One Man's Trash

After the ex moved out at the beginning of July, one of my dear friends suggested I jump into the dating game. Why wait? God knows my ex hadn't and that was while I was still "blissfully" married to him. I weighed that advice against the people who told me I needed to wait a year, at least, before jumping into a relationship. 

Dating is something I've never actually done before, at least not dating more than one person. I'd only ever been with my ex. What do people even do? As a young lady, I was taught that dating was specifically for the purpose of finding your mate. Is it any surprise I married the first guy I dated? And while that isn't untrue, it turns out you can go out with a person and have absolutely no intention of ever marrying them. 

Dating for fun. It's possible. Who knew?

I stood on the precipice of this vast canyon of unknown experiences and was given this additional, and life changing, piece of advice. 

"Kate, there will be men you want to hang out with, and men you want to sleep with. The trick is finding the one you want to do both with." As I contemplated stepping over the edge, I didn't hear the added, "and you'll probably have to go through a lot before you find him."

This is not the post to talk about the descent and what manner of things I found there. Oh no. This is the post to tell you about two things I've learned:

First, unless you have an idea of what you're worth, you will put up with a lot of things you ought not to for longer than you ought to. Take it from me, someone who denied my marriage had actually been very bad for a very long time. 

Second, my new mantra is "truth and perspective." 

I am shocked at the way my ex sees me. It's ugly. In his mind, I've been as ugly to him for years as he is ugly to me now. He doesn't see me as I am, and I no longer see him as who I thought he was all this time. According to him, I've been worthless. Worse than that, I've been a soul-sucking leech, the reason for his financial ruin, for his giving up the only job he ever knew, for his three little "consequences," twelve years of misery and, to date, his greatest regret. 

That hurt. But that's perspective without the balance of truth. Nothing will change it for him. 

And for a while I thought nothing would change it for me. I thought the world of my ex for a very long time, a lot of hero worship. For him to think those things of me is devastating and some of it really cut me to the core. 

But after a summer in the canyon of vast experiences, I can tell you that perspective always needs to be balanced with the truth. Not just his of me, but my own of myself. 

If I hadn't learned this before now, I would be second guessing something that happened to me recently. Someone I've known for a very long time looked at me and saw something valuable. I don't know what that means, where it will lead, or what will happen in the future. But I do know that while the perspective of one says I wasn't worth keeping, the perspective of another is that I'm worth having. 

Rathe than question the latter, I've decided to take it as truth. 

Maybe, just maybe, I can be treasure this time. 

Worthy

It was one of the most beautiful days. Blue sky for miles, and fluffy white clouds. Country roads and cool air. Early spring, just after Easter.

She was just a baby in the backseat, my oldest. Not yet two, with her mass of curly hair and her little cherub cheeks. I was in the passenger side, my brow furrowed with worry. We had a flight to catch back to California, and I was plagued by what I had to face there: a husband about to go on deployment, and a marriage that was crumbling.

I looked at him as he drove. He was my dear friend. He looked as he always did, pale skin, blue eyes, black shirt, scruffy and blonde and young. He always seemed so young to me, even though we were only a few years apart.

"What will I do?" I asked him. "What will I do if everything falls apart?" I wasn't strong back then, or at least I didn't see myself as such. The idea of being alone and raising a baby terrified me. I couldn't see beyond my fear.

He didn't take his eyes off the road as he answered.

"Give me a few years." He replied. "Give me a few years to make something of myself, and I will take care of you."

I was touched by his words, surprised by what he meant by them. Something between us changed that day. He suddenly didn't seem so young. From a boy to a man, right before my eyes.

To my lasting regret, and for what I thought was his own good, I was dismissive. I responded with something like, "That's sweet."

I think of that conversation a lot these days. Give me a few years. Give me time, to prove to you what you surely must know. The offer of security. The offer of stability. The offer of love. Give me time to be worthy of you.

He felt I wouldn't take him as he was. He was right, but for the wrong reasons. Five months after that conversation, he was driving that same car and was in a fatal accident. It was only after his death that I understood that he wasn't unworthy of my consideration. I was wholly unworthy of his.

Over five years have passed. I find myself in much the same circumstances, with more to worry about. With three little kids instead of one. But I am not afraid. The marriage did crumble, but I haven't crumbled with it. There is strength, and at its source is the will to do anything for the ones that I love. At its source is a wellspring of love given to me unconditionally that I was to reciprocate.

