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. 

Inevitable

This will not come as a shock.

Six weeks ago, someone asked me how my relationship with the man was going.

"We're doing well." I responded. "I think we are going to make it."

This last year has been the year that I have waited for. He and I finally lived together as a couple after a lengthy separation. We spent every night together. No deployments, no trainings, no obligations to the "other woman" (the USMC). Raising our kids together, going to school, working, supporting each other, living our American dream: the house, the kids, the dogs, the whole kit and caboodle.

Five weeks ago, I could tell something was bothering him.

Four weeks ago, he told me he wanted a divorce.

Three weeks ago he went to a lawyer and filed for one.

Last week he moved out.

By the end of September, the end of the mandatory ninety day waiting period, he and I will no longer be he and I.

My emotions have run the gauntlet this month from denial to anger to sadness and everything in between. Senseless. That's my word for all of this: Senseless. It makes no sense to me why this is happening. I simply don't understand.

I'm beginning to realize, after asking the same question for the millionth time ("why?"), that I don't have to understand. But I do have to accept.

There are so many things I want to say, eleven years worth of things. Those closest to me have already had to hear them. "Didn't I give, didn't I love, didn't I forgive, didn't I stay?" On and on and on. I can talk about all the things that I think contributed to the marriage but in the end, none of those things matter.

No, seriously. None of those things matter if he doesn't look at them and see love. That doesn't mean love isn't there, no. That means it's not being shown in a way that he can recognize. The fault for that lies with both of us: him for not being able to communicate to me what it was that he wanted, and me for assuming that what I had to give was what he wanted.

Last night it occurred to me that my biggest struggle in all this will be learning to be content with this aspect of my life. I can accept that this is happening, but am I happy about it? Absolutely not. No, not when I look at my children and wonder how this will affect them, or when I struggle with all the spiritual questions that arise from these situations, or when I see him and want to slap him because, damn it, I thought we were finally ok.

But there are things that I am truly joyful about, and that is that both he and I have people in our lives that truly care about us. I have family and friends who, instead of telling me what I ought to do, simply ask what it is that I need. We are surrounded by prayers, for us and for the children. And most important of all, no matter how thick the fog of this situation becomes, I can look through the haze and see the Light and believe that the Light is good.

Continual Blindside

I can't decide if this hopeless optimism I feel is a gift or a curse, or is it optimism at all? Perhaps it's only naivete. Or perhaps it's a mixture of both. 

Synonyms for the word "naivete" include: artlessness, unsophistication, trustfulness and innocence. For the word "optimism" we have: hope, confidence, buoyancy, cheerfulness. 

I am confident that I am completely unsophisticated. Artlessness is the boat set sail by my buoyancy. I am cheerfully innocent. I am hopefully trustful. 

Therefore I don't see the train wreck coming at me in my periphery. There's no warning whistle, no rumbling of the tracks, no red lights flashing and arms dropping to stop me from standing in it's path. No, I let it hit me with the full force of its uncommunicative fury. Then I lay there in a soul shredded heap as each coal car runs me over again, and again and again. And in the milliseconds between each jarring hit, I think, "This won't happen again. This is the last one. I can change this." 

One of my favorite songs of all time is called, "Waiting for the Train to Come In." It goes like this:

"Waiting for the train to come in. Waiting for my man to come home. 

I've counted every minute of each live long day. Been so melancholy since he went away.

I've shed a million tear drops or more, waiting on the one I adore.

I'm waiting in the depot by the railroad tracks, looking for the choo-choo train that brings him back.

Waiting for my life to begin, waiting for the train to come in."

It's a song I have sung to each one of my children as I rocked them to sleep as babies. 

Truth be told, I waited so long for the train that I gave no thought to how it would arrive or in what condition. I thought I would be so content with the presence of the train that I didn't think about the actual content of the train. Certainly I expected the train to be at the station for the long haul. Instead, the engine has hitched itself to another set of cars, and made sure I felt each one of them on its way out. 

I'm not angry with the train. After all, it's just a machine. I'm angry I wasted so much time waiting for it.  

Questions in Poetry

How long did I dream about you?
How many days spent waiting,
Praying for your safety,
Pining and aching, those nights I'd dread waking,
To the sunrise alone, it's true,
For I'd much rather dream about you.

How long did I dream about you?
For the day you'd remember,
What we had together,
Leave your ghosts forever,
Cling to me as your tether,
And when we make it through,
I won't have to dream about you.

How long will I dream about you?
Knowing how you regret me,
And how fast you'll forget me,
Just after you've left me,
God help me, I'm such a fool.
How long will I dream about you?