This week, we attended the children's Christmas function, the eldest rocked his moves on the dance floor, the youngest was very attentive and focused. They are both doing so well, have improved so greatly and the confidence is evident that we are doing something right.
Great apprehension
A couple hours before our arrival at the school, we are informed that their mother (who has been M.I.A to date) will be in attendance, personally I'm impressed she's making the effort. Although I'm happy for the children that their mother is showing support, I try my best to mask my anxiety at the thought of our first encounter. There is a tangible agitation between us as a couple, we both don't say it, and he even denies it, but we're both walking on eggshells, poised and in our seats.
The eruption within
Naturally, any woman who has walked my path would want to make sure that the kids are protected from any drama, that as a woman, one looks and feels confident and at one's best. As far as flawless is concerned, I've nailed it, however, within me is an unnerved shambles, hoping for the best.
The kids come off the stage, they've done so well. I'm so proud and they run into their fathers arms. Straight past me. Dagger in the front. I shrug it off.
Typically I would be the recipient of such hugs, but I suppose this is their night, it's their father and they know that mom is around. Suddenly my insecurity starts to charge from the top of my solar plexus and wants to spew out through my throat and out of my mouth, a familiar and nagging sequence that has been the cause of my disdain all year. The resentment is real and so is the rejection.
Nothing compares to the pain
The evening comes to an end, mom doesn't bother to greet me and I'm not surprised. I don't really care either. Her hair is an unkept bed of two tone outgrowth and her tiny figure swims in the jeans that carry her legs. I pity the her, but she made the effort and it's applaudable.
The boys throw themselves into her arms, and then we all say goodbye. An unfamiliar pang gnashes at my heart. Those are my boys, I seethe, and then quickly remind myself of my place in this family. I am the 5th wheel, fiercely protective over family that is both my own and by definition not. I'm torn. What is this I'm feeling?
As we walk to the car, I trail behind. The high heels I'm wearing command my steady pace. They all leave me in their hurried path as I try and keep up without really wanting to either. I feel like less of a priority and then prompt some rationale into my head with a reminder that it's very late and the traffic crazy. He's not leaving me behind on purpose, hundreds of parents and children flow toward their cars and it's way past bed time.
It's not about me and it's eating me alive. I feel rejected, excluded and unwanted. I call out to their dad to wait, a snigger can be heard behind me, it's her, great! I wanted to be this bold and united family and I'm embarrassed and deflated, caught out like the fraud I feel I am. Perhaps my ego is at play because non of this really matters, yet I'm absolutely devastated.
A fall from grace
We get home and prepare the children for bed. It's an hour past their regular bed time and so much still has to be done. I prepare their lunches as dad starts packing their bags. We've also just been informed (not consulted with) that they will be collected from their mother a day earlier from school and we are to pack up their clothing for the weekend plus one day - at 9pm in the evening. I feel left out from that decision too, it's not even important but for some reason I'm jaded.
I'm livid, but at the same time, I'm forced to know my place. I fail to keep my irritation at bay, my face is an open book and my eyes give away a story of their own, wild with annoyance. She's not here, doesn't contribute and yet I'm feeling like I must just fit in.
As we go to bed, an immature blurt of frustration comes out of my mouth, "I hate my life!", and he goes cold with shock. Personally I can't even tell you where this came from, just that it pretty much summed up the last year we have been together. I love him, I love our bond, I love our connection but I don't know if I'm strong enough to do this. Surely it's meant to get better with time?
An avalanche of emotions start to surface, I feel like a failure, a fraud and a fake. I battle every single day at the thought of sharing my life with this extended family. There is judgement from my side, a reminder of his mistakes and my own.
I'm stuck at 17. I'm stuck at the hospital where I'm terminating my pregnancy all those years ago. Is this my punishment? Should I have made a different decision? Why didn't I just do the opposite? I'm living with so much regret, such a void and so many unanswered questions.
This is my life, with no family of my own, no children, no husband, just an observer and participant when I'm required to be and then I need to back off and allow the family to sort out their issues when needs be. The family that reminds me that I'm the outsider. It doesn't help that at my age, people judge me, I've had people tell me I'm a fool for taking on this mess, but I'm still here. Two days ago a girl I used to au pair told me she's seen on social media that I'm "still avoiding the marriage thing". Well I can assure you I'm feeling so much less than a winner right now.
