An Open Letter To Me, On The Day He Asked For A Divorce

Today is the last day of my marriage.

It has been over for a while now; we haven't lived together in a year and a half.  The papers were signed and sealed months ago, but in our state there is a waiting period before the marriage is considered legally and officially over.

That day is tomorrow.

It has made me reflective, because if you had told me on the day my husband asked for a divorce that my life would look like it does today I would never, ever have believed you.

I decided to write her a letter, that broken, sobbing woman who had just heard the words: I want a divorce.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My sweet, sad girl:

I know this feels like the worst day of your life.

He takes you to the beach to tell you, and you don't know why but this makes it worse somehow. It's not like there is a good place to hear your marriage is finished. Maybe it's because as you spread the blanket out on the warm sand, a tight ball of anxiety frozen in your belly because some part of you knows - just knows - what is coming, you have hope. You still have hope.

You start babbling, avoiding his gaze, because you can't stand the depth of the sadness -- no, worse: pity -- you see in his eyes. He waits patiently for you to fall silent, and as he takes a breath and begins to speak you wince, as if physically pulling away can forestall the sting of his words for one more merciful split-second.

This isn't working, he says. I can't do this anymore.

All the air rushes out of your lungs. You start slowly shaking your head - no, no, no - and silently pray: please don't say it.

I want a divorce, he says, like every cliched movie you've ever seen.

The ball of anxiety in your belly cracks wide open, and cold fear rushes through you; your hands and feet are suddenly freezing on this humid July day.

The world goes quiet; you can see his lips moving but there is no sound. You observe the family next to you, as if in slow motion: the mom is pulling sandwiches out of a cooler and the Dad is smearing sunscreen on his toddler's chubby cheeks, such familiar gestures, things you and he have done hundreds of times together. But now there is no you-and-he. There is no us.

Something inside you breaks. The wall of denial you have been pushing against, desperate to keep it standing, crashes down around you.

You walk to the water's edge and gaze out over the sunlight dancing on the water. You can't fix this, a voice in your head says. This time it's really and truly over. 

Tears stream down your face, but you keep your back resolutely turned towards him. You don't want him to see you cry, this man you swore to love forever, whose babies you had, who has stood by your side for half your life. You hide your tears from him like a futile punishment, one that has no teeth.

Hitching sobs erupt from your throat, and right behind them comes the rage; how dare he? After all we have been through he's just going to quit? To walk away?

You storm back to the blanket, sobbing, and say something like: we got through all this crap - the cancer, the death, the rehabs, all that LOSS - and now I'm also losing the love of my life? 

He tilts your chin up and forces you to meet his gaze: I'm not the love of your life, Ellie, he says with determination, resignation and - dammit - love.

This is when it happens, my sweet girl, it's just that you can't feel it yet: a tiny spark comes alive deep inside you, a pilot light, a fledgling flame that signals the birth of something new.

It's a gentle stirring of something - is it freedom? possibility?

But right now, dear Ellie, all you feel is unadulterated fear. A deep, primal certainty that nothing will ever be okay again. He has been your mirror for as long as you can remember; you have measured your happiness, your sense of purpose, your value against his reflection for decades.

You have no idea who you are without him. You desperately don't want to know, but he has given you no choice.

Over the coming days, weeks and months people will tell you over and over that everything will be okay. They will deliver well-meaning platitudes: he has no idea what he's missing, you're better off without him, if he can't see how amazing you are good riddance. Their words bounce off of you, because they don't understand how convinced you are that you are never going to be okay, that you're broken beyond repair, unlovable.

Here's what you can't see, not yet, but it's happening: that little flame is growing. You feed it every day, even without realizing it. You open your eyes each morning, feel the plummet in your gut as you instinctively reach over to his now-empty side of the bed and feel like you can't go on, but then you do.

You cry and wail and curse and scream and trudge through each day, and it feels like you're dying, but each day you make it through is a stitch in that open wound.

And then one morning you won't reach over to his side of the bed. Your first thought of the day won't be one of rejection or despair, but rather about something you have to do that day, maybe, or a cute thing one of the kids said. It won't hit you until breakfast that you only have to serve three plates instead of four, and that one whole hour went by where you weren't in emotional agony. Stitch.

You'll kick your socks off and leave them right in the middle of the bedroom floor, which used to make him nuts, and giggle like a lunatic. Stitch.

You'll sprawl out in your king sized bed like a starfish, or wrap yourself up in all the blankets burrito-style. Stitch. Stitch.

You'll grope your way through things he used to do, like paying bills, resetting the fuse box, replacing a broken shower head, schlepping the garbage to the dump, snow blowing the driveway, muttering and cursing all the way, but you'll do it. Stitch. Stitch. Stitch.

That little flame will grow stronger, until it begins to throw its own warmth. You will no longer need his approval to feel a glow of accomplishment.

You haven't worked outside the home in over twelve years, but you'll get a job. A good job. You'll buy your own car.

After taking a year all to yourself, with no romantic entanglements, you'll feel ready to go on a date or two. This will be just as awkward and amazing as you pictured it would be. You'll realize you don't need to be someone's other half to be happy, and when a few people you meet want to date more seriously you'll resist, because you're doing just fine on your own.

The voice in your head - the one that sounded a lot like him - will lose its critical tone. Slowly - oh so slowly - it will be replaced with your own voice. A whisper, at first, but it will grow louder each day.

Each day you step closer and closer to the person you were meant to be, before you gave your power away and tethered your self-worth to him.

The gut wrenching sadness, anger and grief will fade. You will travel deep into yourself and face difficult truths you spent a lifetime avoiding, but you will be able to do this, now, because you matter to yourself. You will discover that the key to peace of mind has been in your hand all along, even though you kept trying to give it away to others. To him.

And although you can't believe it now, on this scorching summer day with the words I want a divorce landing on your heart like a ton of bricks, he has given you a precious gift. Because, you will come to learn, he was right. He isn't the love of your life.

You are.

Dating Online In Your (late) 40s; Life In The Discomfort Zone

If you ever want to test your self-confidence, try dating in your late 40s.

The last time I dated was 23 years ago. I was coming off an ill-fated two year marriage to my college sweetheart, all of 23 years old and on the prowl. The dating world was a tad different back then. 

In 1993 we dated the old fashioned way: I would take my nimble, dewy complected self to a bar with a gaggle of my friends, and we'd drink and flirt with guys.  Maybe we'd get a phone number, which we would write on a napkin and stuff in our purse, because cell phones were big clunky things that a few rich people and business executives had installed in their cars. 

Then we'd go home and angst over whether to call him, or wait for him to call. If we were feeling particularly obsessed we'd come home from work and dial *69 to see if we missed his call .  Or we'd call him to see if he was home and hang up, because caller ID had yet enter the scene and foil the plans of stalkers everywhere.

And if he didn't call? Oh, well. We had decades of youth stretching out before us; there was plenty of time and oh-so-many fish in the sea.  We'd simply slip into a little black dress or a cute pair of jeans that hugged our curves in all the right places, take our hopeful visages, toned legs and perky breasts out to the bar and wait for the boys to flock like bees to honey.

