You Spin Me Round Round Baby Round Round

There is a lot going on in Bebe’s World, everyone. A lot. So much so that you are going to be subjected to about 3 events worth of babble in one post because it’s my blog and I’ll do what I want. I’ve been struggling with this bizarre feeling that I hadn’t really been able to explain before but I finally managed to come up with an apt description. I have fallen off of my axis. I’m not quite spinning out of control across the ether or anything, but I just kind of feel like my gravitational sanity axis is amiss. I know why and how this happened. I am just now trying to figure out how to get it back so I can go on about my crazy ass life. You know I should state that I don’t like country music all that much yet somehow, someway, my life could be turned into a weird country song. I would title it “My Trash is Pearly White”.

So let’s start off with Theo McCancerPants. If you have been following along with my stories you will know that my mentally ill drug addicted brother is suffering from cancer. I went to see him a few weeks ago. We were supposed to attend a family session through his rehab joint to discuss how his decisions have affected our lives. We made it as far as the parking lot of the church it was being held. I knew he would back out at the last-minute and not go in. When we were kids he would mysteriously vanish right before family portraits. Security guards would have to chase him down in hospitals when he was sick with his stomach problems and he would try to escape. I knew when I pulled up and saw him sitting there that we wouldn’t go in. I explained that perhaps this flight philosophy he believes in so much isn’t working for him. It didn’t work though. We sat in the car for a while, and then went for coffee. It was the first time in about 5 years or so and we didn’t miss a beat when we saw each other. Still felt the deep sibling love, and the total inescapable feeling that I am sitting with an alien in my car.

By the way, in case you ever wondered what he looks like, I will go ahead and put it out there that he is from the stereotypical crazy addict school of design. I know that mental illness doesn’t always have the same face, body or spirit. Some look sharp and relatively normal, ala Patrick Bates. Others, like my brother, go the long scruffy beard and layers route. His vague notes of stale smoke and his grandmother’s polish cooking kind of permeate around him as well. I’m kind of shocked he is wearing shoes, as I remember a few years ago he vetoed them full-time, along with car insurance which he didn’t believe was necessary.

Aside from his physical appearance, health wise he looked ok. He tried to tell me his cancer came because of the nuclear disaster in Japan and called it The Simpson’s Theory. I can’t tell if he is serious or joking, so I just look at him sideways and he awkwardly laughed. Historically speaking this means he isn’t sure if he is joking or not either. We drink some coffee, we take a picture together, we hug, and I drop him off around the corner of his house and he walks through the neighbor’s yard. I wouldn’t be surprised if he crawled through the basement window to get in.

I talk to him briefly a few weeks later, and the following day I find out he arrived at court for a date with a judge regarding a prior incident he was involved in. He was supposed to have reported to a rehab facility a while back and didn’t. He is now in jail with a very high bond. I am not surprised or even disappointed. He is, relatively speaking, safe. He is warm. His medical needs are being taken care of. Perhaps he will be there long enough to become lucid enough to try and get it together just a little bit. The saga of Theo McCancerPants is not over though. Stay tuned.

The reason I only talked to Theo ever so briefly was because I was dealing with issues with my mother in law. Some of you may remember her as the culprit who has a brief shout out in Inflatable Metaphors for Life for bringing a Little Caesars Pizza to Thanksgiving dinner one year. She said she needed something to eat with her pills. So she brought an extra-large shitty ass pizza. Makes sense right? Yeah well, the issue with her was that she died. She hurt her back somehow, got stuck in her lazy boy, went to the hospital for 11 days and died. My husband traveled halfway across the country to be with her in the hospital because he just knew she was going to either leave the hospital and go to a nursing home, or leave there dead. This is all sad because it wasn’t necessary for her to die. Also, she was young. Really too young to be so old. I feel badly for my husband and his sister. They are good people, and their relationship with their mother was complicated at best. My relationship with her was almost non-existent. She was a hard woman to respect. I pitied her in many ways. But all I ever saw in her was the negative effect she had on her kids, who are mostly my responsibility. It’s like having 2 teenagers to take care of because their most basic emotional needs weren’t really always met. I have to give it to her though. I have never truly believed one could will themself to die. And she did.

