Emotions in Music

Deny this emptiness, this hole that I'm inside
These tears, they tell their own story

 

You told me not to cry when you were gone
But the feeling's overwhelming, it's much too strong
Can I lay by your side, next to you, you
And make sure you're alright

 

(from Lay Me Down, Sam Smith)

 

He sings like I write - with gut wrenching emotion. That's what attracts me to his music. He is wide open and brutally honest with his voice. Listening to him sing is like touching his soul.

I have not had the opportunity to write in quite some time, but the emotions are still in there, I have longed to write, to express...but I couldn't. In place of the writing, I had been listening to music...a lot of it. Today, I found myself singing "Lay Me Down" along with Sam Smith. Like him, I offered all my emotions as I sang, leaving nothing behind...to the point of tears.

I knew that this time it wasn't the lyrics that I was identifying with. It was the pain that he expressed that somehow touched something untouchable inside of me. There are feelings that I have been afraid to feel, afraid to explore, and his voice went there and fingered the precise strings that freed my tears.

I am still afraid to write these things down but am glad that at least there is music.

Christmas 2014

"Our First Christmas Apart" - I wish they made an ornament that said that. We have the one that says "Our First Christmas Together" - a beautiful Spode china Christmas bell with the year of our wedding painted on it...it did not go on the tree this year.

They don't make an "Our First Christmas Apart" ornament, because it would cause too many awkward moments when people see it hanging on our tree. They would not understand that, for us, it was the Best Christmas Ever! Please allow me to tell out story...

It started with the lights...

Lighting the outside of the house for Christmas had traditionally been my husband's job, while I decorated the inside of the home. It was the weekend after Thanksgiving, and all the men on our street were diligently and dutifully setting up their mini light shows. My girls and I marched into our local home improvement store and selected the lights for our own front yard. For the bushes, we chose netting lights that twinkled - "In rainbow colors!", they requested - a set of old fashioned huge bulbs for the scraggly pine on our side yard...the Charlie Brown Tree, and giant candy canes to line our driveway!

I got timers, extension cords, stake outlets, and all the paraphernalia necessary for this illumination. Who knew there were so many cool gadgets available specifically for this purpose!

Together we set up our little display. The two girls owned the candy cane job, while I spread lights all over the bushes. I quickly learned the ins and outs of extension cords, outlets and timers, and I set the show up to begin and end exactly when I wanted it to (a decision that I had previously relinquished to my husband).

I pressed "On", we stood back and admired. I liked it, but for them, it was just OK. Something was missing. They wanted more...and I somehow felt the obligation to wow them! It was, of course, the Christmas when I did not want to disappoint. Part of the problem came from the neighbors...yes, we were having "the Jones' problem". Our new street was so bright! There were lights and icicles hanging from almost all the eaves. The trees had beautiful strings of lights...strung way high! And the inflatables...snowmen, Santas, Nativities, and even the M&M guys!

"I thought we were going to have the best lights in the neighborhood!", said my youngest. "Instead, we have the most low-key lights", added her sister. I couldn't compete...nor did I want to...that wasn't the point.

The point was to love what we had...to make it the most special Christmas ever for us. I explained that to them, and they tried to understand...but still there was something missing. The second floor needed lighting.

When I left my husband's house, I took a shoot-now-ask-questions-later approach when it came to the Christmas decorations. I had been the curator of all our memories and mementos, so I felt I should keep them. Besides, in his very dismissive manner, he had told me to take everything. He wanted to start completely fresh.

I have since realized that there are objects that are bought for a specific home...and they belong there, they should stay there. Like a secret Santa, I started to return some of these items...leaving them at his house when he wasn't home - the wreaths that I thought I wanted so much, because my good friend and I made them together the first year I lived in that house. It turns out this new house doesn't really have the windows for those wreaths. They were made for that home, and there I returned them.