For some of us - like me - the mission was to find The Guy. I wasn't a serial dater; I've always been a monogamous type. I sought stability, predictability and loyalty. I was looking for a good future husband and father. Of course he'd have to be hot, though. And tall. And funny. And smart. 

I could afford to be picky, because I was all those things: funny, smart, tall and - although I sure didn't think it at the time - I was hot. 

And, lucky me, I met him by age 24. He hit every single "must-have" on my list. Sure, he was a tad commitment phobic, but I could work with that. I had all the time in the world, remember? And I was patient. I could wait forever for The Guy.  Forever turned out to be seven years, before he looked at me with fear and excitement in his eyes and said, "You're gonna marry me, right?"  The rest, as they say, is history. 

Or so I thought, as I skipped merrily into middle age thinking my dating days were behind me forever.  

Crash landing in the dating world in 2015 felt like time travel, but where the protagonist doesn't simply plunk into the future an adorably befuddled but still-youthful version of herself.  Instead, she wears every inch of the 22 intervening years.

So how does a 46 year single working mother date?  A sober one, at that? Long gone are the bar days. And even if I did go to bars, far in the rear view mirror are the times when all that was required to garner male attention was to walk into the room. 

Dating, nowadays, is (mostly) online. I don't think anyone has scribbled a phone number on a napkin since 2002. 

If you find yourself freshly divorced in your 40s, startled and blinking in the harsh light, I have compiled a timeline for you, so you know what to expect. 

You're welcome.

The first step is to join every single dating site you can find, because you know nothing about anything and casting the widest net possible seems like a good idea (you will live to regret this decision).

Then you create your online profile. You search for pictures that make you look good, but not *too* good because you don't want him to be unpleasantly surprised if you meet in person.  You find that full-body shot that still looks like you, but maybe with an arm or a kid or a chair placed strategically in front of your less desirable parts.

Then comes the dreaded self-description. You answer the basics: height/eye color/lifestyle choices/employment.  Then this: what is your body type?  Are you (a) slim (b) toned (c) athletic (d) average (e) a few extra pounds (f) Overweight?  Was is "average" anyway?  Unless you are decidedly in the first three, everyone picks (d).

Even worse than the photo selections is the dreaded self-summary.  Can you imagine if in order to grab someone's attention in a bar you started with this buzz-kill opener:  "Describe yourself in 1000 characters or less!  Make sure to include who you are and everything you've ever wanted!" 

If you survive the first two with your sanity intact, you get to describe what you're looking for in a mate. This will be a tad depressing, because long gone are the days when you could prattle off this list fully expecting to check every box.  You'll manage to craft an eloquent description nonetheless, but what you're really saying, you'll come to discover, is this:  "Not still married. Not looking for just a hook-up. Not living with his mother. Hair a plus".

You upload all of this information onto about six dating apps, and then obsessively check all of them all the time.  You swipe and click and wink and message your way to a first date. 

The first time you dress for a date you will agonize, try on everything you own, fling yourself on your bed, curse your middle aged body and wonder when it was that your boobs fell about six inches.  It will dawn on you, with horror, that if the relationship progresses someone will see your c-section scar which has evolved into a kind of reverse tummy-tuck (producing a jiggly pocket of skin you can't lose no matter how many sit-ups you do), your love handles and that mole you never had removed (because only your husband saw it, so who cares?). This thought will make you want to die, but you'll persevere. 

You won't want to look too nice (desperate) or too casual (slovenly).  It will take hours to find that outfit that says: "I tried but not too much".  You will then proceed to wear this outfit on every first date. You will wear this outfit a lot, because you will mostly go on first dates. 

You will quickly realize that everyone isn't who they appear to be online. There will be the date where the moderately handsome man, according to his profile pic, turns out to be at least forty pounds overweight and missing a couple of teeth. Oh, and an eye.  There will be the date that starts as a casual stroll in the woods and turns into a hike worthy of its own mini-series, and you are wearing sandals and striving valiantly to appear you aren't slowly dying (after all, you said you like exercise in your profile).  

You will learn most guys say they are looking for a relationship, but what they really want is to hook up.  You won't be able to decide if this horrifies or flatters you.

The first few times you meet someone in person you'll be nervous and coquettish. This will not last. You won't become jaded, exactly, but you will discover you know in about thirty seconds if you're even remotely interested, and become skilled in disengaging quickly (your go-to will become the fake text from home).  

It will take a while, but the day will come when you are totally interested after that first sniff-test coffee date and he isn't. 

Here you will realize how much stalking has progressed since 1993.  You will be able to see when he is on the dating site, presumably chatting with young, supple women who don't have stretch marks. You'll debate how often to check his profile, because of course he can see when you do that. All your messages back and forth are still there, frozen in virtual eternity, mocking you.  You may even find his Facebook page and die a thousand deaths when you see him with his arm around a gorgeous young blond. 

You won't be able to decide if you really like him or if you're just obsessing because he didn't like you.  

This may even happen to you a few times, and you will spend a few dark nights of the soul thinking you will be alone forever, that you're uninteresting and unattractive. You'll curse your ex, who enjoyed the last years of your youthful self and left you with this unrecognizable old-person's body. 

You will delete your online accounts in a snit-fit and curl up with Netflix and ice cream for a while, but eventually you will go back. Perhaps more selectively this time, on the more reputable sites.  You will become more adept at screening out the undesirables. You will no longer answer every message you get because you feel badly if you don't. You won't feel as guilty if you meet someone in person and there is no click.  Instead of lying your way out of it, you'll learn how to disengage with honesty and compassion.

And one day you'll wake up and realize you aren't obsessively checking the sites anymore, and that you are okay whether or not someone likes you back. You will have reached way out of your comfort zone - several times - and emerged okay.  You'll have ample opportunities to work on your boundaries, and will eventually learn not to go on a second date because you feel badly letting someone down.  

You won't spend every minute of every date wondering if he likes you.  Instead, you'll be thinking about whether you like him. 

You will come to embrace your beautiful, battered body, and you won't care as much about your perceived flaws.  You'll realize you're still pretty hot in your own unique way.

When someone doesn't like you for exactly who you are, it will no longer obliterate your self-confidence. You will learn to accept that you don't need to be all things to all people.

Most importantly, perhaps, you will come to know that you don't need everyone to like you. You will believe, for the first time in your adult life, that you don't need to be anyone's other half to be okay. 

This whole excruciating process? It will lead you back to you.

Fail Better - On Divorce and Creating My Own Orbit

Divorce is hard, in ways that I expected and in ways I didn't.  We filed the paperwork, going to the courthouse together, bumping mostly silently along in the car, a long stretch of already-spoken words trailing behind us. I kept waiting for the wham-o of emotions to hit; everything was signed and we were officially putting an end to this twenty two year relationship.

What I mostly felt was numb. There is nothing more to say, and the whole thing was anti-climatic. We didn't even have all the right forms, but we both didn't need to back the next day to drop them off, so he went back alone.