I'm hurting, badly, wounded by the fact that I chose this. I chose this life because of a love for a man that I've never shared with anyone. I chose this life and yet I feel as if I'm failing at it. I chose this life and yet I'm resentful. Would it be better to just walk away?
My problem is that, in my mind, this is failure.
My problem is that, in my mind, this isn't the picket fence dream I deserve.
My problem is that, in my mind, I'm not their mother. I'm the stand in. Good enough for the most part, useless against the original.
My problem is that, I want to be someones family.
My problem is that, I want my own children, my own milestones.
My problem is that, I resent that this isn't the life I chose for myself, or rather, that I hadn't envisioned for myself.
My problem is that, I am so resentful.
My problem is that, I'm so angry.
My problem is that, I wish I could undo the past.
My problem is that, I will always wrestle with regret and judgement.
My problem is that, I'm broody for the first time in my life.
My problem is that, I'm an emotional wreck.
My problem is that, I'm in a box, without a label. I give love, share joy and impart guidance, yet I'm not their mother. I'm expected to be detached, yet expected to love. I'm the fetcher and carrier during school rounds, the provider of clothing and stationery supplies. Their cheerleader and the nothing that compares to their mother whose done nothing but neglect them since they were conceived.
I'm the cleaner of wounds, the voice of reason and the co-parent during their stay with us which is during the week, every day and on weekends. I'm at a crossroads of self acceptance and self persecution. I'm in a quandary over maternal instinct and duty. I'm struggling with blood bonds versus a couple months of cohabitation in this new role.
I know I'm not their mother, but I feel like I am. I'm the protector, the cook and cleaner. I'm the one they turn to for good night kisses and giggles over Nae-Nae dance moves.
My problem is that, I've taken on something greater than myself.
My problem is that, I want to and don't want to at the same time.
My problem is that, all I can see are the con's and very little pro's to this situation.
My problem is that, I used to be independent and free and now I'm bound and held to ransom by a broken family where I feel like the outsider.
My problem is that, even if I have my own children, they will always be his first born.
If you know what my solution is, I'd love to hear it.
Until then, I better dry my eyes that have cried about a thousand tears since last night and do my best to pull myself out of this depression and into work mode before that too is jeopardized.
My depression, my anxiety and my struggle this year, the only year we've been together, all started when I lost my identity and took this all on. I'm no hero, I'm just a woman in love with a man, who is really really battling to accept her life choices.
Maybe I just need to grow up, maybe time will heal. Who knows, I don't.
Showing posts with label babymamma. Show all posts
Showing posts with label babymamma. Show all posts
Wednesday, 2 December 2015
Wednesday, 12 August 2015
The day my flame went out
It's been a while I know.
I was carrying on as normal with a slight bout of laryngitis last week, nothing unfamiliar to me, especially when I spend enough time around smokers at social events that my job requires me to be at.
The day before, I had found myself in tears at my office boardroom. A conflict with an overly pretentious colleague had us face to face and I wasn't in the mood to play. My usually diplomatic and peaceful temperament had left the building while my frustration whipped within me. This was, for a lack of a better explanation, an intervention brought on by my Director after a disgruntled phone call I had made earlier that day. My internal pressure cooker was working overtime, I could feel it building within me. I am not this person.
Watershed
For the first time in my adult life and in all my years in the corporate world, I couldn't stop crying. It may have seemed like a ploy to "turn on the waterworks" to gain sympathy in any other circumstance, but my heart was genuinely breaking and none of it had to do with my immediate situation. Months of frustration seemed to escape from my eyeballs, leaving everyone incredibly sympathetic to 'how badly I had taken the confrontation'. If only they knew, if only I knew what was really going on deep inside me, but all was to be revealed within the next 24 hours despite my ignorance.
The next morning my voice has dissipated to a croak and I had scheduled an appointment with my GP. Nipping this sniffle in the bud sooner rather than later, would be the difference between a slight sinus infection and full blown pneumonia which I'm very susceptible to, especially when my immune system has been compromised by internal stress. Your body is your compass and it's never wrong.
As I prepared for the day, I stood in the shower as the water ran down my face, my back and between my toes. I could literally feel the knot in my throat force it's way up and down my esophagus as I literally tried to swallow my pent up frustrations like a thick, dry paste. In that moment, I allowed myself to release it all. Please note the permission I had to grant myself to acknowledge my wits end, the permission to feel.
