Pancakes Taste Like Poverty: And Other Post-Divorce Revelations (16 page)

Even when my marriage was on fire I still had
someone to lean into when shit got shitty.

Now I want to get it out, I feel too full. But I
look around and it's just the kids who need something from me and
have little to give.

It's not their fault. They're children.

But children can't listen, support and console
and shouldn't have to.

So I feel things, and just sit there hurting with
nowhere to put it and no one to help share it.

The
Mug

When
I was in 7th grade I had a crush on a friend who was a huge fan of
The Doors. In typical middle-school girl fashion, I immersed myself
in all things Jim Morrison in an effort to deepen the friendship. In
the end, the guy didn't like me back but I'd developed an interest in
music beyond the Top 40 station.
The Doors became the symbol of
my middle school experience.
But all of that had been erased
until my mom found the mug.

When I was 20 and found out I was pregnant with
my oldest, he and I moved in together in a feeble attempt to create a
family.

He'd always been a subtly possessive boyfriend.
None of the typical "tell me where you're going and who you'll
be with" stalker-type stuff. My ex was fond of sabotage.
When
I wanted to see a play with my girlfriends, he came along and
drunkenly booed and whooped so much I had to apologize to my friends
and we left. When my best friend had her graduation art showing, he
promised to behave but got slurry drunk and made a scene. I
apologized and left again. We temporarily broke up. But when he found
out I went out with another man he drove across town to crash the
date.
My social circle shrank until there was no one left but him
and his family.

But he didn't just erase my friends, he erased
me
. I remember when he came to my apartment to help me pack so
we could move in together. He took one look at my stack of yearbooks
and said "We are not moving that shit."

"But those are my yearbooks. I went to the
same school from first grade to graduation. Those are my memories."

"You don't need those memories. You said
high school sucked for you. Plus,
you
don't have to move those
heavy books because you're pregnant.
I'm
the one who's gonna
have to move them and I'm saying they're pointless. How often do you
sit down and look at a yearbook? Never. Exactly. We're not taking
them."

And just like that, a chunk of my past was gone.

Next he took out my taste in music, mocking my
love of boy bands until I was too embarrassed to listen. Then my
sacred New Kids on the Block blanket.

I'd had that ratty blanket since I was 9 years
old. It was well-loved. It was super comfortable but,more than that,
it was a little bit of me. It was a goofy, adolescent, childish giddy
me but it was me.

I was erased and I had no tastes or hobbies or
interests outside of him for the next 8 or 9 years because I couldn't
bear to have it ripped away again.

And I developed a compulsive habit. I became the
exact opposite of a hoarder. If something wasn't useful, it was
purged. I purged constantly and impulsively and cleanly. I went
through 6 couches in as many years, just dumping them. They would
feel like they were crowding me and I
hated
them because I
didn't pick them so I would just get rid of them. I purged my
belongings every 6 months. Compulsively. Then inevitably I would
wonder where that awesome blender went, or why I no longer had that
cute belt and then I'd remember that I'd tossed it because it wasn't
proving it's usefulness that day.

I looked at everyone else like they were a bunch
of materialistic pigs. When people had clutter in their cabinets or
counters I felt bad for them.
I
only held things that were of
use. I did not have room for sentimentality.

For that reason, I only have one picture of me
pregnant and I was pregnant for five years. There are almost no
pictures of my youngest child as a baby. Memories were frivolous.

I didn't notice this was a problem until his
sister pointed it out. Still, I felt superior.

It wasn't until I had been out on my own for a
while and, realizing that I owned almost nothing, I decided that
keeping things around might serve handy at some point. Again, when I
left my husband I left with my kids, my clothing and little else
because there
was
nothing else. Just a few random boxes of
books and esoteric knick-knacks that meant nothing to me.

So in my fevered, desperate desire to "find
myself" after my divorce it became painfully clear that I was
not reflected anywhere in my life. My life was hand-me-downs.
Hand-me-downs that have
saved
us. But still, not very much of
myself.

So now, a couple of years out of my relationship,
I receive a call from my mom. We gab for a while about kids and
nonsense and then she says to me, "Oh, I have to bring you your
Jim Morrison coffee mug!"

"My what?"

"There is this Jim Morrison coffee mug of
yours I've been holding onto until you were ready."

"Ready for a mug, mom?"

"Yeah, I wanted to wait until you got
yourself back. Now you're back so you can have your mug."

So now I am sitting on a bed I picked out for
myself, that wasn't handed down to me or from a dumpster. There's a
pair of purple Converse on the floor to my left, a stack of books
about reincarnation and astrophysics to my right and I'm drinking out
of a Jim Morrison coffee mug - the last remnant of my "Self"
from my life before my Big Lesson.

I don't listen to The Doors anymore but it
doesn't matter. Jim is a totem of myself from when I was adolescent
and
just
putting myself together, not unlike now. Jim Mug is
just a lovely reminder that I am a
person
outside of my
marriage and my kids. I existed before all of it, and will continue
to exist when I'm done.

I'm still
in
here.

I'm still here.

Stages of Loneliness: New Stage
Discovered – February 2013

When I wrote
about The Stages of Loneliness several months ago, I was frozen in
what I called "Paralysis" stage and was hoping and praying
for some sort of "Acceptance" stage beyond that.

Well, I am happy to report that that stage,
indeed, happens.

After the less-than-successful visit from my ex
in December I decided that my hyper-vigilant, over-protective,
paranoia-like fear and hesitation toward introducing any male energy
into my sacred lady space was probably a little counter-productive. I
started opening my home to dude friends.

