So Much More(43)

I eat two peanut butter sandwiches and drink a bottle of water from my stash.

After the sun goes down, I pee behind Miranda’s high hedges next to the gate.

I doze off around three in the morning and sleep for an hour.

I pee behind the hedges again before the sun comes up.

I eat an apple and another peanut butter sandwich and drink my last bottle of water.

After twenty-four hours of sulking in the cesspool of Miranda’s villainy, I relent and leave.

I drive straight through, only stopping for gas.

My body, mind, and spirit are wrecked by the time I get home.

I write my kids a letter telling them about every evil thing their mother has ever done. I tell them how much I hate her. And how much they should hate her. And how sorry I am that she’s in their life. And how I wish she would die and rot in hell.

And then I crumple it up and throw it in the trash because my kids don’t need my hate.

They need my love.

So, I pull out another piece of paper and I write:





I fold it in half and tuck it in the shoebox with the others.

And then I drink some tequila and skip the sleeping pill because I’m already so tired I can’t see straight, and I fall into a state of rest so solid that it takes fourteen hours for me to deconstruct it and emerge on the other side.

When I do my chest still feels hollow, like Miranda took a blunt spoon to it, emptying the cavity of my life force and ability to love or see the good in anything.





Shedding regret like snakeskin





past





I’m standing in what was, up until an hour ago, my master bedroom. It belongs to someone else now. I shouldn’t be here. I signed the closing paperwork and handed over the keys this morning. But I kept one so I could come back and say goodbye.

The room is empty. There are indentations in the carpet where the four-poster bed and dresser stood. An imperfect reminder that there used to be life in this room.

Now it’s quiet.

And cold.

Like me.

The divorce is final. I’ve been in Seattle with Loren for weeks. Living my new life. The life I wanted.

That’s what I keep reminding myself—it’s the life I wanted.

Loren and I were married last night. He arranged for a minister to come to his house to conduct the ceremony. It lasted five minutes. I lied to Seamus and told him we were headed to Europe this morning for an extended honeymoon. There won’t be a honeymoon; we didn’t even go out for dinner afterward.

I close my eyes and let grief and loss and regret overtake me, something I never do. Something I never allow. But that’s why I’m here. It’s been eating at me, and I hate it. I feel like a snake trapped in skin I’m trying to shed, but it won’t fall away. It sticks with me, itchy and uncomfortable. I need to release it so I can move on.

I can see Seamus in my mind, so handsome. Hair as dark as midnight and eyes to match. Eyes that didn’t just look upon me, they looked into me. Golden brown skin he received from his mother and a tall, broad frame that could swallow me up when he wrapped me in it.

And now that I can feel his touch again, there are tears in my eyes. He’s the only man I’ve ever been with who made love to me. Even if I didn’t return it, he gave me all of him, his body and his heart, because that’s how he did everything. I took it for granted. I gravitated toward the physicality of sex with others because it was need driven, solely to satisfy an itch. I couldn’t reciprocate love driven. But I realize now how much I loved receiving it.

I traded in love for power.

It wasn’t a fair trade.

Not even close.

I always thought I was the one in control where Seamus was concerned. Fooling him to ensure he participated in our love. I told myself the attention I showed him was brokering. I gave an inch. I gained a mile. Disproportionate, that’s how our relationship functioned. He never noticed, or if he did he never let on because I married a giver, not a taker. He was content receiving a compliment here and there, or a loving touch when I could spare it, or the occasional deep conversation. Seamus was easy, quality over quantity. Presence enthralled him and he made the most of every minute. At the time, I thought I coaxed it out of him with skillful manipulation. Sitting in this room, mired in regret, I wonder if my skillful manipulation was nothing more than Seamus coaxing actual feelings out of me. While I thought I was inciting compliance with orchestrated attention, I was merely reacting to his attention. Craving it, however sparingly.

I’m going to sit in this room and I’m going to cry myself out.

I hate crying and the longer I cry, the angrier I become.

Angry with me. Angry with Loren. Angry with Seamus. Angry with feelings I don’t want to feel. Angry with depression that’s threatening to smother me. Angry with the helplessness and loneliness that’s become my constant companion.

Just f*cking angry.

And I want everyone else to feel it with me.





Sometimes a blessing is disguised as despair





present





Sometimes I drive to our old neighborhood. I never drive by the house Miranda and I owned. I go to the library and mill around. Or I sit in the park and watch toddlers feed stale bread to the birds. Or I go to the grocery store and buy a jar of pickles.