grief

Thirty Years of Quiet

/ Laurie / Leave a comment

It was less than a week; a mere five days after my previous post, I received a phone call, one I never expected to receive. Not because I was not warranted a call, but simply because I did not know how someone would possibly contact me when I knew so little myself. As I mentioned in that last post, it has just been in the past few years that I finally took the time to face my pain and sorrow and deal with the grief that was consuming me.

I was house sitting and watching football when my phone rang and I saw a name on the caller ID that I had not seen in years. It was my ex-mother-in-law. I instantly thought something must have happened to Dad and was quickly preparing myself for the worst. Even though it has been thirty years, this year in fact, and the occasional phone calls ended long ago. We still stayed in touch via Facebook, and I always felt loved and knew they were proud of their grandchildren. So the sudden thought that one of them was gone was heartbreaking.

I said hello, and there was that oh-so-familiar voice saying, “Laurie, it’s Mom; Dad needs to talk to you.” I was suddenly wondering what on earth might be wrong, and then I heard Dad, and with his voice nearly breaking, he simply said, “Eddie (their son, my ex-husband) died last night.”

If I had not had the phone resting on the arm of the sofa and on speaker, I would have dropped it. I was instantly in shock, and I was overwhelmed with so many emotions. He would share with me that Eddie had recently reached out to his brother and even more recently had been quite ill and in the hospital, and that is where he died. He didn’t have a lot of information at the time, so our call was short. When I hung up, I fell into myself and wept. The sort of loud aching cries you see on a sad and dramatic movie. I was consumed with the tears and flooded with memories of a lifetime ago.

I reached out to a few friends, women on my “Prayer Warrior” list, and asked them to pray with me, for me, and of course, the rest of the family. Then I waited for my daughter to get home so I could tell her. I also called my other daughter and shared the news with her and sent a text to my son, who was working, letting him know I wanted to talk to him when he got home. Their reactions were their own, realizing that this is someone who was once labeled “dad” or “father,” that this man played the role for so little of their lives, and that his absence had been acknowledged years ago and that part of their lives quite simply left in the past.

I, on the other hand, kept drifting back into the vast valleys of nothingness; that is, until I would get back to the very beginning, to a mountain range and a river and a love I thought would never end. We met in Wyoming, surrounded by the beautiful Teton Mountains, and often walked along the edges of the great Snake River. It was so beautiful there, and our lives were just as beautiful. Our two oldest children were born there in Jackson Hole, and we had friends and such a good little life. He was a carpenter and built houses, but when you have more months of snow and winter-type weather than not, it is hard to maintain that sort of livelihood.

So we moved to Georgia, to be near his family and continue our life. And this is where our love story would take a not-so-lovely turn. He was an addict, sober when I met him and those first few months in Georgia. If you know anything about addicts or alcoholics, it is often talked about: old playgrounds and old playmates. With our move, my loving husband would step into both.

I won’t take you through it all; it’s much too long and doesn’t all need to be told, but it all was turned upside down so quickly, and while looking back, I could see the start of it much sooner than the woman I was then. And while it might be interesting to play the “what if” of the whole situation, I won’t do that either. It simply was, until it wasn’t, and when it wasn’t, it was bad.

We went from a life where even after working an 8-10 hour day, my husband would come home and take over with the kids. He would change diapers and help get them off to bed; he really was a wonderful daddy in those short first years and just as wonderful of a husband. We would often spend an evening after the kids were asleep dancing in the living room listening to Garth, Tim, and Faith. The early 90s provided for some pretty great country music. We loved and enjoyed it all. In fact, it was two of Garth’s songs that provided me grounding and solace as the years would grow longer and his absence just as long. The River, as well as The Dance. It was through these two songs, somehow “living” them to a sense, that I made it through the darkest of days.

But then that fall, some thirty-odd years ago, it ended just as quickly as it began. We had met in Oct 1992 and married the following Oct, a year to the day. And it would be after a little over a year of living in Georgia that the fall would be the setting for the end of our story. Life was crashing around us; we were evicted from our home and moved in temporarily with his parents, who I am sure only took us in because of the kids. They were 3 years old, 2 years old, and 4 months old, and I will be forever grateful that they gave me the stepping stone I would need to move forward into a dark and lonely unknown.