I’m completely afraid of her haunting me. So much so that at the wake, I apologized to her for making so much fun of her to my friends. They all played Mother In Law Bingo at my baby shower. They should be sorry too. In case you were wondering, I created a list of things I knew she would do at my shower, and made a game out of it. In a completely coincidental event, I created a party game based on my life long friend’s equally as annoying mother in law who had her foot amputated. Needless to say, Pin the Foot on Peggy was a secret hit in our minds. We didn’t have the heart to actually play it live for real. Jesus, I’m as asshole. I am prepared for the karma I will receive when the boy marries one day. Fully.

I guess what I am trying to say is, I am certainly sad that she died so young. I am deeply saddened for my husband who is left with a vague memory of good moments with his mom. She is now in whatever better place she imagined herself to be  when her time came. I still can’t look at a Little Caesars without wanting to scream. But somehow the anger seems wasteful and sad now. So I will work on making peace with her, and with crappy pizza.

Last but not least, no post of mine would be complete without the mention of poop. The boy has encopresis, which is a behavioral issue that means he withholds his poops for fear of painful movements, which in turn, cause awful horrible painfully enormous movements. Humans are so silly with their survival instincts. It’s not at all uncommon among kids like him, and it hinders potty training like nothing else. He is on a special diet, stool softeners, extra fiber, the sticker on the potty chart plan, and “let’s kick mom in the face as many times as possible” self-defense plan.

Every night I come home after 12 hours of working to the boy and the dad. The dad tries his absolute hardest to understand that much of the boys poop problems are not within his control right this second, but honestly, dad’s best isn’t good enough. He is a nervous wreck that the constant pants pooping is going to destroy the boys chances of being President, or at the very least, an Elks Club Member. So I have to work on calming them both down. The boy poops a ton now, but the consistency is never typical, and mostly, it’s a mess. He tries to clean it up, but mostly, it gets everywhere. I mean it. Everywhere. Floors, walls, blankets, towels, me, him, pajamas, probably even the ceilings. I am covered in poop every night. Until I figured out that wipes of all kinds burn the living shit out of my son’s ass, literally, I would get kicked in the face. Every night. He wasn’t aiming at me, he just flails around in pain, and I’m just the right height. It’s awful to see my guy go through this. I know it will come together eventually. I know that we have made a lot of improvements. I know that a large part of being a mom is to be prepared for shit your whole life, one way or another. But honestly, it makes getting off the train, getting into my shit free zone car, and pulling into my garage nightly really hard.

Last night, a few hours after I had my axis epiphany and right after a shitty emergency bath, I am reading books with the boy in bed. He is reading his numbers, telling me the story, and gets pissed when I ask him to read the numbers in Spanish. It doesn’t matter to me really, I just like to outwardly acknowledge my kid is bilingual and confident enough to be all “screw you, only one language tonight!” I am not bilingual by the way. He just goes to a really fantastic preschool. I turn off the lights and lay (lie?) down with him for a while. This is a new thing. He usually tells me to leave so he can go to sleep. He has a spot in the bed, we aren’t to fuck with it. But lately, he has been kind of dependent on me and I like it. So help me, I like it. Just please goddess don’t let it get really bad. I’ve been slightly spoiled by a kid who loves to sleep. He whispers to himself that he is going to sleep by mama. He crawls up by me, and spoons with me. He holds my hand and buries his hair into my nose. He is perfectly still. I smell his hair. I pick up subtle scent of menthol from his Johnsons & Johnsons snot clearing bath wash. A slight sprinkling of fabric softener coming off his pajamas. A deep earthy whiff of shit, possibly vintage 2 weeks ago?  A dash of jerk here, a sprinkle of pure angel heaven there. When all of these scents combine I determine that this is what my axis must smell like. It’s within my grasp. Close by. I know it.



