Could I?

When I decided to finally go back to college in January 2019 my emotions were those of excitement mixed with apprehension. Being in charge of raising two grade-school-age humans is a mighty load without adding schoolwork and my day job.

I can now announce with certainty that I could indeed do it. It has been much riding on the struggle bus, it has meant some academic challenges and do-overs, but I can do it. It is happening. When I am on campus or doing my work I get gleeful and squeaky. It feels like I am moving forward into my dreams.

Getting my bachelors degree in English will open doors for me in areas I would not have been considered for before. It means my daily work that I will be paid for will consist of a field of study that is meaningful to me. Being a pharmacy technician has been a means to an end, but it’s also given me a work family that has walked with me through my divorce and my Daddio’s death.

In the mid- nineties I was failing out of my community college, desperate to move out of my parent’s house, daydreaming about being a journalist or actress. I was depressed and felt trapped. When I moved out of town to share an apartment with my cousin I did feel lighter, however life happened. I got a job, worked, and discussed college. I told my parents I would go back, but I didn’t. Not when I met “the one”. Not when I started another job with more responsibility. Not when I got married. Not when I had two children. Not when “the one” relapsed and our life fell apart. Not when we divorced. Six years after our divorce, circumstances arranged themselves in such a way that I could and would go back to school. I enrolled in the fall of 2018 and prepared to start the following January.

I knew I would be the age of my professors and old enough to have birthed my classmates. It turns out in addition to being the oldest in most of my classes, I have also been blessed with confidence to speak up, and the drive to press on through the challenges. I am not too shy to ask questions. I am thrilled to be there, and it turns out, I could indeed go back to school. One of these days I will be able to say I could earn my degree, and I will have.

Release

Anxiety has a way of constricting the ability to see past it. It lies about reality, it conflates facts to outrageous fiction. Often improbably so.

I have seen time and time again that when I speak the lie out loud, let it escape from the dark paths in my mind, it loses its power. It is exposed for the manufactured manure it is. It becomes very clear.

Yet the practice persists here and there of holding it in. Shoving it down. Pushing it under the water of life’s serene surface like a beach ball pressed beneath the waves.

Finally.

Inevitably.

It has to erupt.

It has to be released.

The truth will out.

And it wins.

Am I Okay?

Sure let’s ask the question. Because….

The man who fathered my children. The man who sang to our babies while they “cooked in the oven.” The man who proclaimed love for me. The man who said I looked like an angel in the streetlight. The man who called out treasure in me others missed. The man who was, for the better part of fourteen years my best friend.

The man who lied so well I could alternately be fully deceived or fully in denial. The man whose addictions ran rampant. The man who cheated more times then I’d care to admit. The man who has allowed his absence to replace his presence in our children’s lives. The man who started a new family with one foot still left in ours. The man who left that family, to start still another.

The man who married her. In Hawaii. Awash in sunset glow. His second marriage. His second wife. (His better marriage? His better wife?) His third family. Maybe more. Honestly, who knows?

The fiction has run deep. The slant of his storytelling. Bent on protecting his narrative. Did he ever hold ardent love for me? Was it tangible? Could we wrap our fingers ’round it?

There once was a We. It was him. It was me. It was two idiots who loved each other. Our neuroses like magnets. Hope sprang eternal that it would be enough. To fix. To cure.

In actual fact, the only We that remains is in two small people. Enormous of heart. Buoyant of spirit. Clever of mind. Lanky of body.

We come back to the question.

Am I okay?

Yes.

I am.

Valentine’s Day: A Love/Hate(?) Thing

It’s here again, that manufactured day of candy hearts, botanical bouquets, mushy love notes, the exceeding couple-y-ness of it all. I realized it’s fast approach a couple of weeks ago at work and sarcastically remarked, “omg, gotta mark my calendar!”. You see, if I’m sarcastic then I can head off that pang of Ouch with some Haha. Don’t try to understand my complex psyche. I’m super deep.

I roll my eyes and mock the sentimental goo. I joke about my lack of a “life” of the love variety. I shove down the mild queasiness and loneliness. I declare my autonomy. I am an independent, strong, capable woman after all. Valentine’s Day is not the boss of my feelings. It’s just a day. It’s not even a bank holiday, for Cupid’s sake!

But the truth is, this girl with two thumbs blogging on her iPhone is such a liar. I love Love. I adore when people are sweet to people. My top emojis are the hearts, heart-eyes guy, and then the laughing with tears guy. My feelings are big, and loud. Manufactured and commercialized or not, in this world of chaos and pain, why not elevate a day that leads us to be more loving? Romantic Love is cool and whatevs. It’s been over five years so maybe I don’t remember clearly. But love is much bigger than four letters. It’s much bigger than lobster dinners, boxes of jewelry, and sloppy kisses. To quote one of my favorite movies, Dan in Real Life, “Love is not a feeling. It’s an ability.”

Today on this day of Mushy Love, I have the ability to give my Littles loud, embarrassing smooches, heart-shaped candy, and greeting cards with tidings of pink and red love. I also have the ability to forget stuff. Such as, Six Year Old Dude cannot yet read cursive well, so I read him the gushy, precious words. I have the ability to make Nine Year Old Lady’s eyes well up over the gushy, precious words I wrote to her. The ability to demonstrate love makes life on this blue marble count. It is the difference between a life well lived, or a life spent watching the clock.

Car Trouble

On a Monday morning, after a late night of Super Bowl cheering, This Is Us crying and last minute kid-finishing-poster-for-school, we were running late to an appointment. Hustling out the door. Hustling to the Jeep. Buckling up. Heading out on our way.

The dashboard service light popped up again. “Oh yeah, gotta take the Jeep in soon.”, I thought. The next thought was, “I’ve been saying that for a couple weeks now.” I punched the gas as we hopped onto the freeway, when suddenly my tank began a very unfriendly growling sound, and couldn’t quite get to highway speed. I pulled off at the first exit, while my Littles bemoaned the problem and I pretended that it was all okay. In that, it is. Broken Jeep or not. It can get towed. They can get a ride to school. I can get to work one way or another.

Now I wait for the tow truck that my insurance pays for, thanking God for small favors, and UPS store parking lots, and sweet teachers who come out of their way to pick up Littles on her way to work.

Deep breaths. Waiting it out. Good news or bad news, the world still turns.

Share the Truth

I am not the only person to have struggled with anxiety. Panic attacks are a physical suck-fest brought on by the brain and emotions lying to the rest of the parts.

Even though my experience has improved by leaps and bounds, it still rears it’s ugliness now and then. Hiding it, ignoring it, stifling it, all make it worse. The moment I share, it begins to lose steam. Defeated by truth. When the hearer says “me too”, it loses even more power. Anxiety doesn’t win. Fear doesn’t win. It is finished.