It’s not a good day. Yesterday wasn’t a good day. Driving down 315 at 80 miles an hour (Yes, I was late and yes, I speed.) I was hit my a blinding, physical and painful realization. I physically swerved off the road. I am alone. There is no one that knows how I like my coffee. No one to bring me coffee. No one that I can bring coffee to. No Sunday morning coffee chats. No late night spiked hot chocolate conversations. No one to see me in my fuzzy pajama pants or that I was comfortable enough to wear my glasses around.
There is no one that I can pick up the phone and call to share something funny. No one I can turn to when I am scared. No one turning to me to share something funny or to chat. I don’t have anyone to bounce ideas off of…no one to share the worries or the victories. Its me. Just me. No one to talk to about big-fat-man present ideas. No one to hang the Christmas lights or the saw the tree trunk to fit the tree stand.
I don’t know where all that came from. It was out of the blue. I had been doing to well that I wasn’t prepared for the unexpected sadness or the jolt of panic. Like a tsunami the thoughts kept rolling: not only do I not have a companion anymore the one I did have made choices so that he no longer had that place in my life. DAMN. That hurt like a sucker punch to the solar plexus. Like I widow, I mourned for all the things I would never have again. But I wasn’t a widow. I was a divorcee. Someone chose not to love me.
I refused to cry. Refused to go down this path. So I cranked up the radio to a song that didn’t bring up old memories and continued on my trek.
Life had other ideas.
I woke up this morning with a fluttery, panicky feeling in my chest. There isn’t medicine for a broken heart or for fear. Since drugs don’t work I decide to start my day under the influence of glitter and hot glue fumes. I put on iTunes and got about my day. I made my own coffee. I took a few sips before I had flashbacks to the previous day’s realization. I poured out the coffee. Refusing to host a pity party I decided to create. Creativity is good. That worked until a doorbell chime broke the spell that can only be created by glitter, hot glue and lots and lots of ribbon. In my mis-matched pajamas and coke bottle glasses I answered the door. A couple was there to talk about my former house. They loved the neighborhood, were looking for a good deal and heard that there was a short sale. Someone in the neighborhood told them about me and so they just stopped by to find out more. Not exactly the conversation I was thinking about when I was lamenting about no more pajama conversations. Like a good sport, I bared by soul answering all their questions on why and how and how much so that all THEIR dreams can come dream now that mine have died.
I want to go shopping. I want to buy Christmas presents and do things that I think will make others happy. But alas that isn’t possible. So I go back to making things that might make other people happy. I start back on my 1/2 done Christmas wreaths presents determined to NOT go where my emotions threatened to take me. “I love the way you love me” came over the speakers. I froze. The glue gun didn’t understand so hot glue spilled over my fingertips. I jumped up with tears in my eyes–from the pain of the glue and even bigger pain in my heart. ‘don’t cry-don’t cry-don’t cry-don’t cry,’ I told myself. Stepping into the other room (literally a single step) I headed to the couch. Sitting down for some deep breaths would solve the turmoil. Or it would have had my entire couch not been covered in tiny circles and lopsided P’s. My 4 year old had also been creating. All over my couch. Right next to the hole created from the dog-from-hell in my newlywed days is a big blue rendition of what my last name used to be. A P in permanent marker.
I abandoned the Christmas wreaths and the tunes for obvious reasons. I abadoned by idea to sit down re-group for equally as obvious reasons. There had to be a room where I wouldn’t be assaulted by memories. Ahhh..the kitchen. Goodness knows that I hadn’t spent a lot of my married life in that particular room. No pity party. Instead I vowed to quit thinking of myself and to focus on someone else’s party. A friend has a birthday tomorrow. I’ll make a cake. I can do that. No dangerous emotional pitfalls in baking a snickerdoodle cake. Right?
Wrong. I don’t know what I am supposed to be learning for all of this. I don’t. They say God only gives you what you are strong enough to handle. I think he’s gotten me mixed up with someone else. I am trying to make lemonade from life’s lemons but dammit you have to have some sugar to make lemonade. I’d like a moment, a brief moment, that the weight of the world isn’t resting solely on my shoulders. Just for a minute, a second…just long enough to make a damn cake for someone else for goodness sake. I am trying to be brave and resilient and to not dwell of the days before. Couldn’t the universe meet me part-way?
While looking up the recipe my phone dinged and an invoice from my attorney for legal fees popped up. I didn’t open it. I assembled my cake supplies determined to keep moving forward but I discovered that in my second divorce I didn’t get custody of both cake pans. While discovering that fun fact the phone rang. My baby girl was excited to hear the voice on the other end. I was not. Timing really is everything. Back to the kitchen where I would BAKE THIS CAKE. Turns out I didn’t get custody of both sauce pans either. Or more then 1 mixing bowl. I hiccuped but didn’t sob. As is true to my life these days I improvised…I melted butter in my one cake pan, found some miniature cake pans from child’s cooking set I made my damn cake. It’s not going to look like I wanted it to. It won’t taste like it should since I had to make-do but there will be cake. There will be Christmas and there will be cake.
The cake is in the oven so I sneak up to write this. I can’t keep it bottled up. I can’t cry. So I do this. My little one thinks having me in her room where the computer is means play time. She brings me a book to read. “Goodnight NOLA”. Bought that for her on a getaway from the days when I could getaway and had someone to get away with. I didn’t read it. Of course she asks, “Mommy why you sad,” when I tell her that I can’t read it right now. She’s still at the age where I can distract her so I sent her for another book and hastily wiped my eyes.
The tiny house smells like cinnamon and sugar. I’ve made 2 christmas presents. Life goes on. Dreams don’t. But life does. So I’ll end this and get back to mine. I probably can’t stop the pity party from coming but by cracky I can make sure this pity party has CAKE.