Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.
***
He has broken the silence that seemed to span a millennia, but in actuality was only a month or two. I answer the call with heart fluttering and stomach churning. Deep inside, I am angry with myself at how eager I am to hear his voice, to hear that I am not alone in this. It doesn't occur to me until later that he is the last thing I should be worried about, that he is causing far more harm than good. In a feeble attempt to find privacy in my parents' home, I retreat to the basement, my instinctual movement restricted, like a tethered animal, to the radius of the phone cord. My hand rests protectively around my round belly, feeling my unborn child kick and squirm beneath my touch. I wonder if the baby senses and is reacting to the anxiety, the unrest that is covering me in this moment.
In sheer panic, I had employed all the insecure girl tactics in the month or so I'd been left alone to my own devices. Letters? I'd written them, probably more than I could count and certainly more than he was interested in reading. Phone calls? I'd made them, to the point that he was taking his phone off the hook every evening when he got home from whatever it was he filled his days with now. It was painfully obvious to both of us that I had handed him my heart in one hand and total control of the situation in the other. In my quest to make the halves in my life a whole, I had made a mockery of myself.
He speaks haltingly, which I correctly interpret to be a horrible, horrible sign--though this is, perhaps, the sole time in our entire relationship that he has pretended to have the slightest regard to my feelings, and therefore selects his words with the tiniest bit of care. I imagine it takes a great deal of restraint for him to not tell me what he really thinks of me, but that offers him much more courtesy than he deserves. Any care he takes in breaking my heart is not enough. He doesn't want me. He doesn't want me. He doesn't want me...
He does, however, think it is important to let me know he wants to make a life with another. And, to add insult to injury, I suppose, I ask if he wants to marry her. He stumbles, tells me he doesn't know, maybe. Would it have made the revelation okay, somehow, if he was getting married? I have never figured out what makes women do that to themselves--to ask for more information than we need, to eviscerate ourselves further as if the rejection itself wasn't painful enough.
He is sure that I would like her, that we would get along, as if it should matter either way, as if we will be spending family holidays together..... and--oh! Did I forget to mention?--Our child has a half-brother, he reveals, six weeks old already. I hear the smile in his voice as he talks about his flesh-and-blood son, the pride of a father radiating as he shares the child's name. This other baby is the apple of his grandmother's eye. In this moment, I have lost all knowledge of space and time. We are having empty conversations about baby names and only God knows what else. I am empty, and he is full, and I am letting words spill from my lips just because I am afraid to hang up the phone and there be nothing. Nothing and nothing and having to replay this all again and again.
He hangs up the phone and a weight is lifted from his shoulders. I hang up the phone and I realize I will be late for work if I don't hurry. He feels he has done his penance, has set himself free. I feel nothing, utterly blank inside other than to register that I feel broken and bleeding as I watch the unsympathetic red and blue flashing lights dance endlessly in my rear-view mirror. This day feels like the death of me.
She calls several days later, prying back the corners of wounds that are only just beginning to knit together. She, of course, had been the one to force his previous earth-shattering phone call. It should have been obvious to me that he wouldn't have done such a thing without a motivating force. The entire time she speaks to me like we are comrades, friends, even--like we will be forever bonded, and it is time we learned about one another. Time has worn thin the threads of much of the conversation now, but she matter-of-factly reveals that she unearthed a collection of my unopened letters when visiting him one day. After reading them herself she, whether self-sacrificially or borne of some other female emotion I can't yet comprehend, told him that I needed him more than she did. How much of this conversation is crafted out of sheer cunning and how much is genuine empathy, I do not know. I pray to God it will all end soon so I can crawl away to a corner to lick my wounds by myself. Soon my prayer is answered, and we have nothing left to discuss. We hang up, neither friends nor enemies.
It's plain to see I am decimated once again, but I shove the pieces of my life aside because it is all I can do to continue breathing. Amidst the carnage, the faintest shiver of light in the choking darkness is that I can finally move beyond him and maybe, just maybe, someday soar above him. It is far too soon for me to embrace this truth, and, instead, I wipe the tears from my eyes, clench my teeth, and write off all hopes of love in exchange for taking care of responsibility.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Sleep. I Hardly Knew Ye.