Turns Out I Won’t Swing.

Previously on Bebe’s Planet:

If you dared to read my post Down in the Dumps you obviously shared in my bizarre revelation and epiphany about where I was in life, and how the bountiful bowel movement changed the course of my life. God I cannot believe I can truthfully type those words. Or you know, I guess I can believe it.

I have been in hiding for many many months. I was on the verge of a very serious breakdown. I had just broken apart. My body broke down and my mind melted. If you are a regular reader of The Crab Bucket I am sure you noticed a pattern in my writing as it became more and more like a personal journal, and less and less like a fun blog about crazy mother stories and weird son anecdotes. I wrote sporadically because the words just got a bit deeper and deeper and I backed away because I felt I didn’t have much to say anymore, and I certainly didn’t think you would want to read my diary.

My company had turned to shreds, long profound friendships and relationship that bloomed in our unique office became fractured because the family had been forced apart. It was a systematic and needless breakdown of something that was very important to all of us. It broke my heart. After years of joking about the man, the man really did flex his muscles and punch me in the gut. My work, and my work friendships (which have since just become friendships, no adjective needed) provided me with a home away from home. I laughed, I talked, and I took pride in everything I did. It was a shelter. And it was gone.

My home life was strained. We only have one income, which only put my work issues on volume 11. We have a learning disabled son and my husband is still recovering from spinal surgery. It’s been the hardest 5 years of my life, and I have had a lot of hard years. I had become bitter, sad, and angry. I cried at everything, eye contact was almost impossible for me, and I hurt every day. My neck and shoulders felt like I was literally balancing a picnic bench on my shoulders, all day and every day. I found no joy in my home life, and I no longer wanted to be any kind of caretaker for my family. I was done. I sat in my bathroom and stared at the shower curtain wondering if it would hold me. If you know me, you know it wouldn’t. I laughed. Even then, I was able to laugh at myself because that was just so absurd. But when I walked into my garage to get something to drink, I looked up and saw the rafters. Suddenly, my absurd thought wasn’t so absurd anymore. It was quite doable. When that became a viable option for me, I knew it was time to seek some help. So I did.

I made an appointment with my husband’s doctor and as soon as he asked me what was wrong, I just mumbled that I couldn’t take much more stress and I needed to function again. I cried a little, and he was really good about it. He wasn’t convinced my neck and shoulder pain was emotionally based though, so he took x-rays and he was right. I have bone spurs and neck straightening. That is where most people have a natural curve in their neck, where mine is straight and rigid. Having this my entire life, I had no idea that it wasn’t normal. When he tried to get my neck to move, it wouldn’t. It wouldn’t crack, it wouldn’t stretch, and it wouldn’t budge.

He made me promise to commit to working hard to make myself better, and he put me back on medication for insulin resistance that I gave up taking ages ago because I gave up on myself. He prescribed a very low dose of an antidepressant just to help me up and out of this hole I was in. I didn’t want to not feel what I was feeling, but I didn’t want to sob my way through talking myself out of hanging in our shitty garage. That is not a stylish way to kick it. He signed me up for six weeks of physical therapy for my neck, and told me that he would hire me in a second if he could. I walked out of there hopeful.

Physical therapy was a dream come true. Three days a week of deep tissue massage, stretching, and electro-heat therapy for a month and a half? Uh…yeah. After a few days of that, I was driving and turned my neck all the way to the side for probably the first time in my life. It was unreal. Every day got a bit better. I was able to wake up in the morning. I was able to stop crying, but not at legitimately sad things on television, which is what I wanted. I wanted to work through this, not fly over it.