And I would move forward because after a month of living with his parents while their home was staged for sale, I finally had to make a choice, and I chose my children. His parents were gone most of the weekends we were staying with them at the end, as they were house hunting in Florida and would be moving. That was another thing that weighed heavy on my decision. I would not have anyone to help bail us out if something like this happened again. Yes, his brother and family were there, but it was hard enough asking his parent for help. I couldn’t imagine needing to turn to them in such a manner.

Once I decided I would be going home to Nebraska, his parents asked me to have him leave. So I did; I packed up all his clothes and put them in a backpack, and when he came home on that particular night, I told him I was leaving with the kids and gave him his things. He wanted to see the kids; I wouldn’t let him. I didn’t want to confuse them, plus they were excited about going on an airplane to see their other grandparents.

He hugged me that night, long and tight… I did not hug him back; I was terrified that if I did, I would never let go. So I didn’t, and when he finally released me, he turned around and walked off into the darkness defeated and broken. I went inside and fell to the floor, my back against the door, and I cried until there were no more tears. Then I went to bed, so I could get my kids ready for our big adventure in the morning.

It would be another year before I would file for divorce, hoping that our leaving would be his “bottom” and he would follow us to Nebraska. He never did and thus began my journey as a single mom. I would struggle with my own demons and addictions, alcoholism rearing its ugly head, yet it would be another decade before I would tackle that part of my so-called life.

So here I am three decades later, over two decades sober, and stronger than I ever could have imagined. I have done a lot of additional reflection in these past couple of weeks, pondering on just where my path has taken me. Oddly enough, I wouldn’t change much. Because it is that unpredictable, difficult, often scary road I was guided down, that road got me to my here and now, to the wonderful place I am today. If even one small thing had changed or altered my path, well, I think I would have missed out on some pretty wonderful relationships, including the addition of my youngest daughter. As well as a few lifelong friends, even though we are now separated by part or most of the state.

It is during this reflection and some well-timed events at work when I have been challenged to do some deep thinking, to survey all that has transpired behind me, and to think about what the future might hold. Thinking a lot about life and legacy and just what I want to be remembered for. What I want to leave for the ones I leave behind.

I have been fortunate to work for the same company for going on eight years this December. This in itself is crazy, because I have never been at any one job for this long, ever. It is an incredible company, and it is the ethics and culture that have also allowed me to deepen my own values, and in addition, adding ones, such as “assume positive intent,” bleed from the workplace into my life.

Don’t get me wrong, even with all I have been through, I usually have tried to see the best in people, to my own detriment at times, but over these past few years, while engrossed in such a positive work culture and being involved in a recovery program, I was able to put some of those processes to work in my day-to-day work and home life. The whole idea of adages like “All I need to know I learned in kindergarten” or “Treat others the way you want to be treated,” as well as “Do the next right thing.” Putting these phrases into action, walking the walk, not just talking… So many of these have become a part of my core being.

So as I contemplate this loss and its true finality, the tears were brief, because I did the hardest part of the work five years ago, and for that I am so grateful. I am also so thankful for a bit of news that also helped me to remember the man I once loved over the one who let me leave. As you will recall, I doted on what a wonderful father and husband this man had been. And he was; he would bring me flowers “just because,” leave the bar and come home to me and the babies, and not give a damn about what his friends thought. He is the man who loved and then adopted my oldest child; to him, she was always his. He was a good man, with a loving heart, who lost everything I hope he held dear to his disease.

On one of the calls with my in-laws, Dad shared that back in January, Eddie had made it known he was to be an organ donor. The fact that he could be gives me hope he found some sort of sobriety in the end. That knowledge makes me smile. So even with failing lungs, that would lead to his death; he was able to donate, and he ultimately saved three lives. It is that gesture, that final act of goodness, that makes his loss not as heavy and those early memories a little fonder and easier to hold on to.

I hope he found peace in the end; he deserves that, we all do. It would be so easy to think, “Good riddance.” What did he do for me anyways? I will tell you what he did: he was the first and only man who loved me completely and without hesitation, even though I was broken and scarred. He didn’t care; he simply loved. He helped me heal, and then, without knowing it, his actions would help give me the strength to do the unthinkable and raise my family, our family, on my own.