There were candles that illuminated the upstairs windows of the old house. I was not going to use them, because they reminded me too much of those old Christmases...those years when I worked so diligently to plug all the lights in at the same time and at the right time so that they would light up together and turn off at a reasonable time (they stay on for 8 hours from the time they are plugged in and relight at the same time every day). He would unplug one or two of them every night, even though I repeatedly explained to him how the timers worked and how unplugging them ruined the timing that I had worked so hard to synchronize...it didn't matter to him.

I was not going to use the candles here...but the upstairs needed lighting, and I was not going to get on any ladders to hang lights from any eaves! So I took the candles out...and plugged them in...at relatively the same time...at the right time...and no one has unplugged them. They were perfect and beautiful...and the girls approved with, "It's nice to have the elegant house in the neighborhood."

Oh Christmas Tree...

When the time came to pick out a Christmas tree for us, I knew only one thing: my husband would not be involved in any part of the process this year. There are traditions that I thought we should maintain, and others I thought we should make new. We would pick out the tree from the farmers market where we always get our tree, but only we three girls would go. It would be our tree, picked out especially by us.

We strolled through the various lots, comparing the different firs - all beautiful and fragrant, all indigenous to our lovely state. It did not take long for the girls to zoom in on the perfect tree. The vendor swiftly wrapped it up for us and slid it into the back of our minivan.

During our drive home, I finally took a call from my husband (he had been calling incessantly during our entire time at the farmers market; I had ignored the calls, wanting the experience to be exclusively ours). The girls were so excited, of course they told him that we had just purchased a Christmas tree...and of course he expressed his disappointment (party pooper move number one).

"Awww...I wanted to take you on Saturday. I was going to put it in the van for you", he said specifically to me.

I could think of nothing worse than to have him helping me pick out a Christmas tree for my house during his weekend to keep the children!

"Oh, well...I didn't know. You can still go on Saturday with the girls", I replied.

He stammered and hmmed and ummed, waiting for me to invite him over to help me put up the tree. I had no idea how I was going to get that tree into my house and onto a stand, but I was certain that he would have no part in it. It was the girls' tree and only us girls would be involved in the placement and decorating of it. I did not invite him.

In anticipation of this moment, I had bought a very cool tree stand that makes it possible for one person alone to put up a Christmas tree. It has a receptacle that would slide onto the tree trunk while the tree is lying on it's side. One would then insert into the trunk the three screws that would stabilize the tree. The tree would then be turned upright, placing the receptacle into the stand. At this point the tree would, of course, be tilted in all kinds of weird ways...so one would press a pedal on the stand that allows the tree to be moved and tilted into the perfect position...brilliant!

While the girls blissfully rode their scooters in our cul-de-sac, I proceeded with the first step...only to find that the trunk was too thick to completely fit into the receptacle, it needed to be tapered. No worries...I grabbed an old chef knife from my kitchen and proceeded to chip away at the trunk until it was the perfect shape for the perfect fit. I did all this in my driveway, looking as graceful and elegant as one could look while chopping at a tree while dressed in a wool coat and leather boots.

Afterwards, I picked up my tree the way that I had seen the vendors effortlessly pick it up, walked it into my house and tilted it into the tree stand. I pressed the pedal and magically straightened the tree out into beautiful perfection!

He called again...and I let the kids answer, while I gave the tree some finishing touches.

"Mom put up the Christmas tree!", exclaimed my older daughter with unrestrained joy.

"You're happy and you're sad?", I then heard her repeat after his response (party pooper move number two). He couldn't let them just enjoy their joy and their moment with me. He had to introduce that tinge of darkness to their cheer. I felt my daughter's composition change from happy and innocent little girl to daddy's caretaker as she replied to him, "It's OK, Daddy, we can still go get a tree for you on Saturday".

I wanted to protect their delight and happiness over our gorgeous Christmas tree, so I talked to them over the next few days while we decorated the tree. I let them know how proud I was of our tree and how special it was to me. I wanted to let them know that it was OK to feel this way...it was OK to enjoy something that was just for us girls...it was OK to be happy about something that was just for our new house.