Months of resentment, frustration, chaos. Nothing really made sense, I had taken on Goliath and lost. I felt defeated and depleted with nothing more to give. I had taken on these children, their father, his baggage, their baggage, their close to psychotic mother who had contributed nothing, demanded everything and got away with it all and made it my own. I had the best intentions for them, for us. I was going to be the hero without actually trying to save anyone.
The debt had piled up. Dad didn't have cash, how could he when he was paying for the children's necessities, school fees and after care. He was relying on me for everything else, they were relying on me. I was the bank, the grocery provider, the one ensuring lunches were made with bread I had purchased. I was the entertainment, the provider of lunchbox luxuries and Sunday afternoon ice cream treats. I provided clothing, stationery, school books and toiletries. I made doctors appointments for overdue check ups and paid for medications they needed. I was the provider of multivitamins, new school socks and birthday presents. Even in the midst of our Saturday night card games , the ex messages us with sinister and ominous messages of manipulation. Is there no rest for the wicked. Is this my life.
I was done, exhausted, finished and the saddest part is that I didn't even realise it until I was face to face with the truth that came in the form of a medical practitioner I had never met.
My wake up call
As I got to the doctors room, I sat in the waiting room battling to withhold relentless tears that failed to cease from my swollen eyes. It was as if I had released a valve that connected my heart to my face and purged a torrent of salty resentment, fear, loss, hurt and guilt. I was cracking up.
I hadn't even made it back from the toilet visit I had made to blow my nose, when the doctor I was seeing (and never met before) guessed that I was her next patient. Most of the consultation was a blur but what I do recall I won't ever forget.
"By the sounds of things, you've got a lot on your plate. You've reached rock bottom, burn out my dear". She referred to my incessant shaking as 'adrenal fatigue', and then promptly prescribed a shopping list of medications to get me through as well as a contact number for a therapist. Above the IV bag containing a cocktail of vitamins and immune boosters, the most poignant message was that I needed to talk to someone, I needed support - real support. Although surrounded by moral support, I was doing this alone.
She had hit the nail on the head, I'd been feeling my way through this step mother process, completely in the dark and in unfamiliar surroundings that I've referred to and proudly embraced as my new life. I needed help, and while I had parents and friends that were supportive in their own way, no one could really save me from my own conflicts. This was a medley of toxic waste that was poisoning my soul.
The road to recovery
Parenting isn't easy and while I was feeling alone, dad finds himself in the docs office today after days of a weekend of migraines and blurred vision. Something is different and with enough nagging we get an appointment for him to see someone with immediate effect. The diagnosis is anxiety and stress induced hypertension (of course it is *rolls eyes*). We really have taken an emotional beating and neither of us even saw it coming. How the hell did we manage to crash and burn within a week of each other. What happened to the fun and the laughter and the best years of our lives. This is a living hell.
But the road to recovery is knowing what to take on and what simply isn't your battle. I've realised that even though I love these children, they are not my blood. I have bent over backwards, borrowed money, extended overdrafts and provided where their mother simply fails to do so. Often I wonder if she see's full custody as a way and means of gaining funds for her own personal interests.
I refuse to give any more 'airtime' to a woman that wants to play games, manipulate and break us down while we give 110% to 2 small children that have no idea how to express gratitude let alone comprehend the sacrifices I've made for them. Gourmet lunches prepped at night, school photographs purchased for their benefit, collection from school on the days that dad is running late and then fuel for his car that he cannot afford because he's stretched so thin financially. How is this fair, any of it.
We have but one life and it's has been overrun with anxieties and stresses that aren't even mine to start with. This is not my family, they are not my responsibility, yet I choose to provide, care, love. Does this make me a martyr? Do I care too much?
Perhaps I'm living through my own guilt, childhood issues and hurts by moving heaven and earth for two little beings that were strangers to me 12 months ago. But watch this space, I've got a game plan and I'm getting my life back!
In the meantime, there are tranquilizers, a week off work and a partner whose love makes it all worthwhile. We'll get through this, we'll figure it all out. Everything is already okay.
Love, my motivation and my undoing.
I was carrying on as normal with a slight bout of laryngitis last week, nothing unfamiliar to me, especially when I spend enough time around smokers at social events that my job requires me to be at.