Do I wish life would have been easier? Yes, one hundred times, yes! But there is another phrase that I am quite fond of: “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.” I used to think, and even say out loud to Him, “Why do you think I am strong enough for this?” It would be years later from the first time I heard it to hearing an additional piece of wisdom that one needs to consider with that phrase. He gives you the things, situations He knows you need to turn to Him or someone else for help; none of it was meant to be tackled alone. Man, I wish I would have learned that part sooner; independence and pride kept me struggling for so long. Living in the insanity of doing the same thing over and over again… with nothing ever changing.

Today I have learned to ask for help when I need it, and surprisingly I need it less. I still try and put family first, especially with all my new grandchildren. I would do anything I could for any and all of them. And that is where my legacy or what I want it to look like comes in. I want them to know, just like their parents did, that Nana will always be there unless she absolutely can’t. That I will cheer the loudest, even if it might embarrass you as you get older. I am oh so proud of everything you do. That I will always write “Love you bunches, Nana” in each and every book. Because I do.

I often use the following hashtags when I post photos of my family, especially the grands, and I think that is how I will end this post: #NanaLife #iamblessed #familyiseverything (because I am and it is)

Silent Abyss

/ Laurie / Leave a comment

“Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you.” – Anne Lamott

Hello again. Here I am finally plugging back in to one of the things I find most important–sharing my voice, filling the silence. Long time no… anything. If you came here to hear from me recently and not so recently, you would perhaps have had the already present words echoing around the once again created void.

Many months ago, I found myself harboring a resentment. Dwelling on what I thought should have happened and then mulling over all that was occurring–or should I say, had occurred. I put my trust with someone and at a time when I was still dealing with so much grief and struggle; I was placed in a place that I did not want to be in. Hurting, but being put on the spot by someone who was supposed to be one of my “safe places.” Angrily being told I was picking all the wrong things to do and work on. That my working on myself, learning how to deal with my grief (which they had encouraged), was overshadowing the things they felt were more important for me to be considering. That I was choosing one place or situation or group of people over another and that it needed to be changed. This person looked at me and asked, “How much Grief Share do you need anyways?”

I was at a loss for words, I just stood there, not knowing how to respond and trying not to cry. I managed to get some sort of words out, that allowed the conversation to end and walked away. I was in shock, dumbfounded, how could this person be so harsh, so ugly with their words? I simply didn’t know, and I also didn’t know what to do about the situation. Now, this person did send an apologetic text, expressing that they were sorry for their behavior and hoped that I could forgive them. I said I did, because I wanted to, but it ended up creating a harder path to travel with this person. A path I would try to stay on until I simply could not any longer.

For me, the text was never enough, it could have been generated by AI for all I knew and what I wanted was to hear this person voice the apology, to see the truth of it in their face… but that is something that never happened. We ventured to some of the same places, and this person would reach out to me and offer me a ride, (what was I supposed to say, NO, I don’t want to ride with you. That would have been rude, I couldn’t be rude.) Many times I was tired and someone else driving was an appreciated gesture. We would be in the car together, and more times than not, they would act like nothing, had ever happened between us. This relational exchange was so frustrating, but I couldn’t find the words to say so, so I just kept wading in the sludge of our relationship.

This went on for a while, too long, mostly because I simply didn’t know how to end things, or even if that was indeed what I was supposed to do. So, I mustered the energy to keep trudging, even as the situation thickened around me. I continued wading in the sludge that was our toxic relationship. I did this daily, to my own detriment, until I simply couldn’t any longer.

The group of friends we shared often did things together, I was missing my other friends, but the idea of having to share space with this one person was often overwhelming and finally I knew that I had to make a hard choice if I were to keep my peace of mind, my sanity. So, I found a way to say all that I needed to say, back to the beginning incident. I shared that I did forgive them, but there was still so much ache, so much anguish from that previous moment, that I could simply not continue to have a relationship with them. The trust between us was no longer present, it had been dissolved by their actions and their words that day.

Feeling the freedom of that not-so-small action was short-lived, because I had to be intentional about where I went and what I did, choosing my steps wisely. But these choices, and frankly, lack of steps began a journey into a quiet abyss. And there I stayed, not doing much of anything unless it was with my family or church related. Top that with the fact I work from home, I became the Queen of Isolation, and in the beginning, it felt like sanctuary.

