Unwanted Blank Canvas

BUSY!

Busy busy busy.

The school year mercifully began and September has sped by. F23, as I lovingly refer to the fall semester, relieved me of the summer slowness that made me question my purpose and unleashed the you-asked-for-it busyness of the academic year that now threatens my sanity.

Here it is, Friday night. Rain relentlessly drums down. There is no sports practice to facilitate after all. There is no reason to head out. For me that is, because my children are out. One is at a friend's home and the other has taken the car *by himself* to a high school football game. An unfamiliar, unsettled silence has settled on my home and is right up in my face.

The frenetic buzz of do, check, double check, create, teach, communicate, achieve has given way to... I don't know how to finish the sentence. What is left? What is there for me in the silence when I am finished doing? That is THE question. Nobody needs me.

The world keeps turning without me doing anything "productive" or anybody knowing what I am doing at all.

I can do whatever I want.

What do I want?

Do not ask me that. Ask me anything but that. Ask me instead about the abundent, obvious shoulds. I should clean. I should exercise. I should try to find a partner. I should make travel plans for the holidays. I should do the reading for the class I paid to take. I should grade the quizzes I gave to my students today. I should prepare the remarks for the new students in my program that I am scheduled to deliver tomorrow to them and *their parents*. I should do something. (Do-oooooo Something!)

But... What do I want?

That's an entirely different question. It's not that I do not know that answer. Oh, I do. It's so easy, so automatic, it's as much a no-brainer as the unconscious, do-it-while-asleep scratching of poison ivy that I experienced this summer. The answer is not socially acceptable, or it is not to most normal living people. That is why I don't pour my guts out here anymore (not that anyone reads). What I have to say - truly honestly baring my soul no lies reveal - doesn't engender understanding. It elicits silence. Concern. Suggestions of seeing a therapist for "prolonged grief." Pity. I hate all of that; it makes me furious. But I still want you to know because I am hurting so badly and have no escape valve. I want you to know because it could have been you and if it was you, then you'd understand I'm not a freak. 

There is only one true thing I want and it's this. It is STILL this. It is ONLY this.

I want him to come back.

If he came back, everything would be okay again. I would not be uneasy, I would not doubt my decisions, I would not hate myself, I would not be overwhelmed, I would not be paralyzed, I would not be disgusted by the mess around me. If he came back, I would not be living this life anymore. If he came back, I would not be the me that I am stuck in now. If he came back, I would only be purely happy to be in his presence. I could relax. I could stop thinking and over-thinking. I would feel loved and seen and heard and be at the top of his list. If he came back, I would not be alone. I would finally be home again if he came back.

On this solitary night when I could do anything I wanted, I choose to put into words what I truly want. The tears pour down my face and I choke on the sobs because what I want is just not possible. The only thing I want is literally impossible.

He is not coming back.

The busy and commitments and exhaustion veil that, they obscure the void. They are just an elaborate defense mechanism even while I tell myself some of the activity is aimed at exploring a next chapter. If I'm busy, I am okay. Brain otherwise occupied. But when distraction is stripped away, like on this quiet Friday night, I hurt.

I want him. I want to share all of this mess with him because it never felt like a mess when we were together. And yet he is no longer. I don't know where that leaves me... I struggle with seeing my own value. There is much work to be done. Am I doing it in the busy? Or, am I avoiding it?

What am I supposed to do?

That is the wrong question. My brain doesn't understand that there is no supposed to. It's more like I'm a painter with a fresh, unsullied canvas and I get to lay down the colors, but I was never an artist in the before life and I don't want the opportunity now. The blank expanse of the surface is overwhelming and I'm not skilled or energetic enough to create a quality picture at 46.

I don't know where to start starting over. I don't know how to want anything other than him. He is hardwired into my being and he is gone. It makes no sense.

For Me on Mother's Day

Let me dismiss perfect mom,

that one who always knows what to do and does it flawlessly. 

Let me banish meticulous housekeeper, organizational master, and always-there-parent.

 

Let me release the one who perpetually has it together and that other one who never needs help.

 

Let me banish the mom I would have been,

the mom I could have been,

the mom I should have been.

 

Let me give up on perfect mom and all of her friends.

Let me know, deep in my bones, that they are just mythical ideas that haunt me.

 

Instead, let me embrace the parent I am.

 

Let me believe in the one that others see:

the brave one with the stiff upper lip;

the one who made lemonade from lemons;

the “you’re so strong” one and her capable twin “I don’t know how you do it.”

 

Let me be proud of the mom I am:

the one who doesn’t have all the answers but is always up for learning;

the one who needs so very much help but knows there is strength in the reaching out for it;

the one who makes mistakes but asks for forgiveness;

the one who will talk about the embarrassing things, the hard things, the seemingly unspeakable things;

the tireless one who accepts chaos to say yes to the good stuff;

the tired one who needs to say no sometimes;

the mom who will advocate - sometimes strongly, sometimes quietly – relentlessly for her kids;

the one who suffered an enormous loss but never gave up,

the mom who still grieves and always goes on.

 

Let me give me, this very mom, the grace I want my children to give themselves,

 

and

 

let me proclaim - loudly, emphatically - that perfect mom never existed in the first place.

 

 

 

Alone

Valentine's Day literally dawned with the realization that the dog has officially dumped me.

Yes, my loyal companion, my shadow, no longer sleeps in my bed. Her human sister and best playmate astutely set up the dog bed on the floor next to her bed. Voila, Phoenix has decided that close is close enough and her dog bed is perfect, thank you very much. Everyone is sleeping better. This is good because I am too old to contort myself around a sleeping, bed-hogging dependent.

And yet...

I miss snuggling that compact, muscular crescent in the middle of the night. I miss running my hand over her velvety ears when I cannot sleep. I even miss letting her out to howl in the wee hours because she always rewarded me with aggressive affection manifested through assertive nudges of my arm for attention as she settled back down to sleep, curling tightly into my side. That dog has single handedly (pawedly?) saved me from despair by demanding attention, learning, and love, and now she is O-V-E-R it. I miss her companionship. 

So my first thought on Valentine's Day, an inconvenient hour before my alarm went off, was that now even the dog has dumped me. This is a new low.

My second thought was of Chris sleeping next to me. I spent a while remembering the shape his dear form took, the way he loved to be warm and wore a sweatshirt or pullover fleece to bed in the winter. He is imprinted on my memory, so close I could just roll slightly to my right and rest my head on his shoulder, but so gone I would wrench my aching aging neck from not landing on his alive body.

Instead of drifting off to sleep for a precious stretch, I more solidly joined the world of the living. I looked over at his side of the bed - flat as usual- that half as empty as my core, and my third observation clanged through the quiet of my room.

I am utterly alone.

It isn't the stupid holiday or the lack of any grand gesture; it's the everyday nothingness where there once was comfort, understanding, joy, mutual making-it-through-the-day-ness. It's not being at the top of anyone's list. It's not being able to share the ups and downs. It's being invisible in this world. It's having experienced how wonderful it is to be with the exact right person and knowing that kind of fulfillment is over for you. 

Alone on Valentine's Day.

Alone every single day. 

Every. Single. Day.

Alone.