At the end, the tree was (and still is) spectacular! It wears the pink lights that the girls insisted I buy (for a truly feminine tree). I added vintage pearl bulbs that I had picked up at a local antique shop. Our old ornaments went up (only the ones that brought us joy). Everyone contributed, even our little one was allowed to handle the ornaments...and I did not move anything that they placed on the tree (my husband was known to reorganize the ornaments after we had put them up, so that they would look "just right").

"Our First Christmas Together" and "First Year in Our Home" never went up, but all the "Baby's First Christmas" did and so did everything that had been handmade by my children.

The tree is stunning!!

Christmas Day...

Before I begin this account, let me give you some background on my history with Christmas. In my culture, Christmas Eve was always a big celebration. There was a very large meal with an abundance of family and friends. There was lively music and plenty of dancing. The women usually worked hard to put the meal and the party together, often spending the entire day in the kitchen but always looking fabulous in the evening as they received their guests!

The next day - Christmas Day - was a day of rest...for everyone. We woke up excited and eager to open presents, we went to Mass, and we returned home to play with our new toys. Everyone was happy, Mom and Dad were resting, and the kids were playing blissfully. Dinner was always the leftovers from the abundant meal of Christmas Eve. Seriously, after all the hours that Mom had put in shopping, wrapping, cleaning, cooking, and essentially making Christmas, she did not lift a finger on Christmas Day...it was a Holy Day of Obligation!

You can imagine my shock and dismay when I got married and learned that my husband expected a full-fledged Thanksgiving-sized meal on Christmas night! When I explained to him what my family's (and my culture's) tradition was and tried to bargain for a compromise, he said that I could still have my Christmas Eve party if I wanted, but he still expected a Christmas night dinner...leftovers were just not going to cut it for him.

Of course, I could not do that. Two big dinners on two consecutive nights were just too much, especially if I was the only one doing everything...the cooking, the cleaning, the organizing, the decorating, the shopping, the wrapping...while he rested. So as the years went on, my culture's traditions were forgotten, as I spent every Christmas Day exhausted in the kitchen and pretty much looked like a zombie by the time I sat down to dinner on Christmas night. I recall being envious of other women in my family when I talked to them on Christmas Day and learned that they were taking it easy and having frozen lasagna for dinner, or just leftovers from the night before.

This is how things went this year:

My cousin invited us over to her Christmas Eve party. Each guest was to contribute something to the meal, so that one person would not have to do the bulk of the preparations. I was asked to bring dessert, drinks and ice. I bought drinks and ice, and made a to-die-for lemon chess pie...done.

My husband had also been invited, but he declined. I went with my daughters and  my nephew and his mother, who recently moved from my hometown to the area where I now live (it's good to have family around sometimes). We had a wonderful cheerful time. The dancing was beautiful. All night long she played my favorite genre of all the music of my country...and they danced like tops. We talked, we ate, and the children played. When they tired, we went home to tuck them safely into their warm little beds where they each awaited the great Santa Clause.

It was a late night for me (two hours of sleep), with all the elf work that needed to be done...but it was Our First Christmas Apart, and I could not disappoint. As for the husband? I asked him to come over very early on Christmas morning to watch the kids open presents (it would not have been the same for them if both of us were not there). I also told him that we could come over in the afternoon to open presents that he had at his house. This would give him an opportunity to make Christmas dinner himself if it truly meant that much to him.

I would bring over a HoneyBaked Ham. He was making a kind of spinach casserole (fancy Southern Living recipe) and asked if I could bring another vegetable...all he had was canned creamed corn.

"Creamed corn sounds good", I offered.

"You want to keep it simple, don't you", he realized.

"I don't want to cook tomorrow", I made clear.

"I will make mashed potatoes, would you bring some bread?"

"Yes, I don't have to cook bread."

"I guess we won't have dessert", he tried.

"I could buy dessert", I drove in.

"Well, do whatever you think is best."

Christmas morning was a dream! Everything the children had wanted and expected and more! I particularly enjoyed the look on his face when he learned that his sister and his mother had each sent a gift for me...priceless.