That sanctuary was short-lived. I saw the signs; I saw what I was doing–or better said, not doing–and did nothing to change. It wasn’t until my TV broke and while waiting for a part to try and fix it to arrive, I would watch the smaller TV in my bedroom, which is also my office. So, I went from isolating in my apartment, to isolating in my bedroom for hours on end. I suddenly realized how small my world was becoming. Self-created. I needed to make the effort for something to change. I had to make a change, or I might keep sliding further into the abyss. Telling myself the lies of old– there’s next to no one I can trust outside of family and I am better off alone; I can count on me… count on me to go crazy!

So, I am trying, trying to venture back out into the world again. A world that is larger than church or one of my children’s homes. It’s been interesting and I am probably still not getting out as much as I should, but I am trying. I have started going to a new/old fellowship group at church on a night I have open and its part of starting. Starting to do things differently, because I do know all too well, that doing the same thing over and over, is indeed only clinging to insanity. It’s time to let go.

It’s time to let go and let God, how many times have I heard that, said it myself, but still did nothing different. So here I am letting go of the chains that hold me down in this abyss and reaching out to the hands that are reaching out to me–most importantly to His hand, reaching down to lift me out and back into the vibrant colors of fall. I have a grin suddenly coming across my face, as the fall, this awkward month of October, used to be the anchor of another abyss. The abyss that led me to Greif Share and learning how to let go of the hurt and pain and instead hang onto the moments that lighten our hearts and lift us up out of the abyss.

Strong and Silent

/ Laurie / Leave a comment

Nearly three weeks ago, I received an early morning text from my younger brother. Which is a bit out of the ordinary, because we don’t talk a bunch. He said he wanted me to know he had been up early reading, my sister-in-law had directed him here, to my blog and he had read it all. He told me “the good Lord made you a talented writer and you need to tell your story” He also told me he loved me, but those words, the latter of his sentence, brought tears to my eyes. They were words that I thought, wouldn’t have believed he would ever say. I simply could have NEVER have imagined him saying, and I was indeed overwhelmed.

You see, I love my little brother, who is not so little any more, very much. We were very close growing up and he was always much more of an “older” brother in the way he acted, he was very protective and when we were both in trouble, he always had my back. We drifted apart when our parents divorced the summer I turned 14. I stayed with mom and he lived with dad, but I’m getting ahead of myself… let’s get back to why my hearing my brother telling me I should share my story moved me to tears.

Well, because my story, my TRUTH, which is also our story, is a hard story to tell, an even harder pill to swallow. Which I suppose is why I have continued to sit in the silence and this unbearable holding pattern, waiting for something, SOMEONE to give me the signal to move on; to move forward, outside the dark and quiet void. So for years I have waited in the void, rehashing old demons, creating and battling new ones; shedding armor only to put on more. All the while, quietly waiting to tell my story, to be given the opportunity to speak my truth.

The summer I was 12, was the summer my story began; or at least my most vivid memories. There was a day, that there had been an incident, and I was on the stairs crying. My brother came in and found me, he was 10 and being a pest and wouldn’t let up until I told him why I had been crying. He didn’t believe nothing and whatever else I must have told him, so I told him the truth… he freaked out, called me a liar and ran to his room. He took a nap and he forgot it all, because he never sad a word. So I decided right then and there to never say another word, if my own brother didn’t believe me, why would anyone?

So that Monday morning, in one quiet gesture, in a loving text, my brother gave me the nod to move forward – forward in the final phase of healing from the trauma I endured so many decades ago. Its like I have finally been given the permission to get up of the stairs in that old farmhouse where it all started. As if I have been sitting there ALL these years and now I am finally FREE! No more softly weeping, unable to move, afraid to do so; because if I did; the walls would come tumbling down around me.

Today, I am good, truly, my wounds are healed. I’ve been thru therapy, twice; and after 20 years of self medicating with alcohol and drugs, and basically marrying my father three different times; I found recovery, including out-patient treatment and started seeing myself differently and moving forward there were much fewer self inflicted wounds. Its been another 20 plus years, living life sober and today I know make better choices and I am living a life I am much prouder of. I still have struggles, that comes with life. But today, I know much better ways to deal with them.

