I’ve been fighting the birthday blues. Or maybe it’s the onset of the holiday season that’s triggering me. At any rate, it’s this weird crux between wanting to cry and feeling depressed and wanting to just go to bed.
I think it has to do with this whole idea of what these milestones were supposed to mean. I wasn’t supposed to be a divorced family. We were supposed to be in tact, to celebrate together, to not split the days, weeks, months. I was supposed to wake up every day and see my little girls’ faces, cheerful or grumpy, whatever, I’ll take it. Instead, I have to constantly stay vigilant to the barrage of emauls and controlling behavior. And no, I do not want to go back to what it was, it’s just this weird yearning and grieving for what was supposed to be. Someone once told me that divorce is not just the loss of your spouse, but the loss of “the dream” of what our family would be: together, in tact, venturing along the path of life as one.
Logically, I know it’s not the way it’s supposed to be for us, that this “Life 2.0” is what is best. And my dearest, loving husband, went out and bought little presents for the girls to give to me, made a whole big deal out of it. So sweet. And last night, since it was a kids free night, we went out and did a little shopping and he took me to a really nice dinner, to celebrate again. What on earth do I have to complain about, why do I have the blues?
Last night, I told my husband that my family growing up was very complicated situation and while my mom did the best she could, our family is just straight up f-ed up. Not in any way that’s physically dangerous, just, the emotion pieces aren’t there. For example, Hubby’s mom and dad and sister and brother—they all called or text or FB-ed and wished me happy birthday. Seriously, so sweet!!!! And they sent cards and presents, just the sweetest ever. Did my mom or brother call or text? That would be a no. When I called my mom a few days later, she was so involved in reviewing a chair donation, she wasn’t listening. Whatever, it’s all good, my mom just works on a different frequency, I love her for being my mom.
I continued saying—that then I created a family with my ex-husband, but that all blew up in my face, no matter how hard I tried to make it work, change myself, look for ways to avoid setting him off.
So meeting and then marrying him—now this is my chance, my chance to have a family. Whether we have a baby or not, we are our own family, no matter what. And I think that maybe terrifies me a little. Like there is a black hole inside me, because it has NEVER worked out before, and I’m circling it, analyzing it, waiting for it to suck out my last chance to be a family. This same black hole has something to do with the fact that: maybe I don’t know how to be happy. I only know how to be struggling, surviving, battling for a safe place.
Now that I’m here, at this magical “safe place,” I don’t know what to do with myself. I doubt, I worry, I wait for the other shoe to fall. Sadness and fear are my comfort. What is this happy?
Happy is what I dreamt of, wished for, a destination of where I wasn’t ever sure I’d ever arrive.
At the same time, somewhere in me is that seed of hope. That “Jane Thrive” that my friends recognized when I got out of that hellhole relationship from before. The hopeful Jane Thrive that believes in the good in people more than the bad, that believes that kindness will be enough at the end of the day. That being a kind, loving person is the best way at “winning” any kind of wargames that are thrown at my feet by the ex.
I guess I am still learning how to grow that seed into a garden, versus succumbing to the black hole. I guess I have to figure out how to take up those tendrils of fear and doubt, embrace them, because for whatever reason, they taught me to survive, and let them go, weed them out of the yard--so I can really learn to be happy and healthy. I wish there was a magic pill or a wave of a fairy wand to make that easier. Writing it down helps. Thank you for listening.