I love sleep. Yes, I love it so much, I might consider marrying it. It is like a long-lost friend these days--sometimes we have nice long get-togethers, laughing over a warm beverage; most times we are waving hurriedly as we rush past each other in a crowded hallway. No time to stop, no time to chat. Ah, life with a newborn! It has made me remember how truly blissful a full, uninterrupted night of rest can be. I am anxious to see a day or two of good, bone-healing sleep collect into two, three, four--no!--thirty, sixty, one-hundred days of amazing sleep. Perhaps then I will have the energy to find my make-up, put away the mountain of laundry I've been staring at since 2002, unearth my exercise videos (yes, videos! Helllloooo, leg warmers!), and become halfway human again. A girl can dream, can't she?!
And, speaking of dreams... How about we do away with the ones that involve a continuation of us doing what we already do all day long? For example, I vividly recall working as a telephone operator at a few different jobs, wishing people "good morning", "good afternoon", "good evening", and "good riddance", for a full eight hours a day, then coming home and answering dream phones ALL NIGHT LONG. I remember waking up with a pounding head, bloodshot eyes, writer's cramp from taking dream messages, and an absolute spring in my step to go to my actual job to rinse and repeat. Yes, that last little bit was sarcasm, for those of you with less intuitive powers.
Oh, and my personal favorite--the ex-boyfriend dream. Now, I don't share these with other people often, if at all.... and not because my boyfriend dreams are freaky-deaky, because I generally don't dream that way anyway. My hesitation to share my boyfriend dreams is on the off chance that someone will assure me that these dreams are a message about what my heart (or mind) really desires. If that was the case, I could never trust myself again, because I would then be assured without a doubt that my heart (or mind) was stupid. For the life of me, I can't figure out is what my subconscious would think is so attractive about me finally being able to have that nice, open relationship with [insert name of ex here]? I think I have enough to keep me busy in just one relationship without having to add the complications of maintaining another, already-failed, one in my dream world. Nothankyou. I'll pass.
Dreams aren't always the most entertaining part of sleep in my house, though. Sometimes it's the lack of sleep that provides us with more laughs. When my four-year-old son is upset and trying to soothe himself to sleep, we can hear him--through our ceiling, since our room is below his--cooing and rocking on his hands and knees. If we were watching him when this was happening, we'd almost always find him covered head-to-toe in the cocoon of a warm blanket. It is his thing. (It almost makes me smile thinking of him still having to put himself to sleep the same way as an adult.) When sleep is eluding my husband, he lays in bed, staring into the distance, jiggling his foot. And when I say "jiggle", it's more like flopping it so hard the bed shakes. That's Billy's thing. It drives me up-the-wall crazy, but it is contagious. Recently, I've found myself lying on my side, shaking a hip side-to-side sometimes when I am falling asleep. I sure hope that's not my thing. I think this just means we are totally losing our grip on sanity, which I'm sure we've all seen coming for a while now.
As much as I do love sleep, I also love insomnia. I do some of my best work when sleep won't come to me, or when I ignore it altogether. Maybe it is because the house is quiet and relatively peaceful. Trust me when I say it is difficult to focus on or accomplish anything with any variable of my kids awake and fully-functioning. It is next-to-impossible to clean my house unless the boys are away or comatose. That's why bedtime for the boys is, hands-down, my favorite time of the whole entire day, and I generally hate to ruin a good thing by going to bed early myself. Usually when I can't sleep it is because I am busy doing something other than sleeping that I cannot also do easily when the boys are up and at 'em--maybe sewing or exercising or watching t.v. When Billy can't sleep it is usually because he is horribly upset about something and can't turn the power off to his brain... and the boy can stay awake for weeks. I wish I was kidding. While Zombie Billy is certainly a treat, he's not quite the picnic I imagined being married to.
It is hard to remember a time when sleep wasn't a precious commodity in my life, but I guess that just means that we, as adults, are gaining a new, deeper appreciation for it as each day passes and we see little of it. Sleep will return to us soon, I pray, and maybe it will stay longer than just a visit over coffee.... and then maybe I will get to ask for relationship advice for my new ex-boyfriend--in between answering phone calls, that is.
