Sunday, August 31, 2014

confessions and a poem

Gloves off for a bit.  Please do not report me to bosses or principals or anything like that.  I will be find with the kids, I will do my best at work.  But I'm sick of pretending.  I'm sick of acting like I'm okay or happy or anything other than lonelier than I ever believed possible and heart sore, sad and angry and deeply hopeless.  I'm so sorry to admit this to you, oh internet void with my few random loving readers.  I am though.  All those things.  Even when I laugh and feel full of love for my babies, or when I feel playful and goofy.

You see, it's not just lonely.  It's the loneliness of having had something so good ripped away from me.  And I do not believe it happened for a reason.  There is no plan.  It is what it is, and I have to deal with it now.  I have to raise three kids with no one to help soften my edges when I get hurt or pissed or frustrated.  All that oxytocin that gets released when you kiss and hug and touch and snuggle, yeah, I don't get that happy juice.  That sated, loved, cradled feeling you get when you make love to the person who means the most to you, that safe and wet and lovely place, that isn't mine anymore.  And I just don't see it happening.  Yeah yeah, I know you have to try...or you have to not look for it...either way, I lose.  Damned if you do and damned if you don't.  So why bother, when the inevitable includes meeting people who make you think of serial killers or who laugh at you for the whole 15 minutes.  It's a twisted and messed up game.  If it is going to happen, it'll happen.  Except I don't believe that bunk.  Increase your interactions and you increase your chances, a friend scientifically told me.  It's not that easy when you are 40 with three little kids and no one to babysit.

So I'm being honest today.  I will stuff it away again tomorrow and definitely Tuesday.  But I am miserable.  I did not WANT to ever be a mom by myself.  My mother and grandmother had that role, and one of the reasons I didn't get married till I was 31 is that I was not willing to go down a path that looked like theirs.  I want my man back.  I want THAT life.  But I don't get a say in any of that.  So, welcome the tears.

Things that are anomalous
thrown at you
from strangely invisible
of rounded rooms
seem like signs, at times
or gifts from gods

like a moment waltzing with a
a wisp of wavering history
spinning just past
the tip
of things tangible

Any time I try
to reach beyond my here and now
I feel settled
shoulders lowering
while the soft breaths
of helplessness
and torn things
whispers to me
to stop being silly

My fingers
try to speak
my soul

My hips
try to grind out
some sweaty carnal connection

My heart lies dull
in my chest
sardonically sneering
at any effort
made by my mind
to write online dating improv scripts

Perhaps the anomalous
is that, while I believe love
is all that matters,
connection, compassion, passion, and community
of all of these
the one I want the most
is the one
completely beyond my control
buried in rubble and painted in the blood
of loss and tears
a love note lost in the rain
soft paper ripping, ink a ruin of
spider lines...

“Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure.” 

― Rumi