As previous posts have revealed, the last two years proved especially difficult as I experienced more loss and grief than I could have imagined, and I did get caught up in the void, the isolation of that staircase, sitting there, alone and crying and just lost in the sadness. I used to pray on that staircase, and to my naïve and traumatized young self, I simply thought that God either didn’t hear me, or worse… didn’t care. Today, I know better, with FAITH, even in my sadness and sitting on those stairs again, I prayed, asking God to help me through.

So while there can be strength in silence, I am here to say, I have been silent for far too long. And if my not so “little” strong and silent brother can give this tortured writer the gentle and encouraging nod that I have been waiting for… if as I standup and start to walk away, I can hear the quiet rumble and feel the trembling around me, as the walls do come crumbling down. When the dust settles, I turn to see that the stairs are all that remains. Someone still sits there and I take a step back, raise my hand to shield my eyes and I see that it is 12yo me. She lifts her hand to wave and she smiles, and then she walks away, a skip in her step, nothing to fear.

I turn to do the same, maybe not skip (my 58 yo back and knees would not agree) but walk, away from the wreckage of my past, trudging along on a beautiful new path, that is filled with it’s own uncertainties, but today I am more than strong enough to do what needs to be done, including shatter the silence and stand strong.

How We Can Heal in the Silence

/ Laurie / Leave a comment

Hello again, I could start by apologizing for my lengthy absence, and its not that I am not sorry, because I am. I wanted to write and I did do some private journaling, its just that the darkness and loss continued to be so overwhelming; that sharing my voice simply wasn’t possible until now. And then I was finally navigating the numerous losses from December 2023 to May 2024, once again God took home two more angels, and my heart fell back into the ache that far too many people know and understand. That familiar darkness washed over me, inviting me in again, and I obliged.

What happened next was the unexpected fellowship I found amongst 12 veritable strangers. We met in a room at the church, each Wednesday night, for 3 months, 13 weeks if we’re counting specifically. And I do want to count each and every week, because it was on those Wednesday evenings, even on the nights when I couldn’t go… (my final loss came shortly after the Greif Share class began, when my Stepfather passed) that I found a new sort of solace that I had not yet found. Even with therapy and time that had passed preceding walking into that room on the first night.

Amongst The group was the husband and daughter of my dear friend who we all lost over a year ago, it was so wonderful, to share in such an intimate way with them; to be able to let my friend’s daughter know how much her mom loved being a grandmother. We both were new to having grandchildren and loved sharing our newest photos with one another. The couple who just recently lost their son, I only knew their faces because they set in front of me during our church service. The beautiful words he wrote at the end of his life and they so graciously shared with us. The love and grace and heart that was poured into this young man, by them and God, was such a comfort for us all. The two strong widows, women my own mom’s age, newly placed in this “new” role… it was with their quiet grace and the sharing of all the “firsts” that I was able to know where my own mother might be, since I don’t live close. It has been through the unfortunate loss of my stepdad, that my mom and I are closer that we have been in years, maybe even ever. I try to text her daily and call her once a week to talk to her, and that is a big change to where we used to be. A healing for us, as we heal from losing him.

There are the others in the group, and as a whole, every week, there was always something big that was experienced by one of us; some turning point, letting go, moving forward, that we could share and be vulnerable with one another and share where we were in the moment. But it was the ones I mentioned above, that I will forever feel connected to, thankful for and they helped through this part of my healing journey. I am forever grateful for the prayer warriors I know every single one of them are, as I continue to pray for them all, now that are sessions are complete. God created something special with our group, and I will forever hold them all in my heart.

Healing is indeed a process and we must go to Him, in all our uncertainty, all our failures, with all our short-comings and ask for His assistance, His forgiveness. Yet, if you are anything like me and you get caught up in the defects and short-comings; our sins, you may not feel worthy of forgiveness. And if we feel that way, we need to stop, immediately! Because that is the enemy telling his lies and we need to not listen and better yet, we need to tell him to shut up!!

But I get it, I used to live there, in that Valley of Unworthiness; the land of This is My Fault. So I just set there in silence, dealing with my consequences, instead of trying to learn a better way. Instead of asking, “God please help me” I had prayed so many times as a young girl, and He didn’t respond, so I finally gave up. If He didn’t help me then??? Why would He help me now? That’s when I began to learn a lot more about His will and timing.