The day before, I had found myself in tears at my office boardroom. A conflict with an overly pretentious colleague had us face to face and I wasn't in the mood to play. My usually diplomatic and peaceful temperament had left the building while my frustration whipped within me. This was, for a lack of a better explanation, an intervention brought on by my Director after a disgruntled phone call I had made earlier that day. My internal pressure cooker was working overtime, I could feel it building within me. I am not this person.
Watershed
For the first time in my adult life and in all my years in the corporate world, I couldn't stop crying. It may have seemed like a ploy to "turn on the waterworks" to gain sympathy in any other circumstance, but my heart was genuinely breaking and none of it had to do with my immediate situation. Months of frustration seemed to escape from my eyeballs, leaving everyone incredibly sympathetic to 'how badly I had taken the confrontation'. If only they knew, if only I knew what was really going on deep inside me, but all was to be revealed within the next 24 hours despite my ignorance.
The next morning my voice has dissipated to a croak and I had scheduled an appointment with my GP. Nipping this sniffle in the bud sooner rather than later, would be the difference between a slight sinus infection and full blown pneumonia which I'm very susceptible to, especially when my immune system has been compromised by internal stress. Your body is your compass and it's never wrong.
As I prepared for the day, I stood in the shower as the water ran down my face, my back and between my toes. I could literally feel the knot in my throat force it's way up and down my esophagus as I literally tried to swallow my pent up frustrations like a thick, dry paste. In that moment, I allowed myself to release it all. Please note the permission I had to grant myself to acknowledge my wits end, the permission to feel.
Months of resentment, frustration, chaos. Nothing really made sense, I had taken on Goliath and lost. I felt defeated and depleted with nothing more to give. I had taken on these children, their father, his baggage, their baggage, their close to psychotic mother who had contributed nothing, demanded everything and got away with it all and made it my own. I had the best intentions for them, for us. I was going to be the hero without actually trying to save anyone.
The debt had piled up. Dad didn't have cash, how could he when he was paying for the children's necessities, school fees and after care. He was relying on me for everything else, they were relying on me. I was the bank, the grocery provider, the one ensuring lunches were made with bread I had purchased. I was the entertainment, the provider of lunchbox luxuries and Sunday afternoon ice cream treats. I provided clothing, stationery, school books and toiletries. I made doctors appointments for overdue check ups and paid for medications they needed. I was the provider of multivitamins, new school socks and birthday presents. Even in the midst of our Saturday night card games , the ex messages us with sinister and ominous messages of manipulation. Is there no rest for the wicked. Is this my life.
I was done, exhausted, finished and the saddest part is that I didn't even realise it until I was face to face with the truth that came in the form of a medical practitioner I had never met.
My wake up call
As I got to the doctors room, I sat in the waiting room battling to withhold relentless tears that failed to cease from my swollen eyes. It was as if I had released a valve that connected my heart to my face and purged a torrent of salty resentment, fear, loss, hurt and guilt. I was cracking up.
I hadn't even made it back from the toilet visit I had made to blow my nose, when the doctor I was seeing (and never met before) guessed that I was her next patient. Most of the consultation was a blur but what I do recall I won't ever forget.
"By the sounds of things, you've got a lot on your plate. You've reached rock bottom, burn out my dear". She referred to my incessant shaking as 'adrenal fatigue', and then promptly prescribed a shopping list of medications to get me through as well as a contact number for a therapist. Above the IV bag containing a cocktail of vitamins and immune boosters, the most poignant message was that I needed to talk to someone, I needed support - real support. Although surrounded by moral support, I was doing this alone.
She had hit the nail on the head, I'd been feeling my way through this step mother process, completely in the dark and in unfamiliar surroundings that I've referred to and proudly embraced as my new life. I needed help, and while I had parents and friends that were supportive in their own way, no one could really save me from my own conflicts. This was a medley of toxic waste that was poisoning my soul.
The road to recovery
Parenting isn't easy and while I was feeling alone, dad finds himself in the docs office today after days of a weekend of migraines and blurred vision. Something is different and with enough nagging we get an appointment for him to see someone with immediate effect. The diagnosis is anxiety and stress induced hypertension (of course it is *rolls eyes*). We really have taken an emotional beating and neither of us even saw it coming. How the hell did we manage to crash and burn within a week of each other. What happened to the fun and the laughter and the best years of our lives. This is a living hell.
But the road to recovery is knowing what to take on and what simply isn't your battle. I've realised that even though I love these children, they are not my blood. I have bent over backwards, borrowed money, extended overdrafts and provided where their mother simply fails to do so. Often I wonder if she see's full custody as a way and means of gaining funds for her own personal interests.