I will make something of myself. Give me a few years. Give me time to be worthy.

Truth and Reality

Here is the reality:

I wake up at six every morning, usually with one or more kids sleeping in my bed. No one sleeps well these days.

I go to work, struggling to find a routine, to find my place. I worry I'm not doing a good job.

I come home, just in time to help get the oldest from the bus stop.

Walking back to the house, I pass his car. Sometimes it's there. Sometimes it's not. He lives across the street from me. His life is his own business.

He lives with his aunt. She was my friend. She might still be my friend. But I don't know. My feelings about his walking away from all of us, and getting to walk right into her home, makes me feel like my feelings are completely invalidated. Like the heart break I feel, the gut wrenching, chest tightening, rivers of tears pain I feel doesn't matter. It's all for the kids, right? It doesn't feel like it.

"We would have done the same for you," she said. That's easy to say. I didn't walk away from my family.

I asked him today to please be with the kids for an hour. Just an hour, so I could get the oil in the car changed.

"I have plans." he replied. "I'll be out." Smug. Smirking. He ran by us today, as we walked home. He reminded me again that he had plans.

Congratulations on being out. I'll be taking care of my kids after a long day at work. I'll be fielding their questions on why they can't see you tonight with generous answers of "it's just not daddy's night," instead of, "Daddy would rather spend time with other people than you."

Do I sound upset? I am.

Here's the truth, though:

I wake up at 6. Shortly after, my sweet cousin, who isn't even my blood relative, shows up to baby sit. She makes me breakfast, she packs my lunch, and she gets the kids ready to walk to the bus stop.

When I arrive at work, I'm surrounded by coworkers and friends who love and support me in my goals. Who saw me cry at the end of the day, and put their arms around me and told me it would be ok. They're here for me.

When I come home to the bus stop, my youngest babies are waiting there, arms stretched out and running across the grass waiting for me.

We walk home, his car is sometimes there and sometimes it's not. He ran by us. It hurts. I won't deny it. Seeing him, knowing he is with other women, knowing that we mean so little to him...it hurts.

But it won't always hurt. I can't see through the darkness right now. I can't imagine a day when I won't look at him without feeling loss, and anger and hate. But my cousin said to me, "You're in the dark of the cavern, but don't start trying to sprint out. You'll just be hitting the walls. Walk slowly, and believe eventually you'll see the light."

When I feel like falling apart, I tell myself, "It's not my loss, but what I've gained."

His cruelty and indifference are not my loss. I've gained freedom without him.

Shoes to Fill

We are enemies, he and I.

When he was a 40 something year old man, and I a 19 year old girl, we became each other's nemesis. 

He is a selfish, vindictive, pitiful and small man, who would rather hold on to his feeble pride than humble himself before the ones he has hurt so deeply. He caused a lifetime of pain to people I hold dear. They still suffer the scars of what he has done and have had to actively heal from his actions. He's a narcissistic, sociopathic, apathetic bully who hides behind a false god and false character and false strength. He's a weakling and a coward who manipulates and abuses people to feel powerful, who abdicates all responsibility for what he's done and blames others for his troubles. He steals innocence under the guise of being a loving and doting father. He's a poison and a sickness and until very recently I was sure I would never despise another human being as much as I despise that man. 

But then, the son.

I don't know when it happened exactly. Perhaps it was when he called me lazy and entitled. Or maybe when he said he didn't know why any man would want to be with me. It could have been when he told me I caused him to be the worst version of himself. Perhaps it was when he went out of his way to belittle my intelligence, insult my friends, and hint at the new woman (or women) in his life. Maybe it was when I cried and asked why he was so cruel and he told me, "You made me this way." Maybe it was when he complained about not seeing his kids whenever he wanted and I reminded him that he walked away from them. 

"Not them." He replied. "You. And I didn't walk away. You pushed me away." 

In the end, perhaps it was less of what he said and more of my response that caused me to realize what we had become. Because everything I said about his father, I think it about him. Some of it I've even said aloud. Sharp words that pierce like a sword; that's a weapon I know how to yield. And each time I draw blood with the sting of my words, I take momentary pleasure at the hatred I see in his eyes for me. 

Good. At least he feels something. 

I feel immeasurable sadness at what has become of us, two people who swore to love each other until the day we died. 

We are enemies, he and I.  

The New Normal

There's no getting around the fact that I have completely rethought everything I ever I knew about relationships, and how to behave in a relationship.