Now we wait for the court date, for the legal end of what has already ended.

I have (mostly) stopped staring at everyone's ring finger. I don't know what I was looking for, really. I still feel a surge of kinship when I see a Mom with no ring on, out and about with her kids and looking happy and whole, but I have stopped searching the faces of the married couples I see and wondering if they are really as happy as they seem.  I no longer look at them and feel that disquieting combination of longing and emptiness.

The tsunamis of rage have subsided. I was so angry, at myself, at the Universe, at him, at his new woman.  She used to be my good friend, this new love of his. They began before he and I had ended. That betrayal blasted a hole through my world, left me shattered and with a shuddering rage that festered and bloomed like an infection in my soul. I don't write about it here, because what could I possibly say?  He has a life to lead, as does she, and it isn't my place to broadcast their business for everyone to see.

That infection has mostly healed, leaving a dull ache. Happy marriages don't fall apart in one explosive event, so I don't blame our demise on her, but it has taken months of licking my wounds, exploring my part in everything and begging the Universe, over and over, for surrender and acceptance to get to this place where I am now.

And where is that, exactly, I ask myself.

The answer surprises me, sometimes, because it's so simple: I'm right here. I am fully present in my skin, in my heart and mind. I didn't realize just how much of myself I had given away until I was forced to find me again.

I have learned that I am good on my own. It wasn't this way at first. A marriage develops grooves, patterns, and those take a long time to smooth out. Five o'clock would roll around and my mind would click into wife mode:  what's for dinner, is the house tidy enough, what do I need to do to make sure he is pleased when he gets home.  

For weeks I heard his voice in my head, both the one that would criticize me for the things I didn't do well enough in his opinion, and the things he would praise me for.  Marriage is a constant stream of compromises, little coming-togethers and moving-aparts. And at the end of each day there was always that marital download; the one that takes place snuggled into bed each night, where we shared our we-are-in-this-together moments.

Without the push-pull of marriage, when it's just me and the kids, I didn't have anyone else's gravitational pull to anchor me.

I had to create my own orbit.

From the perch of hindsight, I can see how I have grown, the ways in which I surprised myself with my resilience, my ability to feel all the hard feelings and come out out stronger, but OH it didn't feel like progress. It felt like a tearing-down from the inside out, because that's what it was.

I started by forgiving myself, bit by bit. I treated myself gently, and slowly changed my inner dialogue from words of worthlessness and shame to those of love and compassion.  I waded through feelings of abandonment and rejection by holding tight to myself and the love of my kids. I leaned - hard - on the people in my life who love me just as I am.

There are recovery slogans I have heard over and over that didn't mean much to me before, but that are mantras to me now. One of them is this:  pain is the touchstone of all spiritual growth.  I have grown and stretched uncomfortably in so many ways, but I am finally in a place where I can say all that discomfort was so, so worth it. Like sore muscles the day after a hard work out, I limped along at first, but with a smile growing slowly wider on my face, because I knew that ache meant I was growing stronger.

My other mantra comes from the Buddhist monk Pema Chodron (she has a book coming out shortly with this as the title):  fail, fail again, fail better.  My life doesn't look anything like I imagined it would, but I have learned that the disconnect there isn't in life itself, but in the imagining, in the expectations of how things are supposed to be. I no longer believe in supposed-to.

I have long said we are not defined by our mistakes, but rather what we make of them. I amend that, now, because I am defined by my mistakes. I used to try to run from them, from the uncomfortable feelings, the anger and shame they evoked in me. I embrace them, now, because without them I could never have been forced to do the hard work it takes to find acceptance and peace of mind.

I look down the road at new milestones, now. It puts to test all this work I've done of self-acceptance. I am going on job interviews, and even on a date here and there.  One interviewer said, "So, if I Google you, what am I going to find?"

I felt a pinch of fear, a panicky feeling that maybe I should just take it all down - the blog, the recovery stuff, all of it.

Then I chuckled, out loud, and said, "well, you'll find me, I guess."

Pulling The Plug

Marriages don't just die.

They aren't here one second, and then gone the next, like when someone drops dead of a heart attack, or a plane crash.

It feels like a death, though.  All around me are the shattered remnants of the life I thought I would have.  I'm aching for an answer - like a doctor doing a post-mortem.  I want a body - a victim - to pull apart until I figure out the exact cause of all this pain.

But the source of the pain isn't dead.  It lives on, everywhere.  It shines out from the faces of my children, the little upwards smirk in Finn's smile that he got from my husband.  It grins out at me from photographs.  It slithers into bed next to me every night as I stare at the cold, empty space where the man I thought I would love forever used to lie.

The end of a marriage is like standing at the bedside of someone on life support.  They are there, but they aren't.  You don't want to let them go, but you ache for it to just be over, already.

And then there is the anger.  At him, at myself, at life.  As I madly search for answers, all I come up with are more questions.  A lot of them start with:  what if?

What if I weren't an alcoholic?  What if I had worked full time instead of raising kids?  What if we had gone to more counseling?  What if he hadn't met her?

It's a pointless question, what if. Because the death of my marriage resulted in thousands of tiny events, minuscule decisions I had no way of knowing were nudging me down this path.

What if I had paid more attention? What if I had been a better housekeeper?  Thinner?  Prettier?  Better with money?  More organized? Less preoccupied with the causes I'm so passionate about?

In other words, what if I had been, well, less ME?

That's the heart of it; the thing that is so hard to look at, but that lies at the root of everything.  In a marriage someone has to love you for who you are, not who they thought you would become, or the ways they thought they could change you.  In the end, he didn't love my Ellie-ness enough.

I look at myself in the mirror and listen to those voices having a tug-of-war in my head:  you're not good enough, you're better than this, you didn't do enough, there is nothing more you could do, you are a bad person, you are a good person.  You aren't lovable, yes you are.

I slip on the white gloves, don a mask and apron and root around in the dead body of our marriage.

I play this game with myself.  This "I should have left him when...." game.  I think: it should have been when he started criticizing my housekeeping.  He's neat, I'm not.  Or when he would call me a teenager, tell me I can't handle money like a responsible adult.  Or when he said I was fat, when I was newly sober and had had two of his babies. When I got hurt and angry he told me he was just telling me what everyone was thinking, it's just that he had the guts to say it.  After that fight, I packed a bag.  I even drove down the road, before of course I turned the car around and came back, remorseful that I wasn't skinny enough for him.

So I lost weight.  I cleaned more. I tried to be better with money.  I scrambled to be the person he wanted, and of course in the long run it didn't work.

It would feel really good to paint him as the bad guy. As someone who was too demanding, too unreasonable, too much of a perfectionist.

But, of course, he has is own version of this game.  He could play the "I should have left her when...." game all day with me, and when the sun went down there would be no winner.

So I'm left with me, in the mirror.  I stand with my regret, anger and hurt, and I stare at my own eyes, looking for answers that don't exist.

If I am to survive this with my sanity intact, I have to love my own Ellie-ness.  For so many years, I identified myself as the other half of him.  For twenty four years, in fact. Half my life.  The body on life support isn't really our marriage, it's the version of me that was tied to him.