And, speaking of dreams... How about we do away with the ones that involve a continuation of us doing what we already do all day long? For example, I vividly recall working as a telephone operator at a few different jobs, wishing people "good morning", "good afternoon", "good evening", and "good riddance", for a full eight hours a day, then coming home and answering dream phones ALL NIGHT LONG. I remember waking up with a pounding head, bloodshot eyes, writer's cramp from taking dream messages, and an absolute spring in my step to go to my actual job to rinse and repeat. Yes, that last little bit was sarcasm, for those of you with less intuitive powers.
Oh, and my personal favorite--the ex-boyfriend dream. Now, I don't share these with other people often, if at all.... and not because my boyfriend dreams are freaky-deaky, because I generally don't dream that way anyway. My hesitation to share my boyfriend dreams is on the off chance that someone will assure me that these dreams are a message about what my heart (or mind) really desires. If that was the case, I could never trust myself again, because I would then be assured without a doubt that my heart (or mind) was stupid. For the life of me, I can't figure out is what my subconscious would think is so attractive about me finally being able to have that nice, open relationship with [insert name of ex here]? I think I have enough to keep me busy in just one relationship without having to add the complications of maintaining another, already-failed, one in my dream world. Nothankyou. I'll pass.
Dreams aren't always the most entertaining part of sleep in my house, though. Sometimes it's the lack of sleep that provides us with more laughs. When my four-year-old son is upset and trying to soothe himself to sleep, we can hear him--through our ceiling, since our room is below his--cooing and rocking on his hands and knees. If we were watching him when this was happening, we'd almost always find him covered head-to-toe in the cocoon of a warm blanket. It is his thing. (It almost makes me smile thinking of him still having to put himself to sleep the same way as an adult.) When sleep is eluding my husband, he lays in bed, staring into the distance, jiggling his foot. And when I say "jiggle", it's more like flopping it so hard the bed shakes. That's Billy's thing. It drives me up-the-wall crazy, but it is contagious. Recently, I've found myself lying on my side, shaking a hip side-to-side sometimes when I am falling asleep. I sure hope that's not my thing. I think this just means we are totally losing our grip on sanity, which I'm sure we've all seen coming for a while now.
As much as I do love sleep, I also love insomnia. I do some of my best work when sleep won't come to me, or when I ignore it altogether. Maybe it is because the house is quiet and relatively peaceful. Trust me when I say it is difficult to focus on or accomplish anything with any variable of my kids awake and fully-functioning. It is next-to-impossible to clean my house unless the boys are away or comatose. That's why bedtime for the boys is, hands-down, my favorite time of the whole entire day, and I generally hate to ruin a good thing by going to bed early myself. Usually when I can't sleep it is because I am busy doing something other than sleeping that I cannot also do easily when the boys are up and at 'em--maybe sewing or exercising or watching t.v. When Billy can't sleep it is usually because he is horribly upset about something and can't turn the power off to his brain... and the boy can stay awake for weeks. I wish I was kidding. While Zombie Billy is certainly a treat, he's not quite the picnic I imagined being married to.
It is hard to remember a time when sleep wasn't a precious commodity in my life, but I guess that just means that we, as adults, are gaining a new, deeper appreciation for it as each day passes and we see little of it. Sleep will return to us soon, I pray, and maybe it will stay longer than just a visit over coffee.... and then maybe I will get to ask for relationship advice for my new ex-boyfriend--in between answering phone calls, that is.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Purple Dress
I hesitated to look in their direction for a long while, curled up in my worn green bathrobe and flannel pajamas. To say it was strained would have been perhaps the largest understatement ever uttered, but we still made the effort to be as normal as we knew how. The tree this year was as large as any we'd ever had, its massive boughs twinkling with colored lights and mementos of happier times. No one spoke much, out of necessity; I was occupying a seat close to the nearest exit, out of necessity. My first box came, and I eagerly pushed aside the pain for a single joyful moment, with the remembered happiness of a child. The colored paper ripped away, the box opened, I brought the tissue-wrapped contents to me, into view.... and stopped, frozen.