I am coming to the realization that I have no concept of what a "normal" romantic/spousal relationship looks like. 

Don't sit there and think that there is "no normal." There is. I've glimpsed it. It's shimmering on the edge of my periphery. I'm afraid to look directly at it for fear that it will merely be an apparition that will disappear when I turn my full gaze on it.

Normal looks like nothing that would catch my attention. It's not covered in heartache and daddy issues. It's not living with the dead. It's not the raging current under the calm veneer. 

It's eye contact, and smiles, and an open heart. 

It's not blaming people for its circumstances. It's accepting of its own limitations. 

It's not hateful, even in the face of painful events. It's kind and pleasant, and being in its presence feels peaceful and safe. 

Normal doesn't pull away when you reach for it. Normal reaches back.  

Normal doesn't hold you to impossible standards. Normal simply lets you be. 

Normal doesn't despise you for who you are. Normal accepts you as you are.

Maybe you're right. Maybe there is "no normal" after all. 

Because normal seems extraordinary to me. 

Bitterness, Gasoline, and God's Laughter

He comes jogging up, just finishing his two and a half hour gym session, I'm guessing.

I'm sitting on the lawn, attempting to figure out why the mower keeps cutting out. I'm two hours into yard work and I'm nowhere near finished.

His free time to go to the gym is sponsored by walking out on the yard, the house, the wife and the kids.

My free time to mow the lawn is sponsored by a napping baby and the kindness of a cousin to keep watch over the boy child while I do outside work.

"Does it have gas in it?" He asks. The gas can is next to me, and I calmly reply yes, it does, but it can't seem to stay running.

"Huh." He says. "Well it was working fine the last time I used it." With that, he puts his earbuds back in and jogs away.

I start the mower, finish the side yard and call it good for today. Walking into the house, cousin asks me, "You get it all done?"

"No," I reply, "but I need a shower. I smell like gasoline and bitterness."

As I strip off my grass stained shoes, my dusty pants, my long sleeved shirt required for lawn mowing, my thoughts begin to spiral. It must be nice, I think, to have the time to go jogging and weight lifting. To not be responsible for anything except yourself. To not think of anyone except yourself. To take time to care for your body first, instead of meeting the needs of three little ones before you can begin to think about your own. 

I'm happy to say those thoughts were only for a moment, because as I stepped into the shower I began to think of a different matter, and a different man, altogether. As the hot water beat down on me, I was sure I could hear God laughing at me for my prior thoughts. Laughing because I have nothing to be bitter about.

Each time we pull into the driveway, the smallest one says, "Daddy!" She's sure he will be there when we open the door. Only he's not there to hear her call his name, or walk with her arms outstretched toward empty space.

Each time it happens, I can't help but think how much love he's missing out on. I'm not bitter about him leaving; I pity him for what he gave up.

I haven't lost anything in this situation. I've gained. I'm surrounded by the three greatest gifts I could ever ask for, I have family who loves me, friends who support me, a church to belong to, and the possibility of a future greater than I could have hoped for.

It's not always going to be easy. But it's always going to be worth it.

And that knowledge is sweet as honey.

Sadomasochist Poetry

I hurt. 

Inside me, I feel a flood rising, waiting to spill out of my eyes at any moment. A mass has pooled in my heart, of anger and fear and worry. At any moment, one word or one look or one silence could send the liquid of my feelings forth into the world, via tears or words or a slap across that arrogant, unfeeling face I have to look at a few times a week. 

I hurt.

It's partly self inflicted. I question, I rail, I ask why, why, why? I ask, when I know there is no answer I can hear that will satisfy me. I ask, knowing full well the answers will only tear apart the already shredded entrails of my spirit. I ask, as though I am unaware of the verbal onslaught that will happen occur each time I do. 

I hurt. 

Him. I hurt him, or at least he would hurt if he was capable of feeling anything. I use the only weapon I have, the sharp sting of cruel words. Like I sword, I wield them, cutting into wounds I know exist even if he's spent so much time trying to cover them up. With strokes swift and lashing, cold and calculating, I send the daggers of my words to where his heart must surely feel it. I can see it in his eyes and when I do, I cut deeper. As his pain grows, mine must surely lessen. 

I hurt.

Despair. I despair what we have become. Made in the image of God? I've never felt such moments of contempt in my life, both being given and received. I sorrow for what we could have been, what we should have been. What have we to show for the years? Weakness of character, weakness of will and weakness of spirit; a pair of cowards. 

I hurt.