This morning I read the following two statements about God’s love for us:

“Looking through the eyes of love, He already see us as we will be when His work is done.”

“The removal of our defects/sins (leaving holiness) is God’s will for each of us”

When we learn to understand this, believe this, we can be certain He will guide us, assist us, heal us, in His time, if we are asking and looking to Him for His direction.

What I learned in this extended silence, is that it isn’t empty… it’s full of answers.

Listen for yours, in your own quiet space.

The Silence That Nearly Killed Me

/ Laurie / Leave a comment

Each fall, each late September, early October, as the beautiful golden colors erupt; reds, yellows, oranges, golds – crisp, bright, bold. These colors are instead eclipsed by an overwhelming darkness. An immense and heavy void that weighs me down–pinning me back in time to moments that won’t set me free.

My heart would ache, physically ache, to the point that I literally thought that I might die, at the time… I wanted to. So each fall, for those few short weeks, I would trudge through the void, live in the darkness, at one with the silence. Until, it was silent no more. The fallen leaves would have lost their brilliance, now simply dull and brown. Crunching under foot, as I would walk along, the darkness fading to grey, the skies are themselves once again.

Through the recent completion of grief counseling, and understanding my loss, something I had never addressed; I brought a lot of things to the surface, without even realizing it. In doing so, I left myself open for easier access to old memories and having said memories trigger old feelings.

Within a brief period of time, the same incident happened twice, but it was the second incident that had me traveling back in hyper-speed fashion to an event nearly 27 years ago… My three oldest children were 3, 2 and the youngest just a few months old. There was a knock at the door-

What would happen next is all such a blur, but if I close my eyes I can see it in my mind, watching it replay like a silent movie. I would tell my two older children that we were playing a game, a “game” that consisted of seeing how quickly we could put all our necessary belongings into large hefty trash bags (we had no boxes) and put them outside before we go to Grandma and Papa’s house. We would play this “game” while the Fulton County Police looked on, so I had them go outside and put the baby in the swing and started packing.

I decided my little game excluded anything that belonged to my husband and tossed all his belongings into a spare room as I proceeded along, mumbling and cursing under my breath. I was so angry and embarrassed. One of the officers approached me, trying to say I could not leave the belongings I was throwing into the separate room, our friend who had arrived with him and his partner intervened, I heard him say he would take care of it. I simply looked at the officer and said something about “he didn’t care enough to make sure he paid our bills, I don’t give a shit out his stuff” and he nodded and backed away.

I don’t know how long it took, how quickly it takes one person, a mad (literally crazy and angry) woman to throw clothes and dishes and pictures and the things that within five mins you deem important into trash bags, but I got it done. The officers there, nor my friend, were not allowed to help me. I got all the kids favorite toys into the toy box, which they did carry outside for me. And when I said I was done, they barred the door shut and drove away. My friend loaded up the back of his truck with all our things and took the kids and I to my in-laws, my husband was still at this moment in time, MIA.

Once at my in-laws, we had a very frank conversation, “this is what he does” they said to me. They also told me when I had “had enough” they would help me get home. Home was Nebraska, and I know they were saying this because they would be leaving soon themselves, as they were preparing to move to Florida and my support system would be gone if something like this happened again. I merely smiled at them, stuck in denial and so blindly in love with their son. I told them I wanted to give him another chance. I would confront him about all this, his using, make him get help, but I wasn’t ready to give up on him. They said, OK, but I saw the worry, the disappointment in their eyes.

When my husband came home that night, to his parent’s home we did talk, he was full of regret and remorse, and full of promises to do better… he promised to get clean.

The next few weeks were pure chaos, he was gone either looking for work, working, or “at a meeting” and I really wanted to believe him, but all to often things didn’t stack up and I was just overwhelmed with the kids. His parents were often gone to Florida house hunting and their house was on the market and constantly in “stage” mode. Thank goodness they didn’t judge parents about screen time 30 years ago because my kids watched a lot of movies! It is the only way we could assure we kept grandma and papa’s house clean.

One of the last weekends at the very end, his parents were gone again, he was out working, this time supposedly on the house we would be living in when his folks moved. His new job included a house if he did some work on it before we moved in. So he was working on our house and I thought it would be nice to have a romantic dinner before his folks got back. I put the kids to bed early that night, and I as I sat there waiting for him, our dinner getting cold, my mind wandered back to just a few weeks before.