I made the decision to look for another job. It was time. I realized that if I was going to make improvements in my life, I had to go all of the way. I wasn’t going to let them eventually push me out, and I wasn’t going to walk into the office every day and circumvent all of the bullshit and navigate around douche bags if I could help it. I found an opening at a highly respectable place with a brilliant reputation. Someone I had known professionally for almost a decade through my current position worked there. I took a deep breath and emailed him and asked his advice. He told me that after 8 or so years of me helping him, it was his turn to help me. He submitted my resume, and after many hoops, I was hired. It’s the work I love doing, in a place that wants me to be happy and healthy. Yeah, it’s still the man, but he is polite and well mannered, and instead of being beaten over the head, it’s a long slow massage. I will take it. I will make more money, have better benefits, and work in a calm atmosphere. In this day and age, to say I am lucky is an understatement. This gentleman stuck his neck out for me based on all of those years at a job that I loved and had to give up. That makes it all worth it, and that is probably one of the proudest accomplishments in my life.

I said goodbye to coworkers and we had a big party. They miss me and I miss them. I was thinking that some sad moments in life are some of the happiest. When you have the problem of people loving you so much that they are sad to see you go, it’s really not a bad thing to be sad about. It’s a bittersweet joy in life that I don’t think people realize. When I think that way, I know that my meds must be working. But maybe not, because I have always been a fruity eccentric Oracle Delphi. I buried my guinea pig in my yard when I was 10 years old and had to comfort the neighbor kids. I just knew Herbie was in a good place. What I didn’t know was that burying him in sand on a dirt bike trail probably wasn’t the greatest idea. Give a girl a break. You can have inner peace at 10 years old but you aren’t an earth scientist.

When all of this came together, I lost 15 pounds. I caught on at the new job and people are getting to know me. My husband and I are working hard together to keep our family afloat and focusing on getting through each day and respecting the basics in life. A roof over our head, an education for our son, and food on our table. Lots of laughter at ourselves, and a fight or two when we need one. Things are looking up for us in a few different ways and we are slowly planning a party at the right time to celebrate our life as it is, and surviving 10 years of marriage. We want to renew our vows, and show our family and most importantly our boys that we can do this, even when it seems like we can’t. It’s fun to have something to look forward to and plan.

Every night without fail I take my medicine, still the same dosages, still with the hope of staying functional without pickling myself. I think the changes have affected the whole house. The Mr. and the boy went away for a week to visit family and left me alone. And I was lonely. I don’t think I was ever really lonely before. I know, a working mom with a chance to be alone is a miracle. And it is, and on behalf of all of my other working moms out there, I respected it as such. But I felt the absence of the very thing that I wanted to run away from. No, I stand corrected. I wanted to cease to exist, and free them of me, and me of them. This time around, I just wanted them near me. It was such a relief. When they did come home, my son, who is never really affectionate, wouldn’t stop kissing and hugging me, and hasn’t stopped since. We make a game out of it. Whatever clicked in his little mind regarding me was a welcome change. He was able to determine that I was gone, and he knew he wanted me back. With most kids that’s a given. With a child like the boy, it’s a gift. Actually it’s a gift for any parent. But for me, it was and is by far the most thrilling thing I have felt in a long while.

I was snapped out of this funk by the fact that I shit my pants and laughed my way out of a coma. It carried on because the shower rod was too flimsy to hold me when I thought about swinging from it in a moment of desperation. I obviously don’t need the shower rod anymore although I guess technically the thinner I get the easier it would be. How ironic. I am not going to lie, I am petrified of sneezing now and constantly think I am going to shit myself all of the time. It’s the equivalent of that fear of falling asleep we all had in the 80’s after watching Nightmare on Elm Street the first time. I think that I might need therapy for it one day. That’s okay though. It’s a healthy fear that I can definitely live with.


