six months later…

I haven’t been back here in quite a while, and it was very interesting for me to read the last two posts I made way back in late May.  I remember writing them pretty clearly. I was so full of anger and confusion. It wasn’t easy to keep it from spilling out and getting all over everything and everyone around me.

A few days after this, John was served with divorce papers. He really hasn’t spoken to me since then; for a while we would exchange notes that we left on the kitchen counter but even that eventually stopped.  He blocked me on his phone and texts, unfriended me on facebook (eventually he made an entirely new fb page as Everett “Rett” Dwight, after accusing some unnamed friend or family of mine of hacking his original page), dropped out of groups we were both in…  I had a lot of rage about that, too.  How dare he?!  For a while, I thought I could rely on him for help with certain things: dog care, house issues, that kind of stuff.  In the end, he showed himself to be uninterested in being there for all but a few smalls things.

By the middle of the summer my rage was beginning to consume me. I was on the edge of letting my emotions ruin me. Thank god I  had continued to see Leslie Pollack by myself after the marriage counseling sessions fell apart. She recommended an Intensive Outpatient Program at Yale for me, a six week program that was probably the single most helpful thing a medical professional has ever done for me.  I found my balance again with the help of the staff and the other patients, some of whom I’ve become friends with and like very much. I feel more like myself than I have in 25 years, and I’m so grateful for that.

I’m still incredibly frustrated, and angry with John.  The divorce is proceeding but at a snail’s pace, because of his behavior and his meanness. It will happen someday, but when? I won’t hazard a guess.  All I can do right now is the next right thing for me, and try to be patient. There are so many plans I would like to make, but they have to remain on hold for the time being. 

It’s a good feeling to not be vibrating with rage, at least.

Fuck you, Peter Lorre

This is not an easy weekend. Two people were going to come stay with me, and both had to cancel, and so I have three and a half days (counting Friday) to stay busy, not dwell on things, find healthy ways to deal with all of my anger (and oh my god is there a lot of anger), and not drink.  All by myself. Fuuuuuuuuck.

My two work friends stepped up big time and went to lunch with me at Jalapeno Heaven, and that 90 minutes was a huge fucking relief, besides being a real pleasure.  I love those women. Since then I’ve been struggling, though.  Dog walks, bike rides, trying to do yard work (it was way hot and sweaty) were poorly executed at best.  My concentration is for shit and my anxiety is high. Getting out of the house seemed like the best thing I could do so I packed up my laptop and headed for the Common Grounds.

Wilson is here roasting coffee and it smells amazing. There are a few patrons scattered around. I get a cappuccino and take a seat, opening my laptop and getting settled.  Then I look up. Fuck me, John’s still got his fucking drawings on display here, and Peter Lorre is staring at me.  Fuck you, Peter Lorre. And fuck you, Ida Lupino. And fuck you, John Garfield.  Mostly just fuck you, John Dwight. There isn’t a seat here that doesn’t look at one of your drawings.

I’m doing my best to ignore them and do what I came here to do, and one of those things was write a blog post so maybe I should be thankful for the inspiration. Honestly, though, I just can’t wait to get the fuck out of Connecticut.

 

Wait until the bubbles stop.

On the one hand, I’ve been pretty lucky in that, at age 49, I have experienced very little grief. On the other hand, at age 49, I have just been summarily dismissed by my husband of nearly 20 years, and I am completely unable to cope with this mountain of grief. I’m drowning, drowning in grief, and I don’t know if I want to fight it or just start swimming down.

I gave more than 20 years of my life to someone who didn’t deserve them. I gave away my chance to be a mother. I gave away a great deal of freedom and happiness. I gave my love, time, and energy to a person who didn’t give it back. And please hear me when I say I gave it away–I only blame myself for this mess I’m swimming in. I had the power to change things all along, just like Dorothy and her ruby fucking slippers, but I gave it away and now I’m nothing but grief and rage held together with the help of distant friends on Facebook.

Yes, sure, I know. Everything is going to be so great for me soon, everyone tells me so! Everything will be peaches and sunshine and pine cones and jam. I’ll be free! The world will open up to greet me! The weight will be lifted from my shoulders! I’ll take off my glasses and shake out my hair and I’ll be transformed into whatever it is everyone thinks I want to be! Then again, maybe it won’t, and maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just keep sinking to the bottom. Maybe I’ll sit on the gunite watching you up there, through the wobbling blue light, until the bubbles stop.