I refuse to give any more 'airtime' to a woman that wants to play games, manipulate and break us down while we give 110% to 2 small children that have no idea how to express gratitude let alone comprehend the sacrifices I've made for them. Gourmet lunches prepped at night, school photographs purchased for their benefit, collection from school on the days that dad is running late and then fuel for his car that he cannot afford because he's stretched so thin financially. How is this fair, any of it.
We have but one life and it's has been overrun with anxieties and stresses that aren't even mine to start with. This is not my family, they are not my responsibility, yet I choose to provide, care, love. Does this make me a martyr? Do I care too much?
Perhaps I'm living through my own guilt, childhood issues and hurts by moving heaven and earth for two little beings that were strangers to me 12 months ago. But watch this space, I've got a game plan and I'm getting my life back!
In the meantime, there are tranquilizers, a week off work and a partner whose love makes it all worthwhile. We'll get through this, we'll figure it all out. Everything is already okay.
Love, my motivation and my undoing.
Thursday, 28 May 2015
The day I got out the car
Let me not try fake my way into your book of approval by telling you all the things I want you to read. Things that make me look bigger, braver and bolder than I am. I'm no pushover, I'm not a wilting flower either.
I'm a lover
I'm a lover by default, factory setting and origin. Even when I tried martial arts for 3 years, I never managed to grade past the first three exams. If I'm honest it's because I just didn't have the personal discipline to get involved or pursue a sport that included me hurting people. There were many times that I would be reprimanded by my coach for smiling while sparring, a defense mechanism or perhaps, that I just saw the fun in jumping around a ring while neither of us took shots at the other.
Don't get me wrong, there were times that I won gold in my division and even provincial colours for my weight and grade category, but I'm not a fighter.
Up against Goliath
I have no doubts about the physical contact possibilities that could erupt the day I get out of the car. The days when we have fetched the boys from their mom, I have stayed in the car, not from fear so much as respect for daddy. If I get out the car, I may regret it. I have to think of the children.
We're not dealing with a civil situation here, I have witnessed the many physical brawls that the ex has engaged in. We're talking punch up's with family and kitchen pan's being used as weapons. These people are the opposite of lovers. They are of class and culture that encourage fighting. They are the dog eat dog of our society. And I'm over here blogging - just saying.
The anticipation will kill me
Today I decided that I was going to get out the car. Not because I wanted to fight but because I wanted to get it over with. I needed to see what this mother of 2 children really looked like after her grief, guilt, pain and separation from her kids. I wanted to see the face of anguish. I was tired of waiting in the car every time with baited breath, worried that an extended fist would ambush me.
Personally when I get angry I don make up, I work out, I feel sexy.
I knew she had been running around the neighbourhood over the last few months during her 'job search'. The version of her that I remembered, had been of a petite woman, with long pitch black hair that she flat ironed at her best.
Her frame is much smaller than mine, in fact, eldest has actually asked daddy a couple months ago why men have smaller legs than woman. I cringed thinking my thunder thighs has contributed to that question.
I recall my most recent break up and remember how I flung myself into 2.5 hour gym routines, personal spoils and spa sessions. I bet she looks amazing. She holds their hearts as their mother, perhaps I was competing against more than just emotional rights, perhaps she was the sexy, stellar vixen that had left me with the scraps of a man who had been downsized by her all his adult life. What if I get out the car and she's so fit and trim and takes a swing at me with her defined arms. What if, because I'm so unfit of late, she gets me on the ground and pummels me to oblivion in front of the children.
Even worse, what happens if her whack-job sister comes at me with a knife, or glass. She does this, all - the - time so my fears are real and valid. Today, I'm getting out the car because it's time to introduce the kittens to each other. Time to let them hiss and spit and soon they will be friends.
Now when I'm backed into a corner, feeling down or hard done by, I put on make up. I have no idea why but I put about 1 hour longer into my routine than I usually would. Last Sunday I felt horrific, sinus that turned to a chest infection and then bronchitis had me feeling (and looking) less than super confident.
It was 15h30 in the afternoon, I had been laying in PJ's all weekend. Believe me this effort was necessary, I was about to face Goliath, and if I was to land up in hospital, I'd like to at least look shit hot.
