the howling of my sorrow’s wind.

I stand outside feeling the temperature drop. I used to love the change of seasons for precisely this reason. Nothing like the drop in weather and the fierce Autumnal gusts to make one feel Alive. To Feel, period.

I cannot feel my face. I cannot feel.

Maybe it is better this way.

 

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

Armor

I have, for the most part, kept a fairly private life. I’ve shared what I’ve needed to share. I’ve switched skins in social groups. I’ve been who I needed to be in order to survive.

This lesson in self-preservation came early and often.

When I was teased relentlessly for not having a mom or dad, I learned how to make up stories to qualify their absence.

When I was raped at the age of 12 after the death of my only friend, my great-grandmother, and was whispered about in the neighborhood as the “slut” because who could ever believe that pre-teen boys were capable of such violation? I learned how to avoid the stares and fall into fantasy and daydreams.

When I went into high school and the rumors about my drug addict mom preceded me, I learned how to smile and joke and laugh because who could believe those rumors were true if I was just so goddamn happy all the time?

When I was a homeless teen runaway and I needed a place to stay, a meal to eat, some form of human kindness in general, I learned how to be charming to ensure another day of getting by.

When word got out that I was an escort and judgmental glares scorched my skin, “she’s a whore” being murmured behind my back, of course never to my face, I learned how to embrace that wickedness and use it as a weapon.

When women hated my existence and men lusted after me, I learned how to be cold and indifferent. Untouchable.

Time after time, each lesson another layer of armor against the world. I became an ever-changing chameleon. Carefree party girl for one, quiet and insightful confidante for another. Crazy but sane, logical yet irrational, emotional though apathetic – no one could ever give the same descriptors.

So now, more mutterings. More of the same peanut gallery gossip. I won’t deny the hearsay.  Though, everyone has their own version of the truth. While I am not innocent, I also carry the knowledge that not one person who speaks of me truly knows me. Or my heart. Where I’ve been. Where I decide to go. So, I’ll continue the same way I always have. Moving forward with my own brand of candor, nursing my pain and heartache alone as I always have. I am human. Fallible. Imperfect. Flawed.

But I’ll keep going.

Everyone’s your friend until they’re not.

In the end, we all die alone.

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.