Author Topic: My Story Bird box.  (Read 3435 times)

Offline terraTopic starterTopic starter

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My Story Re: Bird box.
« Reply #90 on: February 09, 2020, 07:04:33 AM »
It makes me mad when I wake too early on Sunday mornings.

Last night I dreamt all night about wandering one of my old pre-h places, with h. In the dream he was ...broken, I guess. Or repentant, or needful, or something. He stayed close like a hurt child and although I felt compassionate, it also felt just strange.

I haven’t heard from him in two weeks. I haven’t seen him in a year and a half. Last February at this time, his parents were keen to have time with me. I phoned them at h’s several requests and in those conversations, FIL and MIL both said with so much love and excitement that it sounded like their son was planning something really big and really special for me. It was right before Valentine’s Day, so I wondered privately what that might be.

In the end, I learned several months later, it was that ow2 was just back in force and living with him again. Oh well.

This morning I woke up and wondered why I would be awake on this Sunday morning so early, in the dark. When I finally got up, I saw that the foot of my bed was brightly illuminated. The full moon in Leo, curled up like a huge ghostly lion there.

I got up and photographed the Leo full moon that looked through my front door window the way h had the first time he came home to this house. Then I went outside to burn things.

The journal I sat down with was full of stories and entries from that pre-h place. I had meant to burn them all; I recognized that they showed the theme of big promises made and big promises broken. This morning I knew that I want to release and end that theme, and it seemed like burning them beneath the morning’s full moon would do that nicely. Too early for wine, so I simply went out with the heavy old book and sat down with the lighter.

This book is actually full of other people’s MLCs.

Decades ago when I wrote these stories as they occurred, several of the people depicted were of a certain age. And there it all is in my own handwriting, bewildered and frustrated and annoyed. Parents divorced and remarried to people who didn’t seem “right” somehow and who I’d suspected were grifters of some sort. These stories playing out in a well-to-do multigenerational family right in front of my face. And me throughout all of them, wise to it and privately vocal about it the way that my D is to us in this family of our own now.

The sun is coming up and the full moon is still visible and it’s Sunday morning before Valentine’s Day and I could only burn a single page.

I don’t know what to even do with this huge book. I haven’t seen or spoken to any of the people in it for decades now, but know that the marriages that were not “right” ultimately ended in divorces. And I don’t care about anyone in the book. Not even that younger Me.

The stories are sort of well written although ornately worded (like these ones I write here, and I guess I just don’t know how to trim the excess). But who do they even serve?

Today I guess they still serve some future Me I haven’t yet become.

I’m tired of them.

Offline terraTopic starterTopic starter

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Re: Bird box.
« Reply #91 on: February 11, 2020, 05:10:00 AM »

Up far too early on a Tuesday morning, early enough that it is still Monday night where h lives. This, after a Monday that felt amazing and benevolent, and having downloaded and fallen asleep to what seemed like a really nice sleep app.

I fell asleep to the sound of waves, a few hours ago. I had spent Monday shepherding my determined but under the weather D to school and then running errands, stopping at home in time for a message from my recruiter asking me to call her. I called, and I landed the position I interviewed for last week. D called and I drove back to school and picked her up again and brought her home and saw her back to bed. Brought chicken noodle soup to the weary girl in her bedroom. Set about completing paperwork for the new job and looking up references. Saw D off to her dad’s care. By evening, I was tired and for some reason I spent an hour before bed curating photos on my phone.

I examined the map of photos in home state, a strange map of that state now peppered with photos in places I’ve only been twice, or maybe once. Once with h, the summer after he moved away with ow, and once, or once again, this past summer without him and without knowing ow was back.

Maybe that was the problem.

Maybe I shouldn’t have done that.

It was strange, looking at photos of him. I haven’t seen h since those photos were taken; it’s been a really long time.

The photos don’t even look real. The landscape is postcard beautiful, but to me still not beautiful to merit moving to and living there. Many people would argue with me: it’s paradise, it’s the most beautiful place ever.

