I'm trying to get my life back. It's not as easy as it seems it should be. I gave it willing to save my marriage and keep the love of my life. The road was long, a series of small compromises, punctuated by a few large thrusts of hurt. My husband pushing me away, or maybe testing my love. I could never say for certain which. I suppose, like many things, it was a bit of both. I've turned it every which way trying to make sense of it and the part I played.
It's been about 15 months since I moved out. A long hard 15 months with forks and curves in a road no one saw coming. Though my financial future is still uncertain, my career devastated by the global pandemic, I sometimes feel like I have picked up another little piece of me. Gathering it gently and examining to make sure it is mine to keep. Wondering how I lost so much of myself, how it went so far?
Last night was a good one. I wasn't sure how it would be but it was good. My former spouse dropped our daughter off and she seemed to be in a bit of a mood. We have gone to two weeks at each home. At first to mitigate the spread of Covid but it seems to be easier on our daughter. She is more settled and connects better with each of us. The transitions are sometimes still rough but they pass more quickly with time.
I gave her a bit of space to adjust after her father left and then we figured out dinner and just hung out. She recently decided she wanted to try sushi and went with my suggestion. She has also been branching out and trying other things, enjoying a spinach salad with me. It makes me feel good that she trusts me to help her try new things and knows I won't be angry or disappointed if it's not something she likes.
After dinner we just shared space. Me at my computer and she on the couch watching videos on her phone. We talked a bit, she shared a video or two and when I had finished some work, I joined her on the sofa. She lay with her head on my lap and asked if she could play next when I finished a game of Freecell. I handed her my phone and enjoyed the simple pleasure of her company and sharing small things.
The night progressed, I got ready for bed. Too tired to read but not yet sleepy, I listened to a chapter of an audio book. My daughter is a night owl and I am a lark. There is always a bit of noise that one of us makes while the other is sleeping but we usually manage. Around 12:30 am, I heard a bang and jumped out of bed to check on her. One off the rods on her metal bed frame had come unscrewed and fallen onto the floor. It was a quick fix. I pulled the bed away from the wall and held the rod in place while she screwed it back together. We both turned in for the night.
As usual, I was awakened by my cat Milo. My daughter chose him from the animal shelter. She wanted a cat but her father is allergic so we got one after I moved into my rental. He was supposed to be her cat but he is slow to trust and she was gone every other week at that time. I was the constant, the one that fed and cared for him and he attached to me. It was a slow process and even now, he still hides.
So, just before the coffee maker beeped to let me know it was ready, I felt the brush of paws. Milo stands at the side of my bed and pats my arm with increasing urgency if I fail to respond. I remind him he has to wait until there is coffee and this is our routine. I heard the faint tinkling of wind chimes and thought it was a pleasant way to start the day. I reminded my snoring pug that she was beautiful, gave her some love and reassured her that I would be back.
First stop, a trip to the bathroom. Milo circles my legs while I use the toilet, imploring me to open the shower door. He has a bit of a Don Quixote thing going but rather than windmills, his nemesis is the toilet brush. I keep it in the glass enclosed shower so that he doesn't wake me up slaying the beast.
Next stop, the kitchen. Coffee and cat food, a few treats for Milo and one for Poppy. I return to the bed, pets settled. Drinking coffee, I move through my routine of checking the inter webs, and with no fires to put out, I finish with meditation. At this point, the wind has kicked up considerably and the tinkling of the chimes has become cacophony.
Winds of change? I don't know but I am grateful that my relationship with my daughter has returned to one with more ease than anger. The pets provide me with routine and purpose, I still have work, though not enough, there is some. The anxiety of uncertainty still lives with me. Starting over is daunting at any age but, at 55, it feels bigger. Still, I try to hold these moments of normalcy in gratitude and use them to fuel my resilience.
I still feel at my breaking point as often as not but once in a while, I rest in the present. In the small joys that I believe make a life. I am a little emotional as I write this. The glimmer of hope is a welcome surprise in a time that has often felt hopeless. I don't think anyone really knows how dark and desperate I have felt for years. Too hard to hear? Too awful to fathom. Maybe it is a compliment? Do people think I am too strong, capable, intelligent to fail? I don't know.
I do know that it was a long, slow unraveling, the loss of self. I suppose the resurrection of me will also come slowly. In quiet moments that I take time to notice. That I breathe and relax into. Moments that stoke the fires of hope and allow me to begin again.
No comments:
Post a Comment