Let That Sh%t Go.

Someone (well intentioned) asked me the other day what was the hardest part, thus far, about trying to navigate through this new life that I had been unceremoniously dropped into.

(So maybe I should explain briefly what happened to me, you know, just in case there is one person reading this who doesn't know me or my story.  Really?!?  Surely only people who actually know me read this stuff?  Anyway, to catch you unknowing reader(s) up on my life:  My husband died unexpectedly--like totally unexpectedly--in January of 2015.  After nearly 20 years of marriage--and an excellent one too, I might add--I was left alone, with 4 kids, no job, and no idea what to do or where to go.  No idea at all.  There now.  You're caught up.)

Hmmm.  It got me to thinking.  What was the hardest part?  Was it being alone for the first time in my  adult life?  Was it trying to raise children by myself?  Was it having to find a way to support my family after being "just" a wife and mother for 20 years?  Was it the complete lack of security and stability that I now encountered daily?  Maybe it was the suffocating sadness and grief that was always my companion?  Could it be losing my best friend and thinking I'd never find someone who understood me and valued me as much as Bill?

Oh yeah, those things all suck for sure.  Trust me when I say that they REALLY suck.  But none of those examples represent the hardest thing I've had to face.

The hardest thing has been learning to let go.  Obviously letting go of my husband is the very hardest thing.  I kinda loved him a lot.  But it's all the other things I had to learn to let go of as well.  I'm still learning!  Nearly every day I confront a new reason to let something go.  It's hard and exhausting and confusing.

I have let go of the need to keep a spotless house.  I have had to let go of some ideals for living that no longer can be prioritized.  I have let go of the ban on Gatorade, Gogurt, and Fritos.  I've had to liberate certain emotions, pull up my big girl panties, and just plow on through some stuff.  I've had to let go of a few grudges.  There are even people I've had to let go of.  Now THAT is hard.  I've had to let go of my pride and ask for help at times.  I've let go of the idea of having that traditional family, white picket fence and all.  I've given up home schooling and enrolled my kids in public school.  I haven't baked bread in months.  My garden looks like a weed (not THAT kind of weed) patch.  I'm pretty sure we've had ice cream for breakfast and dinner and I've drunk whiskey before noon.

But the worst thing to let go of?  That's easy.  It's the idea in my head of how my life was supposed to turn out.  Not all the little details, but just the general story of how things should have unfolded.  It's something I struggle with every single day, this letting loose of the vision.  I am reminded with each event or experience I encounter what could have or should have been.  And each time I have to just let it go.  I suppose it's becoming more like a mirage now.  Something vague and not completely formed that I can just glimpse from a distance, all the while knowing that the existence is not real.

I have to let go of that vision because even though things have changed I'm still here, the kids are still here, the picket fence is still here.  But now I'm just waiting on a new vision to form.  And I'm finding that I'm not so good at it.

The BAS

Let's change directions on the blog for a moment, shall we?  Let's take a vacation from sad and lonely content (trust me, it's not going anywhere) and focus on something different and fun.  Let's talk about the BAS.  That's short for Big Ass Sofa.  Here's a picture of it:

It's like an island really.  An oasis of comfort and snuggliness.  The BAS begs to have the multitudes relax against its down-filled, cozy cushions.  I have always wanted a giant sofa that invites you to sit down and spend hours watching bad TV.  I've actually never owned a comfortable sofa so I think that's why I've never spent time watching TV.  That's all going to change now.

Here is the BAS today:

See all of those kids sprawled out on it?  And I'm not even sitting on it in this picture, though my computer is indicating my chosen spot--the chaise lounge.    I'm afraid the extreme comfort of the BAS is encouraging sloth-like behavior in all of us.  I'm also afraid a mini fridge will be the next addition to this area.  The only time we would need to leave is to use the bathroom.

I can see it unfold now:  Computer?  Check.  Phone?  Check.  Gummy bears and assorted snacks?  Check.  Beverages,  both adult and child types?  Check.  Extra blankets?  Check.  Extra pillows?  Check.  Stack of books?  Check.  TV remotes?  Check.

All set then.  Just think of the pillow forts this thing could create.  Or the intense games of "Hot Lava" that could be played on it.  Slumber parties will be incredible!  So if you come to my house and I'm not in the kitchen (which is where I usually hang out) be sure to check the BAS.  I'm sure it's where we'll be.

Alone.

It begins to wear on a person, this constantly being alone.

 I was reminded of it rather painfully tonight while putting the kitchen in order after dinner.  I feel the emptiness when I set the table and that one plate is missing.  And I feel the void when I wash the dishes, again,  by myself.  Used to be when I filled the sink with warm, sudsy water Bill would turn on some music (more often than not it was his play list not mine--ugh), reheat a cup of coffee, and then just sit and talk to me while I washed.  Sometimes he'd sweep the remnants of dinner off the floor and sometimes he'd field the requests from a kid in another part of the house.  Sometimes he'd dry.  But we always spent that time cleaning up the detritus of the day together.  And it was time filled with conversation, love, and contentment.

I'm reminded of how lonely I am now when I've just spent 4 hours mowing the yard or trying to figure out how to repair a leaky bathroom faucet.  When I go to pick up the phone and make that lunchtime phone call to share the happenings of my day, I am hit with the sadness that there is no one on the other end of the line.  I feel especially alone when I'm faced with the dailiness of parenting all of these kids.  Bad attitudes and behaviors, knowing how to help and encourage their choices as they mature, or even wrangling those who insist on making bedtime difficult, all rest on my shoulders.  There is no one else to share these burdens with and the loneliness is just intensified with each day.  Attending any sort of event by myself is just plain depressing.  I'm always the third wheel.  There is no one to tell my fears to.  No one to listen to my dreams even.  No one who's world exists in the exact same place as mine.

Yes, yes, I know I'm not the only single parent in the world.  Please, I'm not so insensitive or irrational to insinuate that I am the only person who lives with this plight.   But my reality remains different because my situation is different.  Hell, just look at some statistics on becoming a single parent via divorce vs. by a spouse dying.  You'll see then that my situation is dramatically different.  You see, I was happy in my marriage and was not craving any "alone time" or an escape from anything.  I actually liked to be with my husband way more than I wanted to be by myself.  And suddenly I was forced into creating a new life where I was always by myself.  I'm not so good at it.

I'm not really complaining.  I know that I have so many things to be grateful for.  My kids are all healthy and happy.  I have family and friends who I can ask for help and who provide me with excellent love and support.  I have opportunities to spend time with amazing people doing the things I love to do most:  fishing, drinking coffee (ok, or beer), Goodwill shopping, watching baseball, sharing a meal, running, playing cribbage, or just spending time laughing together.  It's all good and I am thankful for that.

But there is one thing that is missing and I cannot shake the feeling of it.  It's like there is always this shadow following me around, peeking around the corners at me and leering over my shoulder.  Some heavy feeling of dread (sadness? loss?  anger?) that settles itself in and around my heart that keeps me from feeling like I'm really living.

And there is no cure or escape.

Do you suppose you can ever get used to it?  And would you even want to?