It's time to pull the plug.  If I don't, I will go crazy.   I will lose myself in the what-if versions of who I was, not who I am becoming.

I don't want to bring a broken person to the next phase of my life. So instead of doing a post mortem on the marriage, I'm doing one on myself.  I have spent the past year getting in touch with my Ellie-ness. This is a first for me.  I have always been someone's other half.

One of the realizations I have had is that it is exhausting to believe that I am omnipotent.  Not in an arrogant way - like I have all the answers if only you would listen to me - but in a self-involved way.  Spending so much time thinking I am somehow flawed, or wrong, is as ego-driven as thinking that I am somehow better than anyone else.  I don't get to be best, but I don't get to be worst, either.

I am embracing my humanity, that sometimes things do not go they way I expect, but that I am not the sole cause all my own heartache anymore than I am the sole cause my own joy.

There are things that just aren't fair.  Or right. Or just.  I have been wronged, and betrayed, and my path has veered sharply in a direction I didn't choose.

But, so what, really?  Who am I to say it's the wrong direction?  If I ask that body on the table, the one who didn't know who she was without seeking someone else's approval, she would tell me I am not going to be okay on my own.  All the voices in her head, the ones that belonged to people who didn't love her Ellie-ness enough - they killed her.

So I am not going to listen to what she would tell me.

I pulled the plug on her. She did the best she could, but it's time to move on.

A Newly Seperated Girl's Guide to the Holidays

I went to the mailbox yesterday and received my first holiday card. 

I used to adore this time of year - both sending and receiving cards - picking out that perfect picture (always taken as a family at Thanksgiving) and running to the mailbox every afternoon to see it chock full of those non-bill-shaped envelopes bearing updates from friends and family.

When I saw that first green and gold envelope with a little heart sticker on it, my stomach plummeted.

This year there will be no holiday card from our family, because our family is separated.

I suppose I could send a card with just the kids on it. But what would the message say?  Joy?  Merry Merry?  Happy New Year?

I don't feel any of those things this year. 

Over the holidays, even more than usual, there are reminders of what-isn't-anymore all over the place, like little bomb-lets that explode in my face when I least expect it.

Holiday commercials of intact families celebrating over a Thanksgiving meal. Magazine ads of Moms and Dads kissing under mistletoe, or grinning conspiratorially to each other as they stuff holiday stockings or wrap gifts. 

The holiday cards with smiling Mom-Dad-Kids, their arms slung around each other, wearing goofy Santa hats or matching outfits.  All together, just like they were last year, only one year older.

The holiday season makes me glare at the wedding rings of the Moms in front of me in the grocery line, their chubby babies' drooling grins taunting me.  I used to be them, I think.  My stomach twists with regret and jealousy.  Why didn't I pay more attention when all that was mine.  

The changes are coming at me fast.  Our beloved dog, Casper, died last week.  She was thirteen years old, lived a long, full life, and it was time for her to go.  My husband and I got her when our marriage was only two years old.  As I mourn her loss, I find myself thinking: my marriage began and ended with her life.

I don't want to put up the tree.  I don't want to decorate.  I don't want to celebrate.  Every step of the way I'm haunted by traditions past:  he cuts the trunk, I hang the ornaments, a crackling fire blazing in the background. 

I want to curl up in a ball and unfurl on January 2nd.

Friends mock-complain about all they have to do: the in-laws coming to stay, prepping meals, planning trips to see family, grumbling about what to buy their husband or what their husband will get for them.  All of it sets my teeth on edge, but I just stand there and smile, feeling like I have a blaring neon sign on my forehead that says:  separated.

I gazed at the smiling faces peering out at me from that first holiday card.  Then I closed my eyes, and I prayed. 

May they have a happy holiday season. May I find joy in the blessings I have, instead of all I do not have.

It helped.  A little.

Here's the thing, though: none of these emotions have any bearing on our separation specifically, on the circumstances behind it, or the reasons why.  I don't regret the separation itself, I realize, although it's confusing and hard and sometimes I just want to get in my way-back machine and start all over.

What I'm grieving is the loss of The Dream, the one that is shoved in our faces over-and-over-and-over during the holidays.  If you were an alien from another planet and landed on earth on December 14th, or thereabouts, you would think we were the happiest-smilingest people in the Universe.

At least that's how it feels to me, newly separated for my first holiday season.

Our society commercializes happiness, and it's never more glaring than in November and December.  I'd like to see a magazine ad, or a commercial, of a single mom and her kids sitting down to Thanksgiving, or buying a Christmas tree. 

They'd be smiling, I know they would, because my kids and I smile together. A lot.  I am not unhappy when I'm able to live my life as it is, and not how I feel it should be.  Most of the time I am content, and I'm able to grow and learn from the hard lessons life is teaching me right now.

But, dammit. It's almost impossible not to lose myself in comparisons when family-and-togetherness is everywhere.  Logically, I know that we're still a family, just in a different form. I know my kids are over-the-top excited for Christmas, and that they had a great Thanksgiving with their Dad.  I had a great Thanksgiving, too, with some amazing sober friends. 

I would be okay, most of the time, if that damn cookie-cutter family wasn't grinning out at me from my television, Facebook stream and mailbox. 

That's not how the world works, and I know this.  This is hard core life-on-life's terms. When I'm in a good head space, I can find peace in chaos.  When I'm not, I find chaos in peace.  I fall into the 'shoulds' - how my life should be instead of how it is. 

Don't Should On Yourself, my friend would say.

I'm trying. I will get through this. I will say a prayer of compassion over every card I receive this year. I will pray for peace of mind, for acceptance of what is, and gratitude for all I have. 

But sometimes?  Sometimes I just have to get my truth out there, that this is hard. 

It just is.

Becoming

The hardest part of the day is the last part. Those six or seven minutes between wakefulness and sleep, as I drift off in the in-between space of moments past and moments yet to come.

Instead of those sleepy, mumbled conversations between two married people, parents downloading their day, giggling over a funny thing a kid said, or offering assurances that the work meeting the next day will go fine.... there is silence. 

Sometimes I unconsciously slide my foot over to his side of the bed, expecting the warm reassurance of his presence.  My toes are always icy, and I used to snuggle them up against his shin.  He'd wince and say "ah, c'mon!", but he wouldn't move away.

Now the sheets are cold.  My toes are icy.  He is not there.

I knew separation would be hard, in the broad sense.  I worried about juggling all the moving parts alone.  I didn't know how I would handle the morning routine all by myself.  And what would I do about dinner?  Do I cook for just the three of us?  The kids only really like to eat about four things, so I mostly cooked for him. For us. Would the kids and I sit around the table, where we ate thousands upon thousands of family dinners, with his empty chair blaring silently at us?  I wrung my hands about the schedule - how much time to spend there instead of here?  How would they adjust? How would I adjust?

What I didn't know, what I couldn't know until I was in it, is the hardest part isn't the big picture.  In many ways, because of his long work hours, I handled many of the logistics on my own anyway. Mornings he was out the door before we were all up. Many nights he worked late, and what to eat or where to eat it never bothered me before.  And managing all the moving parts of the kids' schedule?  Well, that was always my role. I'm a pro at all those things.