It’s not. I know that full well. It’s not brilliant and without flaw or pain or worry. I know that full well. But it is beautiful, so, it’s nice to visit. It was weird to see those photos again this long later and still feel yes, I have no desire to live there. Not with h, and not at all.

In the photos, h looks remarkably heavy, and he was. I wondered why I don’t see that when I look at him. It made me realize maybe I don’t actually “see” him, when I am standing right in front of him. The then-extreme extra weight, in the photos, makes him look ... :/ hidden. And pained. And ...I don’t know what else. Like he is sad or concerned and trying to get away with something.

I hadn’t thought so last night but this morning it seems like well, maybe he was guilty over what we were doing together there, or hoping to conceal the facts of ow and that she was still around.

Maybe he was trying to conceal, or guilty over, the fact that he was betraying her, them, “their” life together. The things they had done there, while he was actively betraying me, us, our life together.

I ended this foray not quite understanding what any of those photos showed, or even, that I had taken them myself a year and a half ago, when I was arguably a different person and very much one who was less informed. I knew and know I am still very much uninformed. But it was weird and I finally just turned to the sleep app.

I let the chimes and unfamiliar slow piano music cradle my thoughts. I noticed I was kind of pining for the sounds of the sea, which, like they are where h lives, were imperceptible.

After some time, I drifted off to sleep. It was easy.

But some time after that, I dreamt I was in his presence again. And that he was mad. At me.

In the dream I knew I’d had a good day. I knew things were looking up for me, somewhere.

I also knew I was afraid of his anger and the way he’d historically directed it. And I knew I didn’t and don’t want to be his target, or anyone else’s, ever again.

I said whatever was necessary to get clear of his wrath, and in a moment of opportunity, made a command decision in the dream to “get away from this” and “go deeper”. I ducked into an elevator and hit the button to close the doors and descend.

The doors shut. The elevator lurched slightly and it wasn’t clear if it was because of ordinary descent or because h had barreled into them like a medieval battering ram.

Between the doors a mechanism appeared and began to spray the enclosed space with dark rugged material that I understood was raw concrete. I started looking for a way out. He forced another mechanism through the wedge in the doors and it sprayed water chaotically in all directions, blindly, hitting live wires and the cables in the walls.

In the dream, he was livid. And I was trapped. Trapped in *his* spaces, which were so unfamiliar and inhospitable. I knew I had made some sort of choice to be there, even endangered, but I also knew I had made a deliberate and strong decision to GET OUT of there. To stay safe; to keep myself safe.

I woke up feeling stunned and a bit deranged. That old panic I had never fully noticed or given a name to, the panic of having ventured trust even while feeling reasonably skeptical. Of having ventured trust and then been very much targeted and hurt because of it.

Or because of nothing. I don’t know why anyone ever treats anyone else so poorly, so badly.

It was still soon enough after sleeping at all, that I didn’t bother using the app again. I simply fell back asleep.

I kind of wish I hadn’t.

I dreamt suddenly that I was still in the other dream, still in home state and now outside the challenged elevator descent. On the ground floor and out in the open, I found myself in one of the houses there, his or the college friend’s girlfriend’s parents’ home. A house that was both more grand than the one h has shared with ow, or also somehow more grounded and secure, a ranch style home. One I would have chosen for us. One I would have liked. One he would have liked, too.

In the dream I wondered dimly if he had chosen it for her. Or if they had, like us, gone out several weekends in a row and chosen it together. In the dream, I decided deliberately not to focus on those thoughts, and instead, to focus on GETTING OUT OF THERE.

It seemed I was alone in the house. I moved through it quickly, feeling self-unwelcome, like an overstayed or uninvited guest, or like a basic criminal. Wondering if there were dogs and where they were. Wondering at the lives of the inhabitants, and where they were. Wondering why on God’s green earth I was there at all, when I knew I’d had such a beautiful day before being there, and knowing too that I had just encountered the relevant inhabitant earlier and that he’d been angry enough at me to be dangerous, be ugly.

