Today was a very bad day.
During this period in my life I define a “bad day” as one in which I cannot control my emotions. Words, thoughts, movements are all subject to produce an unyielding pain and endless uncontrollable tears.
Today was a very bad day.
I considered not writing today, but then I realized the entire point of this blog, for me, is to get the shit off of me so I can look at it, either right now or on another day, and move forward. Today I feel as though any toe hold I had on moving forward has been washed away and I am even further back then where I started.
I’m so tired of being sad, so tired of missing him, so tired of hurting.
On a weekend when I have my boys to be this emotionally unstable is anything but positive. I thought I was doing pretty good. Feeling a little less needy, a little more sure of myself, a little, dare I say, happy with things as they are. While a lot of the time I feel like I’m faking it (“fake it til you make it,” as I read on another bloggers page today) so my friends don’t find out just how much of a basket case I truly am, I thought I was truly feeling those things.
Yesterday, after running some errands I gave my youngest son the option. Frozen yogurt, or Jamba Juice. He, to my surprise, chose Jamba Juice.
Pulled into the shopping center, parked my car and there was his car. Again. Do I really have to give up my Jamba Juice Love to save myself from the emotional turmoil that simply seeing his car causes me? I didn’t outwardly react to the car. Just parked and went into Jamba Juice with the kid. We ordered and then sat and waited. As we waited all I could do was stare out the window, watching his car, hoping, desperately I might add, that he would come out and that I would have the opportunity to simply SEE him. That’s all. I just wanted to see him.
He didn’t come out. We got our drinks, went out to the car, got in. My son and I sat there for a second chatting and when I put the car in reverse and turned to look I said casually, “Oh, there is B’s car.” My son said “let’s get out of here quick!” I gave him a look and said “B’s a nice guy, why would you say that?” My son said “He made you cry mom, that’s enough for me.” Yep. That would be enough for him. I fought the urge to say “well your father made me cry a lot more than B for much worse reasons!” But I kept that to myself.
At 12 he knows what he knows, and while it’s not enough to make any critical judgments, for him its enough — it’s pretty black and white. I wish it were that way for me.
I went to bed early last night. I just didn’t want to be up. I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to hurt. I think I even wished for a coma. Pathetic.
I rarely dream, or remember my dreams. Last night B flipped in and out of a bunch of dreams that meant nothing. Silly little dreams, but in one form or another B was in them all. He wasn’t really a player, he was just there.
I woke up and thought about running, just so I could cry freely, alone. Before I could commit to the run, my girlfriend texted to ask me to walk with her. I figured she would be a good distraction. She always has a bunch of drama to share and I rarely have to talk. I said yes.
We walked seven miles in just under two hours. As I hoped she filled the two hours with chatter about things going on with her — I only had to comment periodically to get her to continue. She did ask how I was doing with respect to B, but when I gave her some half-hearted, fake “I’m okay,” she got the message and filled the air once more with her current affairs. When we were almost home she asked if I wanted to go to a Bikram class. I jumped at the chance, thinking some serious sweat might help me feel better — unfortunately when we checked the schedule the Sunday classes were at inopportune times and it wasn’t going to work. So we parted at 9:30 and I went back to my quiet house where teens and tweens sleep until 1 p.m.
I paid bills, did some work, flipped around on the Internet and tried not to think about him. But I did. I couldn’t stop. I questioned myself. I replayed the past year with B, remembering all the times I was a bitch, all the times I was anything but lovable and all the times I could have done something differently, but didn’t. It was a brutal retrospect.
But even with the brutality of that reflection I was forced to remember just how he loved me, despite all of that.
A friend of mine on Facebook posted today:
I’m thrilled to be married to my best friend for 16 years. I’m more thankful that he loves me no matter how crazy & bossy I get.
Her husband responded with:
I must have a great crazy & bossy filter, because all I see is how incredibly awesome you are! Happy anniversary!
This exchange caused me to flat-out ball. That was the wonderfulness of my relationship with B. I was bitchy, crazy and loved to argue with him — but he had a filter for me and thought I was awesome.
It’s a common question, when your birthday is right around the corner: “what do you want for your birthday this year?!” I heard it once today. The answer that came out of my mouth was “I’d like to go back to San Francisco for a weekend.”
The voice in my head said “I want to feel his hands on my waist and see his eyes twinkle as he comes in close to kiss me on my neck and whisper in my ear ‘I love you Woman.’ I want to lay quietly with him and listen to his heart beat with his arms wrapped tightly around me. I want to wake up from this hell and learn that it’s just a dream and that there is still a chance to make it better.”
My 45th birthday is one week from today. One week. I tend to treat my birthday as a national holiday. This year, I’ll do what I’ve done for the last two. I’ll get up early, drive downtown, run 15 miles, rent a bike and ride another 30. Then I’ll go pick up my kids, who are always with their father on that weekend, but get to spend the day with me and we will do something to celebrate together. It will be a fun and happy kind of day and I will be thankful and grateful for all the fabulous things in my life. I will not, however, get what I want most for my birthday.
Today was a very bad day. Tomorrow has no choice but to be better.