We enjoyed my French toast casserole for breakfast...easy to prepare, and a kids' favorite, can't go wrong. Afterwards, we celebrated Jesus with a soul-lifting Christmas Day Mass. He then went home to begin his dinner preparations, and the kids and I went home to rest and play...how perfect :)

That afternoon at his house we sat around his tree and opened more gifts. He told the kids that it was "dessert" after the "banquet" of gifts they had had that morning at our house. He gave me an expensive gift, which I had not been expecting nor had reciprocated. I thanked him and accepted it as the gift that it was, without feeling any obligation to match it. It was so liberating!

Dinner was wonderful, and afterwards, we enjoyed a drive to view neighborhood Christmas lights. Upon our return, I let the kids know that it was time to go home and that they could bring whatever they wanted with them, or leave anything at Daddy's house that they wanted to use there.

"No! We want to take everything!", they shouted...I laughed internally.

Once settled in the van as we started to drive off, my youngest said sort of thinking aloud, "So this is how Christmas works..."

I asked, "Did it work out OK?"

"Yes! It was the best Christmas ever!", they both shouted back :)

I Don't Cut Anymore

I don't cut anymore...it's what I tell myself. I haven't done it in so long that I really want to believe it.

I don't cut...just a little ice sometimes...when I'm very agitated...or when the thoughts of it start to become concrete.

...like tonight...I didn't cut...I just iced my wrist until the numbness felt like electricity through my hand. I breathed deeply several times and felt myself calm down. It works...I don't know why, but it works.

I'm not exactly clear on why these thoughts returned to me tonight. It happened while I was feeling claustrophobic in my STBX's vehicle while on our way to see a Christmas light show with the kids. I had said that it felt a little chilly inside, so he turned the heat up some...but just a degree or so too high. My sinuses are congested from a cold, and it was difficult to breathe the dry warm air. I started to feel like I would suffocate...the same feeling I get when I feel trapped in a small or crowded space. I considered opening my window but imagined that he had the child safety locks on like he had in his previous vehicle. I didn't want to ask him to open the window for me, but I was afraid to push the button and find that the window would not open...that would have just put me in panic mode.

So I spent some time "talking myself down" - telling myself that there was plenty of air to breathe and that I was not trapped in the vehicle...and visualizing a blade across my wrist.

I do not cut anymore.

Checked Out

I would like to thank  those of you who have been reading and those of you who have been commenting. As always, I appreciate your support. I apologize for my absence. Ultimately, I realized that I needed to withdraw.

Things had gotten a bit too intense for a while, so I decided to take some time off - time off from work, from the carpool, from the role of Super Woman, and yes even from the blog. The week when I wrote my last post, I was truly trying to be every woman...and be amazing at it.

At work, I was secretly taking pride in being the one sent on jobs that normally it would take two people to do. I could orchestrate five different flu clinics in six days while still getting my children to two different locations on time in the morning, as well as dance and piano in the afternoon. I was doing it, and I was damn good at it!

I didn't skip a beat when my STBX had to take a position working 400 miles away and was no longer able to take the kids to school in the morning. I simply called on some friends and arranged for them to take the girls to school for me on the days that I could not...never mind that their houses are fifteen minutes apart from each other, and I have to leave my house about thirty minutes earlier in order to be on time. The fact that I'm doing it without him is another source of pride for me.

So at what point did the seams start to unravel? Was it when I forgot to bring the needles for the flu clinic and had to have someone deliver them to me? Or was it when I realized that my daughter had been complaining of feeling generally crappy, and I couldn't take time off to take her to the doctor? Even at a time when most people would come to a screeching halt (a needle stick), I continued until I was sure that my exit would be discreet and inconspicuous.

Even after the needle stick, I intended to run another clinic the next day. What the fuck?? Was I sick?? It was my daughter who made me stop...or it was my daughter whom I used to make myself  stop...because I couldn't bring myself to say that I could not give another vaccine, but I could say that I needed a day off to take my daughter to the doctor. After that, I did not return to work for a week...and that was for a short four-hour shift before I took off again to chaperone a three day field trip with my daughter in beautiful Colonial Williamsburg.