The part I didn't expect?  The ghosts. Every inch of my life is our life. Was our life.  Is our life.

See?  It's confusing.

Over there is the bureau we bought decades ago, as a newly engaged couple, feeling very grown up on an afternoon of antiquing.  On the mantle are the metal statues of two cranes intertwined, purchased at a funky little store down the street from our first apartment.  When Greta was born we found a little baby crane. "Look, they are a family now, like us," we said. They whisper to me of what was, what is, and what isn't anymore.

I am surrounded by my most familiar and comfortable space - my home and everything in it - and nothing is familiar anymore.  Or comfortable. 

"We marry people because we like who they are. People change. Plan on it. Don't marry someone because of who they are, or who you want them to become. Marry them because of who they are determined to become. And then spend a lifetime joining them in their becoming, as they join you in yours."  ~ Huffington Post

The funny thing about becoming?  It's not a straight line.  It's not all forward momentum. 

Before I thought of becoming like brick laying - cumulative - each brick snuggling firmly on top of the other as we build.  Upward. Stronger.

Then life happens, and that brick wall is smashed to smithereens.  Every brick is still there, except they lie in an unrecognizable jumble at my feet.  Over there is the brick where we saw our first ultrasound picture.  We made a girl, I whispered to him in awe.  That moment is still there, as solid as it ever was, except now it has a crack down the middle.  All that happy, that certainty of how it would all play out, is altered.

Because sometimes, to become, we have to break apart what is to make room for what will be. 

People do change. We know that for a fact, right?  So why is it so hard to keep up?  To pay attention to the thousands of tiny moments, infinitesimal feelings, decisions, thoughts that accumulate every day?  And then it seems so sudden, when things fall apart, or fall away.  But it isn't.  Because we're always becoming.  Changing.  Evolving. 

But our expectations stay stuck.  It's human nature, I think. I am still that young woman clutching her first ultrasound picture, a Technicolor vision of how my life - how our life - would be dancing in my head.

That vision didn't have alcoholism. Or death. Or cancer. Or depression. Or separation. All these things are just as much a part of my becoming as all the joy, success, happiness and peace.


"Marry them because of who they are determined to become. And then spend a lifetime joining them in their becoming, as they join you in yours."

Ah, yes. Sounds straightforward, right?  All Hallmark card-y.  Hopeful.  Because becoming sounds so positive.  All new-agey and personal growth oriented.

But growth, like becoming, isn't all forward momentum.  Most of the growth I have experienced feels a lot like the opposite, in fact. It feels like zooming backward, blind to where I'm headed, white knuckles bracing for impact. 

It's how we survive the out-of-control moments, the backward zooming moments, that define who we become.

Back to marriage. To becoming, and growth.  How do I ask someone to stay with me as I zoom backwards?  As I cast my eyes at the broken pile of bricks at my feet, only to stare in amazement that I'm the one holding the sledgehammer?

I guess the answer is that I don't.  This moment in my journey is an inside job. 

I can kick and scream and lament what was lost, or I can set about, well, becoming.  

On Simplicity, Serenity and Struggle

I find myself in a tug-of-war.  I love writing in this space, and I miss it.

Following the chaos of my relapse(s) and subsequent 90 days of treatment, I vowed to take a break from living my life so publicly.  I have been doing serious thinking about the role blogging plays in my life, in my recovery.  I have more questions than answers.

I still receive numerous emails from people who identify with my story, have been helped in some way by my words. People offer bits of their own struggles, their own triumphs, and it comforts me, makes me feel less alone. 

I don't have regrets, because despite everything I continue to believe that being open brings more gifts to me than being closed. When I share some of my vulnerabilities with the world, the blessings I receive back are beyond measure.  I am long past worrying about judgment, censure or sideways glances on the soccer field.

This blog has been, in large part, about my addiction and recovery story. But I also wrote about motherhood, creativity, advocacy, balance and family.

The past six months have shown me that I do not need to share all the intimate details of my journey. Some things are meant for the sacred intimacy of real-life: family, close friends and recovery people.  

I have focused on living a quiet, simple life. I stepped away from the day-to-day of running Shining Strong, I took a hiatus from my jewelry businesses and from blogging.

My main focus has been on self-care and my family.  My kids are my priority - after my recovery, of course, because without my recovery I will lose everything.

I find myself in an in-between space. There are lots of changes happening in my life, and I ache to write about them.  But it's not just my story to tell.  What I say here impacts my kids, my husband, my family.  

Because I have shared my struggles here, I am stopped often - even from people I barely know - who look me in the eye and ask me, in a heartfelt manner - how are you?  

I don't know what to say anymore.  I am someone who shares; I find comfort in connecting with people.  I want to be truthful, but I find myself uncharacteristically speechless.  

I struggle with the balance between what is private and answering authentically. It feels shallow simply saying, "I'm fine!  And you?"

So what to do about here?  In the land of One Crafty Mother?  I realize, looking back, that I have never been untruthful or misleading here.  I have written as authentically as I could.  But there is a kind of safety in crafting words to describe my life to the unseen masses.  It's the parts I didn't even have access to myself - the pain, the depression, the grief and anxiety - that got me in the end. Writing is powerful, but it can allow me to skip rocks over the really hard stuff, even as I believe I am digging deep.

So here is what I can say:  I am okay. I have an incredible relationship with my kids, and for this I am beyond grateful.  My recovery is solid. I am able to live in acceptance and surrender and keep it in the day, with lots of prayer, meditation and support.  

Recently I re-opened my online jewelry shops, but I haven't been marketing them aggressively. Like sinking into a hot bath, I am slowing reintegrating into creating again.  It feels good.  I am writing a lot on the side, away from the public eye. It is healing.

I am smack dab in the middle of a fantastic recovery community; I reach out for help.  I stay active, present and involved.  I lean into my feelings, and share them face-to-face with the unbelievable support network I have right here in front of me.

I am also not okay. My husband and I are separating. I won't get into the details, because it isn't my story to tell.  It's our story. It will always be our story, no matter what happens in the end.  We are working together with love and respect for each other, and that's a lot.  That isn't to say it's not hard - man, is it hard, but I find that anger, resentment and fear block my contact with God.  It's simpler to live in compassion and faith. Well, maybe not simpler, but certainly more serene.

I know that God's got us, that we need to row the boat but that He is steering. I know I will learn and stretch and grow. 

Our little family has been through a lot in the past three years, and a lot of it revolves around my issues: the death of my Dad, my cancer, my depression/anxiety, my relapse, my absence during my treatment.  And now our separation.  

I find myself waiting for things to settle down, for life to return to normal again.  I find myself grappling for a foothold, wanting to shake answers out of the Universe because I want to know, dammit, what is going to happen.  

When I do this, when I live in the land of expectation, I suffer.  When I pry my white knuckles off the steering wheel, surrender and ask for help, I am calm and steady.  I know now that this is the only power I have over anything: how I metabolize my world.   

