Why is there pain and loneliness and grief?
Why do the tears come again and again?
Why do I feel free and paralyzed at the same time?
I feel like there is no room for complaints, for feeling sad, for crying. I mean, there is room, but I don't want these feelings. I want those other feelings of freedom and relief and happiness and lightness and joy. Some days those come, too.
I do crave adult conversation. It's not like conversation with Daniel makes me so excited and connected that I yearn for more. If I ask, he'll tell me about the Charles River and a bench in Watertown, about walking to Panera to meet his cousin, about feeling tired, about practicing Italian, about meditating, about talking with someone from his family. And I am greedy for details sometimes, greedy to know stuff about how he is doing and the lives of people that we know in common. No one tells you, Yes, you are doing what you need to do, and my goodness, even if it is totally the right thing, it will be so ridiculously hard. You might be doing what you need to do, and what is ultimately healthiest and happiest for you, but you are also upending your entire life. You are removing the person you have been married to and lived with for the past eighteen years. You are seeing that person not even half of the time that you used to see that person. You are barely speaking to that person. You will feel loss even if you know that it is a loss that you can handle and that you will be better for over time. It is a loss, such a loss.
I asked Daniel tonight, "Could you look at the Lake Umbagog website and help me to see whether we can switch the dates of your trip?"
"No," he said at first.
I looked at him, curious. I wondered, Is this where the trouble is, in simple things like this, where he cannot help me out? He knows how sad I am that the Scituate dates are not working out, that I feel overwhelmingly down that we can't go next week, and he won't look at the camp dates with me? I don't know what he is thinking. But he says, "I can look at it tomorrow."
Okay. It's okay.
Mary is doing such a good job just being at home. The other kids are, too. I want to be that way, too. An outing here and there, but just hanging out is good and good practice for life. I can do it....just sometimes I feel daunted by the current situation -- separated, covid, summer. My 48th birthday in two days.
Daniel asked, "Do you know what you want to do on your birthday? am I part of it?"
"No," I told him, "you're not."
I wasn't being mean. It's too much, figuring out my feelings for Daniel. I need a break. I do better when he's not here at all, I think. I didn't want to hurt his feelings, and I don't want my birthday to be strange for the kids if Daniel's not here, but also, well, also, I don't really want him here. I want my own day where I do everything I want, by myself or with the kids or with a girlfriend.
Would I rather Daniel be here, making it complete? Perhaps...but really, if I'm honest, I have to say that only occasionally has Daniel made me feel special on my birthday. There was the disaster Vermont birthday. The used books of his grandfather's and a book stand and a dinner I cleaned up in Scituate. The North End dinner where he was grouchy and I spent a lot of the dinner in line with children for the bathroom. A few with my family that were fine, just fine. The one the summer of Gabby when we hiked into Prospect Hill and had his taco salad, and then he had to leave when we had dessert because he had work.
I will buy myself flowers and nail polish tomorrow. I'll take a hike around Ponkapoag Pond. I'll do yoga. I'll make myself good meals -- or at least plan them -- for Tuesday. I'll do some really nice self-care, including good sleep and reading and writing. Maybe a chocolate cake. I'll make a gratitude list, because really, I have so much for which to be grateful. So so much.
Cry.
Self-care.
Exercise.
Vent.
Sleep.
Write.
Play.
Take care of things. It feels good to feel like I have some things in order.
Make a plan or two. Nothing overwhelming, just a plan or two.
Maine next week for a few days?
Maybe.
The rain the rain the rain.
This, too, shall pass.
Do I want to see anyone on my birthday?
Coffee with Chrissie and Cathy? Invite over a friend?...but who?...strange time strange time...covid makes me pause.
Make a chocolate cake? Chocolate cake and ice cream? or a fruit tart?
Pilates starts the day well. Maybe start the day with pilates.
But now, sleep. Sleep. This writing is helpful.
The rain the rain the rain.
Torrents.
I didn't take down the umbrella. I didn't cover the grill. We didn't protect the ping pong table.
So many tears. But I think that I'll be okay, too. I really do. It's hard now, and it's so tempting to go back to the familiar, the comfortable...but the truth is that it's not that comforting, that Daniel can't give me the comfort or reassurance that I need...I am left feeling still unsure of him and of us. I need so much more. But he gave me something, more than something.
Julie asked, "What will you miss most about marriage?"
I told her, "I'll miss just talking with Daniel." Because really, that's been my favorite thing, it was, just talking and reading and walking and watching movies. But those weren't enough for him, and he wasn't smart enough to realize how lucky he was to share those with me. He faced other ways. And I was here, trying to hold on as tight as I could, wanting him to tell me that I was the most important person in his life, that I was the reason for him to get up in the morning, that I was the love of his life forever and ever. But no, he couldn't. And I couldn't live like that. So now I'm here, alone. This is hard. It is, perhaps, easier to rail against a negligent spouse you live with than to live without the negligent spouse. This is harder than any of us imagined. We shared stories and complaints about our husbands, but being on the other side of this line is entirely different; it's a different category. It is indeed lonely and painful and just plain sad. But I can't be second to his relationships with other women. It is so hard for me to let go, and yet I know that I need to let go. For my own health. For my own happiness.
July 9, 2020
Another realization: I was holding on tight, so tight, asking for reassurance, giving more attention, being more affectionate, expressing love, having more sex, thinking, This and this and this. This is marriage. This is life. This is okay. We are together. He is mine. I am the most important person to him. He is the most important to me. We are together. We will be married forever. We will grow old together. He loves me most.
But then. But now. Much has changed, and much has not. I became, in a matter of days, less afraid -- when was that moment? -- of losing him, or maybe more determined to take care of myself and my happiness, and less afraid of how separating would be for our kids. And that was it. I didn't try to hold on any longer. I didn't try to learn more about him. I didn't feel more curiosity about what was happening for him. I wanted myself back rather than him. I wanted to hold onto myself and to let him go.
I went from holding tight with embracing hands to letting go with open hands.
Embracing myself instead.
And now I can't really go back. Rubicon and all.
No comments:
Post a Comment