I checked out. It was necessary...and it was good. I took the kids to school myself and played stay at home mom. I didn't write, and I didn't read. I just lived simply without processing anything. In the interim, the needle stick nightmare woke up. By the grace of God, the woman whose needle I had been pricked with drove twenty-five miles after work on the same day of the clinic to have herself tested for all the blood-borne pathogens that we were concerned about. She tested negative for everything, and an ordeal that could have lasted over six months was over in two days for me. Many, many blessings to her.

I never cried, and I never got the opportunity to sit with my therapist...but I retreated and I breathed and I healed...and in that I take pride also.

The Show Must Go On, but When Do I Exhale?

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

I haven't known how to start writing again. The truth is that I have had a difficult time getting my thoughts and my sentences to make sense. Today I need to write, I need to communicate, and it just does not matter how it comes out.

I had a very stressful day today...and the worst part is that I insisted on holding myself together. I couldn't cry, I couldn't fall apart...it just wasn't the time.

The company I work for offers on site flu vaccination clinics at numerous locations such as churches and pretty much any place of employment. In my district, I have been called to run a great number of theses clinics. As a pharmacist, I do everything from gathering all the materials and supplies, taking care of all the paperwork and insurance information to, of course, administering the vaccine itself. While it seems like a lot of work, I always welcome the opportunity to work outside of the maddening retail pharmacy environment, away from telephones ringing and where I only have to take care of one patient at a time and answer questions from one person at a time. Today was one of those clinics.

Everything was flowing smoothly...until I got stuck by a needle. Really? I thought. Did this just really happen? I tried to deny it until I saw myself bleeding. After finishing up with the people who were already at my table, I excused myself and went to the bathroom to wash up and put on a bandage. I called my supervisor and continued to vaccinate. When a nurse called my cell phone to begin the post-exposure prophylaxis protocol, I continued to direct people to fill out their applications and have a seat at the table. It was insane...it felt insane, but I was more concerned about appearing unprofessional than about anything else, I didn't want them to know that anything had happened. I thought I would just take care of this situation privately and their flu clinic would continue without a hiccup.

I was embarrassed that it had happened in the first place. This was a 400-employee site, and I did not want to attract attention to myself because of this incident. Eventually, my company sent another pharmacist to take my place. I quietly informed their Human Resources manager of what had happened and escaped to the privacy of my van to complete my conversation with the nurse and receive instructions on where to go for HIV and hepatitis testing and whatever else the protocol required.

As I drove the thirty minutes to the specified location (a walk-in clinic near my home), I felt tears start to well up. I stopped them. I told myself no. I said it was not the time to fall apart. There was still too much to be done. I had a previously scheduled appointment with my therapist that afternoon, and I told myself that I would talk about it them. I could cry all I wanted in the comfort of his office.

I never made it to my therapist. I spent over two hours at this freezing cold walk-in clinic and had to cancel my appointment with him. I still haven't cried. I still feel stunned. I still haven't let myself just exhale. I'm still trying to keep it together. The truth is that I didn't want to come home and write about it. I just wanted to talk to him and cry.

Pulled by the Tides

I have read Pat Conroy's The Prince of Tides twice and have seen the movie as many times. I'm not sure what exactly draws me to this story, but I am attracted to it like some girls are attracted to "bad boys".

In this tragic story of abuse and family secrets, there is rape and violence, mental illness and suicide attempts, survivors and victims. It is a story that I should not be able to tolerate. My initiation was through the silver screen. I fell in love with Nick Nolte for the first time, and when he delivered his last lines at the end of the movie, "...in families, there are no crimes beyond forgiveness.", I broke down. I sat in my seat and sobbed violently into my hands, unable to move as the rest of the viewers abandoned the theater leaving me alone with my boyfriend.

I had just begun therapy for my sexual abuse...and for a form of self-harm that people still viewed as a suicide attempt. I believe it was the weight of the words that broke me...the thought of having to forgive the unforgivable, without truly understanding the full impact of the damage...caused by "family".

