A Few Old-Ish Posts That Feel New To Me Today

Sometimes I read older posts of mine, and I can’t remember having written them; it’s the oddest thing. I remember the feelings, of course, but then I read the words, and it’s like they were typed out by someone else. Someone who understood me intensely, yes, but certainly not me.

That’s been happening a lot these past few days: I’m looking for a recipe, or a reference, and I happen across one of these older posts…and it feels less like a memory than like a letter from a friend, telling me everything will be okay.


On To The Next

When people talk about *why* they get married, one of the big themes that I’ve heard come up over and over is something about “bearing witness.” Like your life isn’t really a life unless there’s someone else to say that happenedI know because I was there, too.

I want someone there, with me.

I don’t want to do this alone.


The Fifth Line

When you blow up your life, as I did just a few months ago, you find yourself sitting on a pile of ashes. Everything you thought you wanted; everything you thought you had; everything you saw in your future: gone. Erased with a single sentence.

Your mouth opens, and you dismantle your world with your words.

But when you take something apart, even if it goes all the way down to the bare bones, you’re still left with those fundamental elements – the building blocks – that started it all. And you get to begin building again.


So I Can Sleep

Lately, I’ve been doing this odd little sorting thing at night, when I’m laying in bed, getting ready to go to sleep. I start sifting through mental images of the people in my life – the ones who I love and who love me back. I hold them in my mind for a moment.

You have me, I think of each. I’m safe.

It’s not a long list – I’ve never been someone who has tons of “people” – but calling them out by name, even if only in my head: it helps.

It also reminds me that even though all of those people love me, none of them are actually there.


The Purgatory Problem

Before, I could control things like when we left somewhere, or when an activity came to an end. That was, for better or worse (I’m assuming “for worse”), sort of our dynamic. I was the cruise director.

…And now I can only cruise-direct so much. I have to accept that for extended periods of time, the decisions that are made with regards to my children – and with regards to me, because of course my schedule (and life) rotates around my children’s schedules and lives – will not be my own.


Nothing To Do But Jump

I wake up early because sleep feels like a luxury I cannot afford, and because the thought of being alone for a minute sounds nice. But I’m still so tired, and so I tiptoe into the backyard, wrap myself in the rainbow-striped Mexican blanket Kendrick surprised me with that one time, and lay still for as long as my children will let me. And every morning, laying there and watching the sun rise and wanting nothing more than to fall back asleep, I think to myself how much I wish I could take it back. All of it. Just rewind time and start again from a place where I can keep telling myself that everything is fine, everything is great, we can go on like this forever. And maybe then, eventually, I’ll believe it.


The Reader

Am I proud of myself? Of the life I’ve built? When I stop and think about this idea of pride, the easy answer is yes, I am proud – but what strikes me is how many of the sources of my pride are external to me. A book I wrote. A pretty room I decorated. The fact that I’ve been teaching the kids to read, and they’re doing such a great job at it. I’m proud of the fact that I do so much, all at the same time, and that I never stop, ever. I get shit done, and done well. That’s my thing, you know. My personal narrative, or whatever (thanks, therapy).

But what if the reason that I’ve done this is to put off what I’m afraid I might discover when all the boxes are finally checked, and all the lists are finally finished:

I might not actually know myself very well at all.


The Kind Of Parent You've Got To Be Sometimes

I was the parent who took her child to a trampoline park, and then let her sit in front of a screen so that I could be rubbed by pleather.

And you know what I think about that?

Sometimes that is the kind of parent you’ve got to be.


Loud House

Here are a few facts:

My marriage is gone. It’s not coming back.

My husband doesn’t love me anymore. Or at least not in the way he did. It’s possible no one else will ever love me as much as he used to.

My children will grow up with parents who live in different homes. They will probably always be a little bit sad about that.

My decision created holes in our life that I don’t know will ever be filled. I did that. I have to live with that.

I will have days – weeks – where I will not be with my children. I will miss them often, and furiously. Like I do right now.

These are realities that I have to accept – and I do – but still: they are hard pills to swallow.

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