You’re Fuckin’ Perfect

“You’re so mean, when you talk, about yourself you were wrong.
Change the voices, in your head, make them like you instead.
So complicated, look happy, you’ll make it!
Filled with so much hatred, such a tired game.
It’s enough! I’ve done all I can think of.
Chased down all my demons, I’ve seen you do the same…”

I’m at the homestretch now.  Our divorce should be final on Monday.  I’m so tempted to put my Facebook status as “Don’t forget to set your clocks back to 1997 folks, my last name is going back!”  However, for as cynical as I am and a slave to comedy, that isn’t very respectful.  So fuck it, I’ll put it here.  🙂

I’m trying to do some summing up, some sort of “and this is what I learned” but quite honestly I’m just tired right now.  I have a bajillion thoughts in my head and reviews aren’t always my best trait.  But I want to get some things down.  Some truths I’ve discovered in this last year.

Here’s what I know:

  • A song or a picture or a comment can still make me ball up on the couch and cry.  For instance, I was searching for some extra candles I had in a cabinet in the dining room and I found a picture of theEx & I dancing I had tucked away.  As my daughter did find the candles and was climbing all over me “See Momma!  I found em!” I sat on the floor holding the picture doing that thing where we try not to let our kids see us sobbing but we can’t really stop.  So I stood up and put the picture in her room for her.  While this sobbing used to scare me, to make me think I had made no progress whatsoever in healing, now it comforts me that I am truly feeling everything 100%.  I am no longer numb.
  • I have been underestimated for years by people in my life who I thought were the only ones that had my back.  But nothing is worse than how much I underestimated myself.
  • I will never be and can never be someone’s f*** buddy, someone’s casual thing, an afterthought.  Maybe if I go through a long dry spell I might call up an old trusted friend one day, but I will never be to someone what I was to my husband or ultimately, to myself: the background.
  • I’m done worrying about my body being perfect in the eyes of anyone but me.  This has been the most surprising thing for me actually, as I have battled with my weight for YEARS to try to impress my Ex. Though I am not anywhere near a jeans size I was in high school, as long as I work on being healthy, I actually and wholeheartedly am starting to love myself on the outside as much as the inside.
  • My daughter & I are going to be just fine, no matter what.  No matter what bill I can’t pay, what evening I just curl up and watch awful Dora videos instead of teaching her math, what little injustice we endure at the hands of her father…I have her back like noone else.  WE are going to be more than fine, we’re’ going to be fucking perfect because we have each other.

And with all of these things on the above list, I want her to see all these about herself way before she has to go through what I did.

Baby, “Please don’t ever feel like you’re less than fuckin’ perfect.”


To Make You Feel My Love

Most of the time I can give everyone I truly love and care about such great advice.  I do.  Besides my rack and my blonde hair, the one trait I love about myself the most is my empathy and being able to cater my thoughts to the sensitivities of others.  It makes me a good assistant at my job, a generous lover and a pretty damn good wife and friend, all recent events considered.  For myself though?  Hell, I’m reconsidering if the first sentence in this post is too conceited.  So no.  Aw, it’s not total crushing lack of self esteem, it’s just…

I have a single friend, recently divorced, who is terrified to date, to fall in love, to let go.  Her divorce is different in that her husband betrayed her suddenly and harshly, versus mine where it was subtle over the years and eventually both of us drifting.  I’ve told her a million times to just fall, go slowly because running completely trustworthy towards someone is a luxury we both lost with our first heartbreak, but that I will be here holding her ankles when she goes headfirst over that cliff.  To trust it and luxuriate in it and savor every second.  If it fails, to remember, to hurt is to know it was something worth having. To be in love, to be given the priviledge multiple times in our life?  Well that is more of a gift than I can put into words.

So how come it scares the shit out of me?

I firmly and completely believe that you bring into your life what you project.  If you are negative, that is what will surround you.  I’ve been doing everything I can to breathe, take it a minute at a time, not worry about tomorrow and find an education in every instance.  I’m doing pretty damn good most of the time, but with love?  I’ve not dated much, a few times here and there.  I’ve had feelings for a few people, but I’ve not expected anything more than they can give me back and just enjoyed what I got so I never was disappointed too badly.  It’s served me decently but feels so thin.  But really, I want the whole deal.  I look at other single friends dating and it being second nature for them to trust someone, to have expectations, to have faith.  I’m not quite there yet.  I feel the wall in me up firm and guarded by dogs and weathered soliders from  years of daddy issues and a million other crimes we all suffer at the hands of other people not even remotely qualified to hold our hearts.