The gift shattered me, sent my heart plummeting to the earth, bringing with it a wave of nausea. A tiny purple dress. Velvet with an intricate decorative punched-out trim, snowy white cap sleeves, collar, and lacy petticoat. The first gift for my unborn child. I feigned interest and thankfulness, though I wanted nothing more than to bolt from the room run anywhere I could be alone. I don't remember any other gift under the tree that year, though I am sure there were several more. It is that purple dress I remember most of all, and I am sure its memory will stay with me until the day I breathe my last.
Now, it's not that the purple dress was a horrible gift. On the contrary, it was a considerably gracious gesture from my parents to me, as they were still reeling from the blow that I was unmarried and pregnant with my first child at nineteen. I suppose it should not have surprised me if I should have received nothing, and yet they tried to maintain a tongue-in-cheek normalcy. All I could feel that day was that I'd been delivered a blow to the ribs, heaping insult onto more insult upon my injury. My parents desperately loved me, this I knew, but they did not fully understand how bad off I was.
The months passed, my baby grew. I struggled to celebrate this new life and simultaneously mourned the end of my simplistic existence, all relatively alone. There seemed to be an understanding between my parents and I, but we both knew that our trust in one another was still in healing stages. I had long since asked for forgiveness from God and from my parents, and had contacted most of my friends to tell them where I had gone. Many of my friends left me to my own destruction. Life was quiet, only punctuated by a underlying sadness, a yearning to be a family--as if that would make things right in the world.
His phone call came near the beginning of my second trimester. It was full of unwelcome revelation, and signaled an end to any faint glimmer of hope for a family to be formed. The flame flickering had been snuffed out by a frigid wind. I felt myself breathe a sigh of relief between anguished sobs. I am ripped in two, unsure if I want to continue breathing, but knowing that if I choose to carry on, that at least I know there is no longer a question of his participation. A clean break.
The sun is bright and hot, streaming through the blinds, and I am feeling uncomfortable. I quickly adjust the wide waistband of the white, gauzy maternity shorts set over my ballooned stomach, and sheepishly cut into the cake. A smiling baby grins up at me from the icing, and I close my eyes as a slice cleanly across his face. The room is full of joyful well-wishers, mostly friends and family, those dear souls who have come to support me in my unconventional situation despite their own personal convictions. I am eternally thankful for them being there with me, though I am not enjoying being the center of attention and would rather be merely a face in the crowd. Four family members are noticeably absent, though, wisely, no one asks about them. They have been forbidden to come to the shower, told that their presence would signify that they agreed with my actions and situation. Though it wasn't said, I knew I was being made an example to all of the others. It is painful to be the example, and I am ashamed all over again even on this happy occasion, even though I have made my peace with God.
The hurt remains from such a seemingly minuscule act for years, though I hide it within me, masking the bruises behind careful smiles when they are around. He is on his deathbed, and I do not know how to say good-bye. I am struggling because my heart still aches from the grievance, and yet I love him because he is my blood. Finally, I decide to write a heartfelt note in a "get-well-soon" card, telling him that I forgive him--though perhaps he felt like he didn't need to be forgiven--but he is gone before the card can reach him in the hospital. The apology never falls upon his ears, or is seen by his eyes. The hurt remains now, though I know I've always understood why he felt he needed to hurt me.
***
The new nursery is nearing completion, with seemingly not a minute to spare. I am sorting through the contents of some boxes that have been hidden in the closet for years, hoping there is something that will fit my fourth son, when I once again unearth the purple dress. I clutch the purple dress to my face, letting tears fill my eyes as I am transported to that Christmas. Despite my proficiency at producing male offspring, and despite the emotional response it evokes each time I see it, I keep that purple dress. Perhaps it is a tangible reminder to me to be gracious and tender-hearted to those around me who are struggling in or out of their difficult circumstances, to never place them on display as a warning to others because I so vividly remember the pain of being there myself. Perhaps the purple dress indirectly reminds me of feeling alienated from someone I loved and having to live with the fact that I was never able to forgive them for making the decision they felt they needed to. The purple dress is a symbol of so much more than a mere piece of clothing. It is love and heartache, all in one.
For me, life is a collection of beauty and pain, purple dresses.