Then I opened the door
I sat in the car outside the driveway. Her crazy sister was parked inside the gates. My heart, pounding to say the least. How the hell would this go down? Was it too soon? I felt like it was the right time in my heart, I just felt that the plaster needed to be ripped from this festering wound and heal naturally, fresh air and dry blood.
Taking a deep breath I opened the door, unsure if the shaking of my knees was adrenaline or perhaps the bronchitis kicking my butt. "I'll stand at the boot", I thought. This is where everyone usually all congregates. I mean, this is MY car after all, so I do have rights to open my own boot. Can you hear me reasoning with myself.
Perhaps I could just open the boot and return to the front passenger seat. Like running to the out of bounds area at school and returning to safety just to say you did it. I would have felt far more in charge and confident in my drivers chair. But, love conquers all, I keep reminding myself. This is the reason I'm standing facing the back side of my own car waiting for the axe to fall as the boys run to greet me and mom follows.
She's never greeted me. She wouldn't, it's not her style. Her style is hate. Mine, love. We are the complete opposite of the other. She hates me. I feel compassion for her, not to say I like her, don't misunderstand me. I have enough resentment to fuel a small forest fire. But, I have compassion for her pain because it is the lack of light within her that makes her so, incredibly mean. I will shine, I will shine and hopefully keep all my teeth.
And then she saw me.
Her sister stood behind her, hardened face and scowling as if I was a dirty secret, the mistress, the concubine that broke up her "loving, pure and healthy" relationship with daddy. In fact, she referred to me a couple of months ago as a Jezebel. I was impressed, I didn't realise her vocabulary was that evolved.
"The Monsters turned out to be just tree's" - Taylor Swift
I managed to calmly release a "Hello HER NAME HERE* and she mumbled in response. I knew I was doing the right thing. Her frame, still small, and although our eyes never met, my womanly radar managed to scan her once over in an instant. Her hair now cut into a frumpy bob above her ears, puffed out and blow-dried like an old woman. Her face devoid of make up, how could she have left out the make up? It's not like she didn't know I was going to be there, she always does. Where's the warrior paint? What is the trick up her sleeve or her version of strength and integrity?
As we climbed back into the car and drove off, I was injected with the rush of facing my greatest adversary. For years, even when daddy and I were not together, I would speak of her and her unsavory decisions to drink and drug through her pregnancies. I would refer to her when speaking to people about the effects of such. She was and still is, my greatest lesson. My greatest mirror.
Today she had set me free. Free from my own idea of how I was failing, heck, I was winning at this, I was winning at life! I had make upon, my war paint, AND I was the nice person who had persevered through the name calling, hours of comparison in my mind and feelings of failure. I had let myself down, beaten myself up and left myself for dead. It was never her that I needed to face, it was me.
I rejoiced!
Once alone I had a chance to speak to daddy about my new found insight in a way that wasn't conceited or boastful. I was giddy like a high school girl that just found out her crush liked her back.
I asked him if he saw her hair - her hair, the lack of make up, OMG her hair!! He nodded and mentioned he had seen it in court two weeks back. He didn't mention it to me, did that mean he liked it? Did it mean it was so trivial that he didn't care to?
I wasn't bothered, I was too happy and high on life because I had realised that I was in fact, the complete package. Not because I'm better than anyone else, not because she wasn't wearing make up, not because she had a crappy hairstyle but because I had released myself from the comparison war inside myself. I was good, happy and beautiful on the inside AND out.
Later the conversation leaked further insight to their lives together. She never wore make up, ever! She never hugged, cuddled or kissed him. She never returned "I love you's" or reciprocated his efforts of sexual intimacy. She was devoid, incapable and detached from him. Once again my heart went out to her, once again my ego took a back seat and compassion stepped in. This is what happens to addicts, they let themselves go. They leave their self care at the door of addiction and get dragged down a road of decomposition.
Yes, I rejoiced. The monsters turned out to be just tree's. I had been my own worst enemy, imagining that Kim Kardashian herself would pop out down the drive way with Louis Vuitton bag in hand. She'd be carrying tresses of well looked after hair around her shoulders and perfectly manicured fingernails that I hadn't had the privilege to afford since I took on this role.
I imagined she would greet me with white teeth and sparkling eyes, that her life would be better, greater and more awesome than mine because she was looking after herself these days while the kids lived with us. She was their mother, surely this meant she was better than me?