And to be actively determined to almost cost me my life.

I saw some of my things, in those rooms. Jewelry, maybe; things I’d forgotten I’d ever owned. Articles of clothing I haven’t worn in years. But the thing that stood out was a book I reference several times a week, that is both here at my bedside and also still shrink-wrapped and stored in the bedroom closet as failsafe and backup.

In the dream, I found it in the cellar, waterlogged and moldering and half buried in sand and rubble and debris. As if that pile of detritus was all that was left over, after he’d successfully drowned and electrocuted and finished off that elevator descent.

I picked it up and felt the hardcover give way in my hands. So I kept moving, looking for a place to put it down, a place to hide it. And looking for a way to GET OUT of there.

As I moved silently, the rooms beyond the walls sounded of people returning. Casually friendly voices I didn’t recognize, mostly male, but women’s voices too. Some sort of house party gathering steam, after a day’s good work and agreements. I heard a woman’s voice, servile and accommodating.

GET ME OUT OF HERE. I knew it was h’s house, knew I wasn’t welcome, knew I didn’t know these people, knew they didn’t know me. Knew he wasn’t in the house. Knew I had to get out of there.

I spotted a place to slip the ruined book between an old dresser and a wall. I noticed I had always somewhat resented h’s old furniture. As I slid the book into that cobwebbed forgotten storage shadow, the wall became a window, and she was there.

In the dream, I saw ow clearly for the first time in my life. Because I was suddenly in HER HOUSE. The house she lived with my h in. The one in which she had lived with him for YEARS.

This was a shock and some sort of reckoning. She wasn’t upset. She was placid and docile and friendly. She simply offered me a kind welcome, the way she would welcome any one of h’s other “friends”. The same way she would welcome his coworkers or colleagues or college friends or family. The same way she had welcomed S. To her, I was just a friend of his that she hadn’t yet met.

She ushered me into the kitchen and was trying to appease me. But I hadn’t introduced myself, and wouldn’t: I was trying to GET OUT.

The men in the house low-voiced and laughing together in other rooms, somehow ordinary but menacing. One in particular, I knew was positioning to defend the house and to brawl if necessary. I looked for the door.

The ow kept prattling kindly in the kitchen. H wasn’t there right now, she explained, but he’ll be back soon. I know he’ll be glad to see you.

In the room just beyond the kitchen, their kitchen, a wide walk-in closet hung with a whole row of her colorful bathing suits.

My mother has a room like this at her house there and that was the last straw. I knew in the dream that outside of that dream, I was here striving and worrying and doing my best to provide for my D and I and that it was nothing like this 24/7/365 vacation h and ow were on.

I broke away into the next room and saw a person I’d known and hated briefly in the first summer of MLC, back before I knew it was MLC.

That man, then, had been deep in the tunnel of his own MLC. And at the time, I had thought he was a caricature of it, just the exact stereotype, everything script though I hadn’t known the script even existed, or that it was so specific and so common.

I went to this hated person and risked telling him in front of all the other friends of MLC h and ow, “I need to get out of here and I can’t be here when h gets back. I’ve got to GET OUT OF HERE, RIGHT NOW, and I need your help. I have to go, RIGHT. NOW.”

The other men watched with interest. The women started to come nearer, too. I left the scene and went out to the street to wait for the petitioned to come out to help me. Or else, maybe, maybe I would just run.

We got into the shuttle as h drove up, the whole house party turned out onto the street. A woman intercepted me and entreated me to stay; she hadn’t seen me in such a long time and she wanted to catch up; she knew “whatever it is between you and h, I know it’s a misunderstanding. I know the two of you can talk it out.”

I looked at her. She looked like my grandmother’s best friend, my old auntie. “Who are you?” I said, because this woman had nothing to do with h and was definitely not ow.

“Claudia!” she said brightly. She was happy to see me again.

“I don’t know you,” I said, and boarded the plane.