The gift shattered me, sent my heart plummeting to the earth, bringing with it a wave of nausea. A tiny purple dress. Velvet with an intricate decorative punched-out trim, snowy white cap sleeves, collar, and lacy petticoat. The first gift for my unborn child. I feigned interest and thankfulness, though I wanted nothing more than to bolt from the room run anywhere I could be alone. I don't remember any other gift under the tree that year, though I am sure there were several more. It is that purple dress I remember most of all, and I am sure its memory will stay with me until the day I breathe my last.
Now, it's not that the purple dress was a horrible gift. On the contrary, it was a considerably gracious gesture from my parents to me, as they were still reeling from the blow that I was unmarried and pregnant with my first child at nineteen. I suppose it should not have surprised me if I should have received nothing, and yet they tried to maintain a tongue-in-cheek normalcy. All I could feel that day was that I'd been delivered a blow to the ribs, heaping insult onto more insult upon my injury. My parents desperately loved me, this I knew, but they did not fully understand how bad off I was.
The months passed, my baby grew. I struggled to celebrate this new life and simultaneously mourned the end of my simplistic existence, all relatively alone. There seemed to be an understanding between my parents and I, but we both knew that our trust in one another was still in healing stages. I had long since asked for forgiveness from God and from my parents, and had contacted most of my friends to tell them where I had gone. Many of my friends left me to my own destruction. Life was quiet, only punctuated by a underlying sadness, a yearning to be a family--as if that would make things right in the world.
His phone call came near the beginning of my second trimester. It was full of unwelcome revelation, and signaled an end to any faint glimmer of hope for a family to be formed. The flame flickering had been snuffed out by a frigid wind. I felt myself breathe a sigh of relief between anguished sobs. I am ripped in two, unsure if I want to continue breathing, but knowing that if I choose to carry on, that at least I know there is no longer a question of his participation. A clean break.
The sun is bright and hot, streaming through the blinds, and I am feeling uncomfortable. I quickly adjust the wide waistband of the white, gauzy maternity shorts set over my ballooned stomach, and sheepishly cut into the cake. A smiling baby grins up at me from the icing, and I close my eyes as a slice cleanly across his face. The room is full of joyful well-wishers, mostly friends and family, those dear souls who have come to support me in my unconventional situation despite their own personal convictions. I am eternally thankful for them being there with me, though I am not enjoying being the center of attention and would rather be merely a face in the crowd. Four family members are noticeably absent, though, wisely, no one asks about them. They have been forbidden to come to the shower, told that their presence would signify that they agreed with my actions and situation. Though it wasn't said, I knew I was being made an example to all of the others. It is painful to be the example, and I am ashamed all over again even on this happy occasion, even though I have made my peace with God.
The hurt remains from such a seemingly minuscule act for years, though I hide it within me, masking the bruises behind careful smiles when they are around. He is on his deathbed, and I do not know how to say good-bye. I am struggling because my heart still aches from the grievance, and yet I love him because he is my blood. Finally, I decide to write a heartfelt note in a "get-well-soon" card, telling him that I forgive him--though perhaps he felt like he didn't need to be forgiven--but he is gone before the card can reach him in the hospital. The apology never falls upon his ears, or is seen by his eyes. The hurt remains now, though I know I've always understood why he felt he needed to hurt me.
***
The new nursery is nearing completion, with seemingly not a minute to spare. I am sorting through the contents of some boxes that have been hidden in the closet for years, hoping there is something that will fit my fourth son, when I once again unearth the purple dress. I clutch the purple dress to my face, letting tears fill my eyes as I am transported to that Christmas. Despite my proficiency at producing male offspring, and despite the emotional response it evokes each time I see it, I keep that purple dress. Perhaps it is a tangible reminder to me to be gracious and tender-hearted to those around me who are struggling in or out of their difficult circumstances, to never place them on display as a warning to others because I so vividly remember the pain of being there myself. Perhaps the purple dress indirectly reminds me of feeling alienated from someone I loved and having to live with the fact that I was never able to forgive them for making the decision they felt they needed to. The purple dress is a symbol of so much more than a mere piece of clothing. It is love and heartache, all in one.
For me, life is a collection of beauty and pain, purple dresses.
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