I told myself I wasn’t dating until my divorce was at the least filed, at the most final.  And I know I will one day walk out of that courthouse and feel a weird sense of freedom and my life will go as it should.  It’s not the dating thing, that’s not it…I don’t need to date to feel whole.  But separating from my ex-husband and being on my own, I realized right away that I have an incredible amount of love to give someone, someday and I just need to keep remembering that someone is me.


I’m angry

So I’m here, I’m a little drunk, I just went grocery shopping at 10:30 p.m. at night on a Tuesday, the day my daughter stays with her father.  Do you know how depressing it is to get random groceries like a stoner in a short skirt and heels at 10:30 on a Tuesday??

I am in a skirt & heels because I got dressed up and went out tonight with my girlfriends to see Sex & The City like a good vagina carrying person on this  planet and it was fun.  But afterwards?  I come home to a dark house, I listen to sad music (have you heard the Pink album Funhouse??  It’s MADE for break-ups) and all I want to do is rage and break shit and cry.

I’m not good.  I’m not.  I try.  Oh how I try.  But in reality it’s hard, especially the nights.  I’m tired, I’m sad, and I’m so incredibly angry.  I’m angry that he gave up so easily.  He didn’t even fight for me for one second.  Nothing.  And hasn’t acted bothered since.  I feel mad that it bothers me that I’m so incredibly worthless to him after 12 years that he can’t even show any emotion.  HE can’t be bothered.  And I am no longer in love with him, I know this, but it still bothers me that he doesn’t love me?  Fucked up logic, I know.  But vanilla vodka is flowing so bear with me.

It’s not all his fault, I am not saying that nor have I ever.  But I know the effort I put in.  I can account for the tears and the heartache and the hope and the yearning.  And he says things to me to this day that show he never knew me at all.  12 years?  12 years of growing together through our 20’s and he probably couldn’t tell you my favorite flower.

I’m just so hurt and mad and angry and I’m desperately trying not to become bitter.  I won’t give this divorce that part of myself that is caring and trusting and loving.  I won’t, but it feels so slippery to hold on to.

I tried dating, online (ugh) for the first time and it bit me in the ass.  Thought I met a nice guy but I have a feeling I’m getting played.  We will see.  After this I’m done for awhile.  I cannot give any part of myself to someone new when so much of me is taken up wiht this anger.  Yet on the other hand, I’m incredibly lonely and longing to be held, to be treated tenderly in a way my marriage never did.

I want someone to notice me and then keep noticing me.

Where do I put all of the hope I had for us?  Where do I focus the energy I had trying to compromise and deal with our problems?  My kid?  My friends?  Myself?  Please tell me.  I’m taking suggestions and until then, if you need me, I’ll be on this cold dining room wood floor with my cocktail, my bare feet in this short skirt and all of this poison in my heart.

Probably shouldn’t refill my glass.


Dusty boxes

And the time came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.-Anais Nin

I’m at my new house.  I’m settled in, I’ve unpacked the necessities, I’ve decorated, I’ve placed everything where it needs to go except myself.  I’m not sure where I fit here. 

I’ve found a place to land and I’ve jumped off the cliff but I’m still freefalling in a sense.  I’m in-between.

I’ve left a world of sadness and anger and unrest and hurt for a world of sadness, anger, unrest and hurt but freedom.  I don’t doubt my decision, not for even a second, but I’m just not sure where to go.  I know I will not go back to sleep.  I won’t become bitter or hateful or alone or shut off.  I’m just not entirely sure I know where to unpack a few of things I brought with me to my new place.  Where it fits in this new life, alone.