I have the power to let go.  

Looking Inward - A Very Brave Truthful Thursday

A note from Ellie:  Sorry for the symbol typos. I can't figure out how to get rid of them (they are buried in the HTML somewhere). My apologies to Anonymous.

***Submitted by Anonymous:

Ellie's statement for Truthful Thursdays said this:

Once you've identified a time when you have (or are) experiencing shame and vulnerability (almost always accompanied by their evil cousin fear) I want you to write about it.  If you don't have a blog, crack out pen and paper, or a word document, and just let it pour out.  Try, if you, can, to write about it in narrative form.  Close your eyes, picture yourself in that moment, or in that period of your life, and write it like a story.  Tell the truth, every part of it, especially the little nuggets of shame, fear or guilt you have mentally edited out because thinking about them makes you feel small.

~~~

OK, this is going to be hard.  I have thought about it before, and many times when Ellie writes something I almost, but almost, email her.  Or go to confession (I'€™m not Catholic) or write something. Somewhere.

Partly I don't know where to start.  Partly, the biggest part, is that shame.  The guilt.  The knowing that I feel so bad about it, that others would think the same.  I am writing anonymously, and will be emailing anonymously.  Not even Ellie should know it was ME.  So where do I start?  The shame is now, the event was six years ago. Or maybe seven.  

And yet, every time I read something like Ellie's post, the guilt gnaws at me.  €œRemember? You did that. That was you.  How could you open that up? No one must ever know.  That can't be forgiven.  

You can confess to God as much as you like, but it still happened.  And YOU did it. I try to be kind to myself, to be gentle with the person I was then; but it just sounds like excuses.  And the voice of shame and guilt comes back, and the knot in my heart tightens.

So, where do I start?  With the bald fact? I had an affair.  There, I have said it. You can stop reading now.  Turn away with the "How could she? Didn't she know? What an awful thing to have done." 

The shame, the disgust, the GUILT.

Or do I start with how it happened? But is that just making excuses?  Excuses for something that never SHOULD have happened.  Ever. Black and white.  But did happen.  To someone who claims to be, no not claims to be, IS a Christian no less.

I don't know. But unless I write it out, I may never find out.  Can there be forgiveness? CAN I move on?  Not have that memory lifted up EVERY communion? EVERY post about shame?  Acknowledge and be kind?

So, where to start?  At the beginning, I guess. You already know the ending.

I am keen, desperately keen. I want to get on in the world, to do the best I can. I am not ambitious in the traditional sense but I want to do more, to explore the possibilities.  And I am terrified in my job that I will get found out, that I will get put in my place.  I know I can do it, but I don't have the confidence to stand up to people.  Then an opportunity comes up to go on €˜make-or-break course.  

If I am successful, then there is so much out there for me.  If not?  No, there is no option of that...I HAVE to do well. 

And the course is exciting. There is so much to learn, I am bubbling over with enthusiasm.  And all the fear and lack of confidence is overtaken with excitement.  Too much so, I guess, because it doesn't go down so well with the others.  

I become the outsider. Again.  But I can't go back, I HAVE to stick it out.  I do my best, but it hurts.  I get pushed around, bullied in fact.  One of the course directors understands me, he can see through the fragile veneer around me, and reassures me I am OK.  Fundamentally, I AM an OK person, just too quick, too abrupt, too fragile for others to cope with.  Apart from the old technician.  He just takes it in his stride.  If I cry, he just hands me a tissue.  If I get left behind, he waits for me.  If the camp counselor bullies me (Oh, yes, that didn't help) and the group turns on me, he gives me a hug.

My husband? He complains about the state of the house. When I say I am in distress, he tells me about the tough time he is having at work.  

When I ask for a hug, he complains that I am not having sex. He says I am frigid, cold, that he doesn't know what works€™ for me. 

When I say he can ask and we can work it out, he says he tried that and nothing changed.  When I am exhausted, he pokes and pats me til 4 in the morning.  He puts me down. 

When I pluck up the courage to say that I was hurt by a particular comment, even though he may not have meant it, he says that he did mean it.  That the only way he can feel good about himself is to bring me down a bit if I get too high - it's like a teeter totter, only one can be up.

I try, and try.  Perhaps if I can clean the house better? Have sex more often? Be careful about what I say, or how I say it?  He is a good man, he has the confidence I admire, he has passion and drive.  But he is not always kind. If I cry, he complains that I am trying to manipulate him.

We try counseling.  The worst time, I am in the car with my mother and she is giving me a lift to the counselor because he has taken the car to go to his parents for an event.  I phone to ask if he will meet me there, or will we go together.  He is two hours away.  He got drunk the night before so had a lie in.  I have to phone the counselor myself and cancel.  15 minutes before the appointment, with my mother in the car hearing it all.

Looking back, we now know that he was suffering from depression.  It didn't manifest itself classically, so we didn't recognize it.  But I still had to live through it. And battle with my own.  

I remember sitting on the floor, rocking, stuffing my face with chocolate.  Every bite made me feel worse, and I knew it.  And I still couldn't stop.  That technician? Turned out he was an alcoholic. He understood.  He responded to me text for help, and talked me down.

Alcoholic. Uh-huh. Can you say €˜co-dependency?! But he understood. We had similar ways of thinking, similar sensitivities, and we would talk for hours on the phone, trying to make sense of the world we found ourselves in.  Me battling with my course, my life, ME.  And trying to get this friend to see he was killing himself.  Of course, I now know that an alcoholic can suck you right in to their drama.  A spiral of drama, soul searching, trying to make connections.

All I wanted was someone to understand me, to help me to understand myself, to function in the world as I saw other people doing so.  WAS I cold, frigid, unresponsive? I didn't think so. I could talk and bare my soul.  Even though my husband was not interested in listening.  

Was I insensitive in some way? Was I not picking up on cues? No, if anything I was TOO sensitive to micro-emotions in others.  That raised issues of my childhood, trying to make things right for my mom. Trying to do it RIGHT so I wouldn't trigger her.  I talked to counselors in my church.  Tried to do things RIGHT at home. 

The only place I didn't have to watch my tongue, to backtrack and say it wasn't how I meant it, a place where someone was interested enough to actually remember what I said, was with the alcoholic.  My friend.

It was inevitable, in a way.  And yet, why didn't I just walk away? Say no? Cut it all off?  I try to be kind to myself, to see that I was tangled in a web. And then the shame tells me that the web was of my own making.  Was it? What else could I have done?  Not have an affair, for a start. Yes, I know.  To my endless shame, I KNOW.  

But what could I do to make the world RIGHT that I hadn't already tried at the time?  How much more could I, SHOULD I have tried? But how much more strength did I have?  Without ANY support, would I have imploded?  Was there anywhere else I could have looked for support?  The church?  But how could I tell anyone that the man who looked the ideal husband wasn't always kind to me? Besides, it was my fault anyway, wasn't it?  No, you don't talk about things like that. 

Don't open the cracks for exposure.

So, for three months I did the unthinkable.  A physical affair.  And it ripped me apart.  I did start getting more help.  And started to put myself back together from where I had been shredded.  The comfort that I had experienced was now tainted, coated, with guilt.  But where did my heart belong?  Where did I belong?  Where did I go from now?  A few things happened, and my world shifted slightly.  Just a bit, but enough. I was strong enough to say no, to deal with the loss of support, to back away from trying to fix my friend, from making it right.™  And to try again to make it work with my husband.  And again.  And again.

Eventually? Yes, it worked.  His depression got treated. As did mine.  I grew stronger, learned more skills, built my internal strength rather than stronger barricades.  I stood up to my husband, and he respected it and me.  

Now, it is well. Really well.  Far, far better than ever before.  Before anything, but definitely before THAT.

But is that an excuse? A way of saying, See, everything happens for a reason.€™  It was all OK. 

Maybe, but having written this out, I can see that although it was not the RIGHT thing to do, it was what happened. I did what I did, because of the situation I was in at the time, with the internal resources I had at the time.  I did my best and, no, it wasn't good enough.  And, yes, there were some choices I could have - should have, even€“ made differently; points in time when I DID have the ability to choose differently, but didn't.  