It would be almost ten years before I entered the pages of that book, tasting for the first time the melodic and intoxicating words of Pat Conroy. I could savor them and swallow them like velvety Merlot. There was no therapy during that time. I was recently married, and I wanted nothing more than to live a different life...as far away from my past as possible. Any memory that may have begun to surface was suppressed. I read the book for the sake of the story and the work and the art of the author.

Over ten years passed before I picked up the book again. This time, although I did not know it then, I was at the end of my marriage. I had been in therapy...for a long time. I was going through EMDR. I probably should not have read it then, but I was drawn to the story and once I stepped in, I could not turn around. It seemed the only way out was through it. I was sucked into the darkest aspects of the story as if they were a black hole whose pull I did not have the strength to resist. I identified with each character's pain and anguish and brokenness.

I was Savannah, whose demons visited her and stayed indefinitely, urging her to pick up her blades an hurt herself. I was also Tom, who had forever repressed any memory or emotion from his childhood, and was finally finding the courage to tell his story...the entire raw and gritty story. I was Lila saying enough is enough to her abusive marriage...and I was so many others.

I was engulfed by my darkness, brought to my knees by the tidal wave of my memories, and weighed down by the proximity of the characters' screaming torments to those of my own life. I crawled like a wounded warrior through to the very last chapter...to Tom Wingo's very last "...Lowenstein..." Only then did I decide that I could never read that book again...that it was, indeed, too much for me to handle.

...until now.

The title dropped in and hung suspended in front of me like a spider on a single thread. I have recently been enjoying the Audible app on my phone - audio books whenever and wherever I am...a non-stop mom's dream! Each download, however, comes at a bit of a hefty price. I am, therefore, judicious with my selections. The notice came via e-mail - 150 titles at about 85% off the regular price. I had to look!

I scrolled through the list, disinterested in and passing up most titles. I chose one about Frank Lloyd Wright, which looked interesting, and continued. Then I stopped...the words I saw stared at me. "The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy, narrated by Frank Muller". They beckoned me, dared me, teased me. I can't handle that story, I told myself, ...don't even think about it.

...but the image of the words seemed to be burned in my retina. I saw them even with my eyes closed. I could not resist the pull. I told myself that I did not have to listen to it immediately. I could purchase the story now (at a fabulous price) and listen to it when I am ready...even if it is years from now.

...and so I did.

When the time came to listen to a new story, I thought I would choose the Frank Lloyd Wright story.

...but I didn't. Once again, I opened the doors to The Prince of Tides.

I am currently 31 hours into a 59 hour narration. I am chest deep into the marshes of the Low Country, pulled by the tides and hypnotized by the lyrical yet cutting use of the English language. I eat, sleep and drink Pat Conroy. His words have never been so alive and so palpable to me. This time around, I am relating to characters I had not related to before...but this time around, the demons remain in the story. They do not come out to beckon the ones from my own past. There is no darkness, no abyss. I am simply wrapped in the music of the story, and although some chords may awaken memories, they know their place in time and history. I can see them, but I don't feel them.

...I believe this is what EMDR does.

The Shameful Kisses

This is what is bothering me...that he asks, and I say no. He continues to ask...he doesn't give up. He doesn't just ask, he places his face in front of my face...his lips on mine. I finally say yes...just to get him to stop...just to get him to leave.

...but he doesn't stop, and he doesn't leave. He demands another kiss on the lips...and another one...and another one.

...and I oblige...just to get him off my back.

...I am sickened by the whole thing.

This is part of my shame.

Ashamed

There is a post that I have been working on for about a week. I cannot seem to finish it...actually, I cannot seem to start it. I desperately want to write about this topic, but I don't want to write the words. I don't want to see them. I don't want to admit any of it. I am ashamed. As far as I have come, I am ashamed to be hung up on this.

This is What Happened Next Door

My neighbor's yard is beautiful. There are no weeds in the lush green grass, and in the back, where the abundant sun begs for a swimming pool or an orchard of trees, they have created a kind of oasis garden - an island of soft leaves of various colors that surrounds a single inviting lounge chair reclined to the perfect degree. For her or for him? I've often wondered.