For instance, should I put all of the hope and the plans that we had as a married couple on a shelf in my new sunroom?  It doesn’t really look good there, but the front closet is already full to the brim of all of the longings and curiosity of what we’d become together in our old age.  Hell, I can’t even open the door without that toppling over and nearly crushing me.  And I had tried to hide all of the ugly anger and sadness over not being noticed on a low shelf in the dining room, but I swear it still catches my eye and completely clashes with my decorating theme in there.  Not to mention the boxes and boxes of hopes for more children, understanding, love piling up in my living room.  I just have all of this extra junk lying around that I can’t toss out because it’s apart of me.  I’m sentimental to these hole fillers, darn it.

One afternoon, very soon, I’m going to eventually take a huge box, one from my move, and put them inside it.  I will pack away the resentment, the longing for affection, the energy spent and wrap it in newspaper and haul it down to the Salvation Army.  Maybe they’d let me trade in some of this for an open heart and self discovery.  Though I don’t know why someone would leave those behind.  Then again, why have I?


Narcissitic doesn’t fit nicely on a name badge either

From Jen Gray “it’s easy to do. you begin reading other’s blogs and you see how beautiful, cool, and successful their lives are ~and instead of being inspired, you end up feeling like a totally dull and boring loser….hopefully you are able to take a step back and realize most folks are not going to post something about the less charming side of things (let’s face it, it’s a bit more fun to write about the DELISH PIE we just shared with our BEAUTIFUL FRIENDS at an AMAZING CAFE, then it is to write about the pile of bills on the counter or the dirty dishes in the sink)… and these blogs are just a snipit’s of people’s lives. So keep that perspective.”

 Blogs? Hell I do this with women I pass on the street.

 I’ve officially, as of last night, separated from my husband. We no longer share bills, a refrigerator, a car, groceries, my paycheck, a TV, a shower, or a bed. Before last night, sometimes in my darkest moments I would let my mind wander to that last night. That last night where I would lay down on the left side, facing the door and then 8 hours later get up for the last time the next morning and move on to a new, undetermined life alone and never return to those sheets again.  I wondered how that would go and now I know: 

I went to bed alone with my daughter, woke up at 5:00 a.m. anxious to get started moving and I left to clean out our storage shed.  End of story.

Sometimes the reality doesn’t sound so good on paper, much like those cafes and delish pies.

For a long time now my identity has been so intertwined with my husband’s, and rightfully so. I am a wife. I am a mother, a friend, a sister sure, but a wife too. Now (almost) I’m not anymore. I’ll technically still be married but I don’t really consider living in my own house away from him very married, would you?

A wife isn’t the sum part of my being by any means, but it’s pretty engrained in me. I just keep thinking about that. I’m no longer a wife, that title replaced by separated and perhaps one day, divorced. Ugh.

On top of that, it strikes me that all of these frustrations or joys or yearnings or hope for the “ US ” that I have been holding on to for these years,they areall gone.  There is no more reason to hold them.

I’ve been unhappy for awhile, we both have, so I’ve looked very carefully and thoughtfully and studiously at other people’s marriages and relationships about why I’m so unhappy, what we are missing, some clue or justification. I’d get glimmers and think “Aha! That’s what we don’t have! Let’s get some of that!”

But I know all too well these glimmers are never shown by couples during real problems or 3:00 a.m. feedings or when they are overdrawn at the bank. They are couples I get jealous over who coo over each other at parties or during board games for god sake. The couples where you know they fight, but more importantly you know they want each other fiercely.

So perspective? Yes I’d like to order a large one.  It’s not easy to trust myself to be so sure about what I think I need when I’ve been telling myself for 12 years I can do without or I can compromise. I’d rather say “why can’t we be like Mr. ZYQ at that café eating that delish pie?” than think “well, no reason to compare now.”

So what does the future hold for me and all of my labels? This sister/mother/friend/almost divorcee?  Hell if I know. And hell if I think any of those other couples have anything to tell me any longer either.

There isn’t a name badge at the Office Max that can hold all of those labels and there are days when I don’t think I can either.  So I’ll just settle for “Hello my name is Happy.”


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