But it is done.  It is gone.  I am trying to build my life, REBUILD it perhaps, with what I have now. 

And what I don't want is to try and build my life with a rotten cornerstone, with a sense of shame and guilt crumbling way at me.  

I don't know if that is possible, but I am making a start here and now.

Cancer: One Year Later. A Year In Pictures

Almost a year ago, I wrote this about the day I found out I had cancer.

Tomorrow, November 14th, my daughter goes back to school after her tonsillectomy, exactly one year from the day I had my tonsillectomy and the doctors found the tumor.

The Universe has a strange sense of humor, sometimes.

Last November 14th, I had four days left of blissful ignorance of not-knowing.  In my heart, I was pretty sure I knew, but there was still the chance my heart was wrong.

So, a year ago I was living out my last pre-cancer days, and it's got me thinking about how my life has changed.  How I've changed.

I say my last pre-cancer days, because I understand, now, that even if I stay in remission for the rest of my life, that I am forever changed by the diagnosis.  Cancer is no longer a death sentence, thank God, but it is a life sentence, of sorts.  Because once you've had cancer you are never the same again.

I looked back over the past year and a huge part of me didn't understand how we got through it.

Then last week I was searching through some pictures - looking for photos for Finn's birthday video - and I found some memories I had forgotten about. Things that at the time I swore I'd never, ever forget.

There was the one taken the day I had my feeding tube put in:

I was scared and feeling about as low as I had during the whole cancer ordeal that day.  I was on the verge of tears, full of fear, and my cell phone beeped that I had a message.  Heather and some amazing friends had put together this video for me. It arrived - quite literally - just exactly when I needed it




There was a picture taken of my neck at the worst of the radiation:

I remember I chose not to post this at the time it was taken, because even I didn't want to acknowledge how badly I felt (the white bits are pieces of a compress I had on it to cool it down).

As I found myself staring, awestruck, at this picture, I remembered exactly how I got through it.

I was supported by so many people - friends who brought meals, gave rides, the unflagging support of my mother, even in the early months of adjusting to life without my Dad.  Steve's steadfast and loving presence, constantly asking: what can I do? what do you need?  Help from amazing, loving babysitters that took care of my kids just like I would have. Maybe even better.

And then, of course there were the kids.  Their certainty that I would be okay, because I had to be okay, fueled my strength to fight when I could, and let go when I should.  They were constant "you can do it" cheerleaders. Kids have such a pure way of processing difficulty, and it rubbed off on me, helped me fight the battle one moment at a time.

There were some pictures of the little notes Greta would leave me in my prayer box, to lift my spirits and give me strength during the worst of days:

Finn and Greta, with the help of a babysitter (Hi Lindsey if you're reading this!) made a pillow case with their picture on it, and colored it with loving messages and words of hope

Lindsey and the kids also put together a scrapbook to cheer me up:

When Lindsey went back to college, I was scared that everything was going to fall apart, because she left just as my treatments were getting really tough.  But the Universe was still smiling on me, and along came Nikki, who was just as fabulous as Lindsey and cared for the kids every afternoon for weeks:

Nikki and the kids

And then there was "the chart"; a spreadsheet Steve put together (complete with graphics) to track my medications, my mood, my pain scale, my food intake and my, er, regularity (yes, that is a poop giving a thumbs up you see there in the upper right hand corner):

I still have the cards of support and encouragement I received from friends and family.  I read through them every now and then, when I'm having a moment of doubt, or fear, before a doctor's appointment or a scan, and I remember that I didn't get through cancer.

WE did.

That's how cancer changed me the most. I evolved from someone who had to fight all her own battles, be in control of as much of her life as she could (even though I would have sworn to you on a stack of Bibles that I was not this way), to someone who was humbled and grateful for the all the love and support.

I admit, I fought it at first.  I didn't want to be the sick person, who couldn't care for her family, cook a meal or drive herself.

Once the pain and fatigue kicked in full force, though, I was overcome with gratitude.  There is NO WAY I could have gotten through everything without all the support.

One last picture, taken last Thanksgiving. I knew I had cancer when this was taken, but that week we had heard the words "treatable and curable", and so we were filled with hope, despite the underlying fear.  I look into our faces and part of me thinks: thank God we didn't know what was coming.  But another part me looks back and thinks:  you have no idea, yet, how many people love you and your family. You don't appreciate, yet, how lucky you really are.

Today, I do.  I know how lucky we are.  I live more in the moment than I ever have, even though it took a boatload of fear, anxiety and resistance to get there.

I think this quote sums it up well:

What Did You Think About Today?

What did you think about today?

Did you think about all the things you had to get done?  The endless To-Do list?

Did you miss a loved one?  Or, perhaps, love a missed one?

Did you obsess about a dark secret you've been harboring deep in your heart?

Were your thoughts full of anger, injustice and annoyance?

Or maybe love, gratitude and peace?

Did you have to fight hard to stay sober today?

Did you think about that 5 o'clock drink starting at noon?

Did you plan a trip to a fabulous beach resort?  Or did you spend some time wishing you could afford to?

Did you speak sharply to your children in "just-a-minutes" and "not-nows"?

Was your inner dialogue - the one you speak just to yourself - forgiving and loving?  Or was it full of harsh words of ineptitude, shame and not-measuring-up?

Did you take a moment to sit and put your feet up?  Just sit, motionless, for five minutes?

Did you hug your husband or significant other as you parted ways this morning?  Or did you forget?

Want to know what I thought about today?

I spent most of the day obsessively making jewelry and watching episode after episode of "Touch" on Hulu Plus, so that my brain didn't have the opportunity to think.  It passed through my mind that I forgot to kiss Steve as he went out the door, and I fleetingly thought, with a furrowed brow, of Greta's increasing headaches and sinus troubles, but mostly I tried not to think.

Until the phone rang at 3pm and I saw it was the doctor's office. Then my brain exploded into thought - answer it, don't answer it, take one more second of not knowing, have a little faith, Ellie, PICK UP THE PHONE.

It was my surgeon on the other end, and he dispensed with any and all pleasantries and simply said, "Your biopsy was clear.  Congrats.  Now go get that feeding tube out."

I hung up the phone and got down on my knees and thanked God for yet another reprieve.

And then I thought about my non-day.  How tired I am of fear, of numbing out, of hiding.  About how I vowed to Live Out Loud after I got sober, after so many years of living in the dark with a terrible secret.

I don't want to spend my days hiding anymore. Even from fear.

So I'm going to think about where my mind goes - where my thoughts take me.  I'm going to make a conscious effort to follow them along, without judgement, and learn from them.

And then I'm going to hug my family tight tight tight.

Flutterby

I'm rushing around the kitchen, swiping a paper towel over spilled juice, picking up errant socks and shoes, and hustling Finn to get dressed for school.

Greta, always impatient to get outside well before the bus is scheduled to arrive, is already at the end of the driveway, looking expectantly through the door, waiting for me.

I bustle over to the fridge and start throwing items into Finn's lunchbox:  a slightly bruised apple, the last cheese stick, pepperoni.   Gotta get to the supermarket today, I think.

I'm distractedly gathering up Finn's snow pants and boots when I remember:   Valentine's Day.  Crap.  I sit Finn down at the kitchen table, root around for a marker, and instruct him to sign his name on the nine little cards he needs for his class.   A quick glance at the clock reminds me that the bus will be here any minute and Greta is probably wondering where I am.  She doesn't like to wait for the bus alone.

As I'm slipping my arm into the sleeve of my jacket I look outside, expecting to see Greta's distraught face. 

Instead I see Steve bent over her, giving her a kiss on the top of her head.   I forgot he was still here.  Usually he has left for work by now.

Opening the door a crack, I hear Greta giggle as Steve says, "Bonus kisses, today.   Valentine's kisses," and gives her a peck on both cheeks.    He wraps her in a bear hug, and says, "I love you so much."

I stop, frozen in place.   For the first time in a long time, I look at my husband.  I really see him.   I see his strong, capable arms wrap around our daughter, how the lines around his eyes crinkle up as he laughs.   

Man, he looks good, I think.  