I imagined smooth skin and long black eyelashes, that she would smile sensually at me and then daddy with this look of 'You know you want me' as she bent down to pick up the book that had fallen from the youngest's school bag while squeezing her pert bum cheek.
But she didn't, she didn't because she's not. And if she was perfect and composed on the outside, I would have needed to extend myself just the same as I had with poise and grace.
I've extended the olive branch. If she decides to replant it, or use it as firewood, this is her choice and I can live with mine. My slate is clean, my heart is open and I'm sorry that I've been so incredibly hard on Me!
I got out the car and with that I got out of the cloud of deception I'd been living in for so, so many years! I am good enough. Hell, I'm the best version of a mom without her own kids I can be and that, is why I got out the car in the first place.
I'm a lover
I'm a lover by default, factory setting and origin. Even when I tried martial arts for 3 years, I never managed to grade past the first three exams. If I'm honest it's because I just didn't have the personal discipline to get involved or pursue a sport that included me hurting people. There were many times that I would be reprimanded by my coach for smiling while sparring, a defense mechanism or perhaps, that I just saw the fun in jumping around a ring while neither of us took shots at the other.
Don't get me wrong, there were times that I won gold in my division and even provincial colours for my weight and grade category, but I'm not a fighter.
Up against Goliath
I have no doubts about the physical contact possibilities that could erupt the day I get out of the car. The days when we have fetched the boys from their mom, I have stayed in the car, not from fear so much as respect for daddy. If I get out the car, I may regret it. I have to think of the children.
We're not dealing with a civil situation here, I have witnessed the many physical brawls that the ex has engaged in. We're talking punch up's with family and kitchen pan's being used as weapons. These people are the opposite of lovers. They are of class and culture that encourage fighting. They are the dog eat dog of our society. And I'm over here blogging - just saying.
The anticipation will kill me
Today I decided that I was going to get out the car. Not because I wanted to fight but because I wanted to get it over with. I needed to see what this mother of 2 children really looked like after her grief, guilt, pain and separation from her kids. I wanted to see the face of anguish. I was tired of waiting in the car every time with baited breath, worried that an extended fist would ambush me.
Personally when I get angry I don make up, I work out, I feel sexy.
I knew she had been running around the neighbourhood over the last few months during her 'job search'. The version of her that I remembered, had been of a petite woman, with long pitch black hair that she flat ironed at her best.
Her frame is much smaller than mine, in fact, eldest has actually asked daddy a couple months ago why men have smaller legs than woman. I cringed thinking my thunder thighs has contributed to that question.
I recall my most recent break up and remember how I flung myself into 2.5 hour gym routines, personal spoils and spa sessions. I bet she looks amazing. She holds their hearts as their mother, perhaps I was competing against more than just emotional rights, perhaps she was the sexy, stellar vixen that had left me with the scraps of a man who had been downsized by her all his adult life. What if I get out the car and she's so fit and trim and takes a swing at me with her defined arms. What if, because I'm so unfit of late, she gets me on the ground and pummels me to oblivion in front of the children.
Even worse, what happens if her whack-job sister comes at me with a knife, or glass. She does this, all - the - time so my fears are real and valid. Today, I'm getting out the car because it's time to introduce the kittens to each other. Time to let them hiss and spit and soon they will be friends.
Now when I'm backed into a corner, feeling down or hard done by, I put on make up. I have no idea why but I put about 1 hour longer into my routine than I usually would. Last Sunday I felt horrific, sinus that turned to a chest infection and then bronchitis had me feeling (and looking) less than super confident.
It was 15h30 in the afternoon, I had been laying in PJ's all weekend. Believe me this effort was necessary, I was about to face Goliath, and if I was to land up in hospital, I'd like to at least look shit hot.
Then I opened the door
I sat in the car outside the driveway. Her crazy sister was parked inside the gates. My heart, pounding to say the least. How the hell would this go down? Was it too soon? I felt like it was the right time in my heart, I just felt that the plaster needed to be ripped from this festering wound and heal naturally, fresh air and dry blood.
Taking a deep breath I opened the door, unsure if the shaking of my knees was adrenaline or perhaps the bronchitis kicking my butt. "I'll stand at the boot", I thought. This is where everyone usually all congregates. I mean, this is MY car after all, so I do have rights to open my own boot. Can you hear me reasoning with myself.