The front has fastidiously kept borders of blooms, greens and purples that delineate an adorable sitting area for two and the path to the entrance of what could be a magical and mysterious cottage in a garden.

From the outside, it seems the picture of perfection...the incarnation of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young's "Our House". She cares for the flowers, while he cares for the lawn.

She died on Monday night. I had only met her once...on the day she had been jumping through her sprinkler with the seven-year-old from across the street. I thought she was a teenager. My daughters insisted that she looked terribly familiar and that we should find out who she is.

If I had not approached her that day, I would not have known that she taught  at the beloved Montessori school where my youngest still attends. I would not have known that last year she taught one of my older daughter's closest friends. She was my next-door neighbor.

On Monday night, my street was filled with emergency vehicles, including a trail of police cars that reached the intersection to the main road. This was not an ordinary call...something had gone wrong.

Suicide, says her partner, but the police suspect him and take him into custody. They questioned all the neighbors, trying to gather information for how to inform her family before Facebook beats them to it. Their red and blue lights danced through my windows and tightly closed blinds until well past 1:00 am.

"Are the disco lights gone?", asked my youngest as she opened her eyes the next morning. I was left with the burden of easing this news into my children's lives.

There are things that must be done after a tragedy like this happens in a home. After two days, a van with the word "Aftermath" on the side appeared. I wondered if they had cleaned up my grandmother's apartment after my stepfather shot her and my mother.

The family has been in and out all week...removing all kinds of belongings from the house. Someone mowed the lawn, and there is a solar light that illuminates the yard at night. From the outside, the house looks pristine and serene. No one would suspect the nightmare inside.

...there are so many houses like that.

I'll light the fire, you place the flowers
In the vase that you bought today
Staring at the fire for hours and hours
While I listen to you play your love songs
All night long for me, only for me

(from Our House, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young)
 

In High Heels and Makeup and Mint Green

It was time for high heels and makeup again tonight. It is the kids' weekend with daddy, and he has taken them to the beach. I came home from work exhausted after a long week and a long drive during which I tried desperately not to nod off. When I was finally at home, I locked my door, closed the blinds, and took the nap that I had been needing since I left the OB/GYN on Wednesday. I iced my wrists and then slept with abandon.

Getting out of bed was a struggle when I woke, and I knew that the night had the potential to turn dark. I could not let that happen after everything I have been through, after all the progress that I've made, after having come so far. I willed myself out of bed, demanding that anything I do be done downstairs and out of the bed.

Getting out of the house was a must, so I found a theater to watch a movie...not just any theater, but one of those fancy ones where you can dine and drink while you watch the movie - the kind that I had always been curious about but an expense that my husband and I never seemed to be able to justify.

I wanted to feel good...and beautiful...and graceful...and elegant...and serene. I slipped on my favorite summer maxi dress, the one so long that even with my three and a half inch wedges, it drags just so. The one in the lovely mint color, reminiscent of the '70s, that drapes so perfectly over my body I can't help but feel like a beautiful siren as I feel the movement of the fabric over my skin.

I pulled my hair back into a slick and youthful pony tail and adorned it with a pretty silver butterfly barrette. I slid on a huge white ring, which I had picked up at the costume jewelry counter in one of those quaint antique shops my husband and I used to drop into during our good days. Lastly, I put on the whimsical elephant bracelet, in the same mint as the dress, that my youngest had picked out for me for my last birthday.

I put on my lipstick, turned my chin up and my shoulders back and stepped outside. I felt fabulous, radiant, happy! I floated through the theater lobby, as an attendant showed me to my seat.

I ordered the duck and the Riesling and settled back to enjoy the new experience. I was having such a great time that I cried (good tears). It had been so long since I have felt like I have been allowed to enjoy life so purely and so freely. I loved myself.

I know that I could have called some friends or my cousin to share this evening...but I was trying out the night. I had to do this by myself. I was trying out my new life, and I wanted to feel the pleasure of my own company even in places where others are usually accompanied.

Tonight, I felt like a star in my own movie, and it had nothing to do with the words or actions of others. It came from within me.