It seemed to me that I was doing something good
by limiting my kids' exposure to mentally unstable men but was
skewing their perspective by not offering any healthy and normal
alternatives. So we started socializing with my dude friends, like
exposure therapy.
First, the "safe" ones - the ones who
are happily married with kids and cool wives. None of them hit on me
or abducted my kids so I could move on to the next step. Next, it was
time to move on to the scariest kind of men...single ones.

That wasn't so bad either.

They were all very helpful and it felt good to
let someone else do something for me. One friend helped me paint my
daughter's room and even though I would have done a better job by
myself it was nice to feel backed up. It was nice to feel like I was
part of a little team. I forgot about those little “couple”
things.

Anywho, the painting guy and a couple other guys
started to catch feelings and I was willing to entertain it. I wasn't
scared. So I started "dating" in the hopes of breaking my
sex drought for my 31st birthday but guess what happened?

I learned that I have a very,
very
short
tolerance for negativity. I don't like "Debbie Downer" guys
who have a lot of negative, judgmental things to say. You know the
type. They are so intellectual that they are constantly cynical and
sarcastic? That is something I overlooked when I married my ex that I
realize I can't stomach now.

I also learned that I have a very low tolerance
for neediness and dependence. I am super focused on my kids and
myself right now so calling me
every single day
is straight up
unacceptable. Trying to guilt trip me into spending more time, when I
am completely upfront about my lack of availability, is childish and
annoying.
And (mom and dad, don't read) not,
ahem...
reciprocating!

NOT COOL.

I never spoke to or saw that guy again because
no.

Ultimately, as one of my friends confirmed to me,
I've gone this long without sex so what's another few months? I'm not
giving it up for sub-par service or for lukewarm, neutral feelings
toward the other party. No thank you.

So yeah "Acceptance" happens and
growing standards happens.

You push through and suffer and cry through
loneliness and you come out on the other end able to deal with and
be
with yourself. It's a bit like how labor and childbirth becomes the
compass for pain for the rest of your life. I had two kids naturally
and my anesthesia wore off during the cesarean of my third. So now
when I, say, slice my hand or get a migraine I can always say "meh,
I felt myself being sliced open. This is no big deal."

I can say that now about me.
Some random Joe
who's "nice" and "has a good job" and "sober"
but is negative, needy, and doesn't give a shit about whether or not
I'm enjoying myself (y'know) doesn't deserve my attention or vagina
just because he's
marginally
better than my ex.
"Better
than my ex" isn't the same as "good for me.”

Meh, I felt loneliness. I didn't run from it or
try to put band-aids on it. Keep waiting for the right one? No big
deal.

Oh yeah, that's something else I learned.

I
do
want companionship. It's pretty cool.
I'm still not sold on the value of marriage for myself, personally,
but yes I would like to share my life and time and bed with someone.
Look at that turnaround!

In the meantime, I'll continue to date myself. If
someone intriguing floats into my world, cool. If they float out,
fine. I can't imagine that good sex would be enough for me to hang on
to a relationship like it was before I'd allowed myself to steep in
lonely and just figure myself out. Or, you know that
absolutely-no-chemistry but he's "nice" so
I-guess-I-should-just-date-him-for-not-being-an-asshole crap?

Been there. Done that.

Lonely is a choice. If you really work on loving
yourself and surrounding yourself with people who love you for real
lonely won't hurt.

But you can't teach what
you don't know and for that reason, I will fail them.

I don’t know
anything about healthy romantic relationships, though. Not a thing.

It hurts knowing there is definitely, absolutely
something you will
not
teach your child.

As a parent, I feel like I am supposed to do it
all. I am supposed to make them completely ready for adulthood.

Stranger danger! Unsafe touch! Don’t play
with fire. Wear a rubber. Don’t drink and drive. Don’t do
drugs. Clean up after yourself. Please and thank you. Make a list.
Keep your word. Question authority. Fight for others. Eat your
greens.
I can teach that.

But I can’t teach what I don’t know
and I’ve never been in love.

Things Jack Says

"I'm
going to be the President. All the women will vote for me, not
because I'm handsome but because I will make sure women get paid the
same much. And I will go back to '80s gas prices but not '80s clothes
because that was just crazy."

Tension – March 2013

I don’t remember
what sexual tension feels like and it’s starting to worry me.

About six years ago I was working at a place
where there were a lot of flirty men in uniforms and suits all the
time and I was very married. My life was sexual tension. It was
everywhere every day. A flirt from this coworker. A wink from that
business man. I had constant butterfly belly and my skin was always
electrified. It was a good time. It made for a temporarily hot
marriage.

Around this time I submitted two stories to an
erotica website and got a good response. Both are still labeled “hot”
which means they are rated above a 4.5 out of 5. Of course, I am
hypercritical of my work and not really a fan of either piece but at
the time I was proud. They were easy to write and I wrote dozens more
for my own personal reflection or to email to friends.

Recently, I was talking to a friend who is
attempting a polyamorous relationship with her husband and another
man. The “another man” has ignited my friend immensely.
When I talk to her I can hear sexual tension in her voice. I can hear
that panting dizziness and the butterfly belly and electric skin. She
says things and I can relate to her but only in my head. My body does
not remember.

When a girlfriend tells me about the pain and
mania of her spouse’s infidelity I can
feel
it all
over again. It lives in my throat and in my chest.

When I hear someone talk about their alcoholic
husband/brother/mother/friend I can feel that, too. It burns in my
cheeks and it makes me clench my fists.

But when my friend tells me about her rendezvous
with her other man I can’t
feel
anything. I can't
remember the last man who gave me butterflies and trembly hands and
tingly ears. I know it
happened
. But I’ve forgotten
what it feels like.

I think about those of us who have gotten puffy
as the years have crawled along. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve
subconsciously decided that decadent food is the last real pleasure I
have left.