Perhaps I could just open the boot and return to the front passenger seat. Like running to the out of bounds area at school and returning to safety just to say you did it. I would have felt far more in charge and confident in my drivers chair. But, love conquers all, I keep reminding myself. This is the reason I'm standing facing the back side of my own car waiting for the axe to fall as the boys run to greet me and mom follows.
She's never greeted me. She wouldn't, it's not her style. Her style is hate. Mine, love. We are the complete opposite of the other. She hates me. I feel compassion for her, not to say I like her, don't misunderstand me. I have enough resentment to fuel a small forest fire. But, I have compassion for her pain because it is the lack of light within her that makes her so, incredibly mean. I will shine, I will shine and hopefully keep all my teeth.
And then she saw me.
Her sister stood behind her, hardened face and scowling as if I was a dirty secret, the mistress, the concubine that broke up her "loving, pure and healthy" relationship with daddy. In fact, she referred to me a couple of months ago as a Jezebel. I was impressed, I didn't realise her vocabulary was that evolved.
"The Monsters turned out to be just tree's" - Taylor Swift
I managed to calmly release a "Hello HER NAME HERE* and she mumbled in response. I knew I was doing the right thing. Her frame, still small, and although our eyes never met, my womanly radar managed to scan her once over in an instant. Her hair now cut into a frumpy bob above her ears, puffed out and blow-dried like an old woman. Her face devoid of make up, how could she have left out the make up? It's not like she didn't know I was going to be there, she always does. Where's the warrior paint? What is the trick up her sleeve or her version of strength and integrity?
As we climbed back into the car and drove off, I was injected with the rush of facing my greatest adversary. For years, even when daddy and I were not together, I would speak of her and her unsavory decisions to drink and drug through her pregnancies. I would refer to her when speaking to people about the effects of such. She was and still is, my greatest lesson. My greatest mirror.
Today she had set me free. Free from my own idea of how I was failing, heck, I was winning at this, I was winning at life! I had make upon, my war paint, AND I was the nice person who had persevered through the name calling, hours of comparison in my mind and feelings of failure. I had let myself down, beaten myself up and left myself for dead. It was never her that I needed to face, it was me.
I rejoiced!
Once alone I had a chance to speak to daddy about my new found insight in a way that wasn't conceited or boastful. I was giddy like a high school girl that just found out her crush liked her back.
I asked him if he saw her hair - her hair, the lack of make up, OMG her hair!! He nodded and mentioned he had seen it in court two weeks back. He didn't mention it to me, did that mean he liked it? Did it mean it was so trivial that he didn't care to?
I wasn't bothered, I was too happy and high on life because I had realised that I was in fact, the complete package. Not because I'm better than anyone else, not because she wasn't wearing make up, not because she had a crappy hairstyle but because I had released myself from the comparison war inside myself. I was good, happy and beautiful on the inside AND out.
Later the conversation leaked further insight to their lives together. She never wore make up, ever! She never hugged, cuddled or kissed him. She never returned "I love you's" or reciprocated his efforts of sexual intimacy. She was devoid, incapable and detached from him. Once again my heart went out to her, once again my ego took a back seat and compassion stepped in. This is what happens to addicts, they let themselves go. They leave their self care at the door of addiction and get dragged down a road of decomposition.
Yes, I rejoiced. The monsters turned out to be just tree's. I had been my own worst enemy, imagining that Kim Kardashian herself would pop out down the drive way with Louis Vuitton bag in hand. She'd be carrying tresses of well looked after hair around her shoulders and perfectly manicured fingernails that I hadn't had the privilege to afford since I took on this role.
I imagined she would greet me with white teeth and sparkling eyes, that her life would be better, greater and more awesome than mine because she was looking after herself these days while the kids lived with us. She was their mother, surely this meant she was better than me?
I imagined smooth skin and long black eyelashes, that she would smile sensually at me and then daddy with this look of 'You know you want me' as she bent down to pick up the book that had fallen from the youngest's school bag while squeezing her pert bum cheek.
But she didn't, she didn't because she's not. And if she was perfect and composed on the outside, I would have needed to extend myself just the same as I had with poise and grace.
I've extended the olive branch. If she decides to replant it, or use it as firewood, this is her choice and I can live with mine. My slate is clean, my heart is open and I'm sorry that I've been so incredibly hard on Me!
I got out the car and with that I got out of the cloud of deception I'd been living in for so, so many years! I am good enough. Hell, I'm the best version of a mom without her own kids I can be and that, is why I got out the car in the first place.
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