In all the weeks, even before the evection, since the baby had been born, I had felt so distant from him; this man whom I knew from the depths of my soul was indeed the love of my life, my soul mate, the one person who had seen the most broken pieces of me and didn’t care… who in fact had fixed so many of those broken pieces, but now, now he was breaking me in new places and I didn’t understand why? One evening we set there in our dimly lit living room, “borrowing” electricity from the neighbor’s outside outlet and he lit up his little pipe in front of me as he set there drinking another beer. By this time, he had stopped hiding it from me, and in that moment, all I wanted was to join him. To crack open a beer of my own and take a drag, or two, or three… but then something happened, the spell was broken, it was no longer silent. My youngest child, my sweet baby girl was crying from her bassinet, and I know God intervened, reminding me I had a baby to feed and care for and on that night I didn’t drink or use.

Instead I fed my child and was silently angry, quietly resentful to the man who sat across the room from me, oblivious to our presence. Why did I have to be the responsible one? Why did I have to be the one to do all the right things and he go to do whatever he wanted? Did he even care about what happened to us?

I would wake later that night, just after midnight, my fire nothing but embers, fueled with new anger by my memory/dream. I looked in the driveway, to see it empty, no surprise, and simply went to bed.

The next morning, my sleeping husband would be lying next to me. I would get up, check on the kids and walk the dog. My husband was supposed to bring home some boxes for me to be able to pack up our few belongings, as his parents were moving in less than two weeks. I walked around the car, we had one of those old long panel station wagons. When I got to the end, I saw the rear window rolled all the way down and the back was empty, I sighed, because I knew what was next- some sort of story, a lie.

I went back to the house, woke the kids, fed them breakfast, and then sent them outside to play, putting the baby in the swing and then and went upstairs to wake their father. I kicked the end of the bed and yelled at him asking where were the boxes. When he didn’t respond, I hit his legs and asked louder, where are the boxes, cursing and using his name. He sat up mumbling and rubbing his eyes and said they were in the car. When I said they were not, mentioning I had been out with the dog. He then started to tell me about how many he had gotten and a couple we bigger and he had to put the rear window down so he could get them all to fit, and maybe some of the fell out. By this time I think I threw an extra pillow or something at him because I am so angry at him… why was he lying to me?

He just sat there staring at me, I was crying, I told him I was scared because his parents were leaving and I was worried where we would be living in two weeks and sometimes I even wondered if there really was a house. When I said that, his face changed and his eyes dropped away from mine. When he looked back up there where tears of his own and he was mumbling, but he said that there wasn’t a house, yet… but there might be. But we could rent a hotel room for a few weeks while he figures it out, while he keeps looking.

I LOST IT!!! I asked him if he really expected me to live in a hotel room with three little children all day long for even a week, let alone week to week… until he figured it out???

I told him I needed to check on the kids and suggested he go to a meeting, to talk to someone about his priorities. Before he left the house that morning, he must have said he was sorry at least a dozen times and told me that he loved me and the kids a dozen more. I know, I love you too, I told him, which I did, but the truth was I needed him to leave so I could call his parents – I had finally had enough.

So this extended entry has been cathartic as I uncovered one extremely concealed resentment, one so gracefully disguised for the past quarter century. There is a saying that if you tell a lie long enough (especially to yourself) you will begin to believe it. That is exactly what happened to me with my ex-husband, the father of my oldest three children. He was the love of my life, my soulmate, my best friend. I was so worried about my children having a negative memory in their minds when it came to their absent father, so I created this picture-perfect image. Always, saying “He was a good father, a good husband, a good man, the disease took him away from us.” Over and over and over, when people asked, that was my only response… rote, robotic, and in doing so, I forgot how it really was. I forgot how broken and ugly it was, how angry I was in the end.

The truth is our sweet little family was no longer sweet and life as I knew it had been shattered. That life would/will never be the same and it is time I put those memories away. The man I once loved more than anything, will always have a place in my heart, he gave me my children. But by getting stuck each fall, by living in that void, in that dark silent place; I was keeping myself from the beauty of the true sunlight of the spirit and all the beautiful songs that can be heard when we allow ourselves to be still and listen.