I woke at 3:00 feeling happy. I don't usually wake with a specific feeling, other than perhaps abject terror from a nightmare. But happy? And then it happened. It started with bending my fingers, which wasn't working too well, seeing that I had McDonald fries and cheesecake for dinner last night. What am I, 12? But that's for another post.
The swirling vortex of fear coming up was because my rings felt too tight. And because I ate those freaking fries, my fingers are poofy and, right now, yes Nancy, only for now, I can't get them off. No, they won't budge - I CAN'T GET THEM OFF!
I'm claustrophobic, I panic. I tell myself, "They will come off tomorrow, go back to sleep" then I hear the "What's the big deal, woman! Breathe!" Well, she's not very nice. Then the demon on my shoulder comes up and it's all over but the shouting: "What if you can NEVER get them off?!" and "Is the fire department open at this hour to CUT the mothers off? Maybe I could get in the car and drive around until my hands freeze again and then I can just slip them off, yeah, take a water pill, wake your daughter, call your sponsor" yada yada yada. I am pale and sweaty and pacing in circles by now - WTF - now standing in the bathroom running my hand under cold water, trying to reason with myself to no avail, when I finally fall to my knees and pray for relief - puleez dear god, grant me relief from the bondage of whatever the HELL had the nerve to make me wake up happy...
And so I'm writing. Here's the happy story:
Last Friday, for whatever new/old reason, I found myself in the position of withstanding yet another tyrannical tirade of texts from my ex - not an exaggeration, 12 texts consisting of the usual: what a low life I am for doing what I did to him (see? I'm pulling on my rings again!) and how could I be such a loser that I cannot even pay my bills without help - all conveyed shorter and much nicer here than they were there.
Another day in the neighborhood, right? I brush it off with, "He's a sick man, he rants, they're just words" and go to my home group. It's a lovely dinner and a lovely meeting with lovely people that I genuinely care about and a good time is had by all.
Saturday. More texts. He's on a roll. I shall ignore him.
Sunday. I wake after only 2 hours of sleep at 4:30am and have to go to work to the all-store holiday meeting. I cry all the way up I-5, seemingly because I don't have any heat in my house or my car, thinking "What a loser life I'm leading," and wonder where this powerful feeling of sadness is coming from. I get to work and have to get it together to give 50 people a store tour, one of whom ends up vomiting on my shoes, thankfully detracting from my bloodshot, puffy eyes and the lost child look I have on my face. Come on, I'm Manager, buck up!
By Sunday night, when I get to a meditation, gravity's taken over and I'm hang-dog. My self-esteem is down around my ankles and I'm wondering what ever made me think I was all right. What if I contain no real love in my heart at all and have just been faking this good person thing for years? I try to meditate and - finally - feel like I'm going to jump up and scream in the stillness. "I MUST get him out of my life completely! He's a soul-killer!"
After the meditation I attempt to discuss all the reasons why this may not be possible with a friend. Fortunately, this particular friend, who has his black belt in AlAnon, laughs, and reiterates: "So, what you're telling me is that you may be hanging on, not because he gives you the monetary support if you fall, but because he has the POTENTIAL to kinda, sorta, in-a-way, maybe help you out financially?"
Shit. This rings a very ancient bell, yes?
Monday I hike the Loop Trail at Magnolia with one of my very best, most trusted friends. I tell her of my new-found need to clean out the rest of the old Falsbergian closet but that I don't know how or where to start. And she takes the metaphor to its fullest extent - "You're the one who told me, Naaaannnncyyyy, that anything you've ever let go of has claw marks all over it. Well, I think your house has claw marks all over it."
And I finally heard it. I felt immediately like I had lost 20 pounds.
And so. I've decided that the very late mortgage check I just mailed, on the 21st of the month, will be my last. I'm done fighting, done hanging on with every claw-marked penny I have. I believe that it's time to walk away from my house, the last vestige that ties me financially to my former life. It's time to put an end to a very traumatic, excruciating era.
Why have I hung on so long? I ask myself the same thing now. But until Monday I thought I was hanging on for the noblest of reasons: to give my daughter at least ONE thing that she could look back on as stable in her childhood. Today, I'm thinking that may well be bullshit.
No furnace, deferred maintenance, skyrocketing utility bills...I'm so over comparison shopping for toilet paper. It's not that I can't do it, oh I've proven I can withstand just about anything (except tight rings, keep writing, keep writing) but maybe, just maybe it's time to withstand some comfort and relief.
I am, of course, staying until the sheriff shows up, but I shall heretofore attempt to take care of some deferred Nancy and Sasha maintenance, look for a place to live and turn it over. I haven't been brought this far to get dropped on my ass now, and besides, I know way too many people to ever live on the street, right?
And so I woke up happy. What's with the rings? I'll keep you posted.
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