~~~~

My mind pings back to twenty years ago, when I was working at my very first real job.   We were having a staff meeting; the fledgling company only had forty or so employees, mostly young, all ambitious.    That morning the President was giving a little speech, and we all stood in a circle, listening.     As my eyes swung around the circle, looking at all of us gathered in one place, my gaze froze on a tall, good-looking man.   Hmmmm, he's new, I mused.  I've never noticed him before.   I know I would have remembered.    I surreptitiously examined him out of the corner of my eye:  dark hair, flashing green eyes, broad shouldered.  Handsome.    Man, he looks good, I thought.

~~~~

The bus rumbles to the end of the driveway, and Greta squirms out of Steve's embrace.   As she jogs away, her backpack bouncing up and down, I call out to her:  I love you!  Have a good day!    She settles into a window seat, wipes away the fog on the glass with her palm and gives us a little wave as the bus pulls away.

Steve ambles up to where I'm standing on the porch, my jacket still only half on.   Bonus kisses for you, too, he says with an impish grin, placing one strong hand under my chin and tilting my face up for a kiss.

And I feel it, that little flip-flop in my stomach I felt all those years ago, when I first saw him from across the room.  That little flutter in my gut that goes missing so much of the time these days, as we get tangled in the wires of day-to-day life.

He walks to his car, and I break from my reverie long enough to say, "I love you!   Have a good day!"    He smiles at me through the windshield, then puts the car in reverse and backs out of the driveway.

I watch him pull away, and whisper out loud the words that are resting on my heart:  I more than love you.   You're my everything.

Finn calls to me from inside:  "I all done, Momma!"  

I place my hand on my fluttering stomach, smile to myself, and head back inside.

Ignite the Light

When I was three months sober, I went to my twenty year high school reunion.   I was determined not to stay away because I was an alcoholic and I couldn't drink.   

I was there to prove a point to myself:   I can have fun without drinking.  

It didn't work.  

Every inch of that night was hard.   The siren call of alcohol was everywhere I looked.    Walking into the party everyone made a bee line to the bar, and I hung back, uncertain.   I didn't really want to drink; I knew where that would lead.   What I wanted was to belong. 

I made it through, but not happily.   I froze a smile onto my face, hugged and chatted with people, talked about how great I felt.   But it was a lie.   I felt like an alien, a freak, and very, very alone.

At one point someone I hadn't seen in twenty years came back from the bar with two glasses of wine in his hand.  "I noticed you needed a drink, so I got you one,"  he said.

My stomach rolled with longing and dread.   "Thanks, but I don't drink anymore."

"Don't drink anymore at ALL?"  he asked, his mouth agape.  

"Nope. I quit."

He stared at me wide-eyed for a few moments, and then said, "Wow.   That must SUCK."

Yes. Yes, it does, I thought.

Towards the end of the night everyone hit the dance floor, and I wandered outside for some fresh air.   I looked up at the stars and thought:   I'll never have fun at something like this again.   It's over.

~~~~~~

When I was about a year and a half sober my husband and I were sitting on the couch on a Saturday night, watching a movie.  

He let out a long sigh, and I asked him what was wrong.

"I'm just wondering," he said, "if we'll ever be able to go out with friends again.   Sometimes I hate that you can't drink."

I looked down at the floor.    I didn't apologize; by then I had worked on myself enough that his words didn't hit me in the gut.  I knew he was simply telling his own truth.

"You know what I think?"  I said.  "I think one day I'll get there.   I will be able to go out with friends - to a party, a club or for dinner and it won't be hard."    He looked over at me, a mixture of sadness and love in his eyes.  

"I'm just not there yet.   But I believe it will happen.   And if it doesn't?   I'm okay with that, too."

He put his arm around my shoulder and said, "one day at at time, right?"

~~~~~

At 11:55pm this past New Year's Eve I was on the dance floor.

All around me the room pulsed with energy; hundreds of people dancing and partying at a a huge New Year's Eve Party at a large hotel in Boston.    I was swinging my hips and waving my hands over my head, belting out the lyrics to Katy Perry's 'Firework':

You don't have to feel like a waste of space
You're original, cannot be replaced
If you only knew what the future holds
After a hurricane comes a rainbow

Maybe you're reason why all the doors are closed
So you can open one that leads you to the perfect road
Like a lightning bolt, your heart will blow
And when it's time, you'll know

You just gotta ignite the light
And let it shine

Steve was dancing next to me, his New Year's party hat slightly askew, grinning like a Cheshire cat.   We were surrounded by friends who were all laughing, dancing and singing like a bunch of teenagers.

As the countdown hit midnight, I leaned over and gave Steve a kiss.   "Happy New Year,"  I beamed.

He smiled back, and it hit me:   I'm healing.    I'm here at a party on New Year's Eve, surrounded by friends and party goers, and what do I feel?   I feel complete, fully present, grateful and happy.  

I was free.