H stood at the edge of his property line as though I had trespassed with an army of transgressors. He stood like a defiant king, defending his turf. The brawler behind him, ready to throw down. Both of them ready to harm me, a woman, physically.

I took an unassigned seat near the back of the small luxuriant aircraft. Resenting that situation, those people, even the one who I had asked for help. The ow and unrelated women below the windows, still trying on the outside of it to pacify and appease and make something nice happen again. Me on the inside, behind glass, pained at having been there, having seen the ow in “her” own house and spaces. Pained at how she looked, and how she looked nothing at all like me, and how she was utterly different than me and maybe because of that, living a life so much better and finer and safer and more socially and intimately connected than I was.



And with all of that community buzzing and intermingling beneath the window, the jet engines purred to life and the plane moved forward smoothly,

And I woke up.

Still estranged, still charged, still tired. Still yesterday, where h lives with that person.

I don’t wonder who they are or who they spend time with or how often or where. I know it’s just a dream and that the life there isn’t like that. I know h wouldn’t physically harm me. I know ow probably would NOT be kind or docile or appeasing, if the walls became windows and I suddenly showed up in her house.

But I definitely wonder what the hell is going on with that sleep app. Because I have never had a dream like that about h before, let alone twice in one night. And it was so. concertedly. bad.

I wish it had been a result of something eaten or drunk or some sort of substance before bedtime, but it wasn’t any of those things.

Just the photos of the past. Not even dwelled upon, nor cried about; not even recognized really, as someone I’d known.

Today is a different day. Today can be benevolent. Today usually is, somehow. But I might just ditch the sleep app.

Offline terraTopic starterTopic starter

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Re: Bird box.
« Reply #92 on: February 11, 2020, 09:06:11 PM »
The book in that cellar in the dream. Today a buyer wrote me a curt message and told me they wanted to retract and cancel an order, because “per the artist’s family, that is confirmed to be NOT a work by that artist”.

I don’t have to reference the book to know that’s an outright lie. I texted the artist’s family a link to the item. They phoned me immediately and said what I already knew: they had no idea who that buyer was, had never spoken to them, and no one in the family would say that particular work wasn’t authentic.

I cancelled the order and wrote back to the now former buyer. Per the artist’s family directly just now, this work is confirmed authentic and correctly identified in the listing. I’ve known them for years. I’ve cancelled the transaction per your request.

I don’t think I am lied to that boldly very often. It’s been a long time, I think, and I was perplexed but also glad that this time, it was by a buyer in plain text, lying about something I know that I KNOW. And about someone I KNOW that I KNOW.

So the item stays unsold for the moment, and I’m grateful that I knew in that moment, that a lie was staring me in the face. It may be a very small thing, but I’m grateful for the opportunity to feel what it really feels like, how and what the body and brain registers when being told a definite lie.

I’m also glad I confirmed what I knew, and then said it back to the liar without going mental over it.

Still, I was perplexed for hours after that. Why lie? Why not just say the truth: that you changed your mind. I don’t even need to know your reasons. Your no will suffice.

It took hours afterward before I remembered that I had just held that book in my hands, in a nightmare just this morning. Upon waking I had felt aggrieved and confused and almost hurt. Why that book?


It was just a dream, I guess. But it’s funny that it preceded a weird actual incident today.

I don’t know.

I have an avalanche of documents to sign tomorrow for the new job. I will do it tomorrow because tonight I am way too tired. It’s funny too, that certain dream content can just wipe you out before you even wake up.

I had several challenged moments today and cried after each one of them. I wrote it all to my sister though, so won’t go on about them here. I will say though that each seemed tied to history with h and it was hard to look at how much I have weathered and met alone without him and without his help. Hard to re-examine those periods of time, and I had to, today, because it related to employment.

We once had a very reliable and pleasant, easy rhythm together. I still don’t know what drives anyone to throw that away, even for something that seems new and desirable. I get that something was wrong, but in all honesty, the burden of it was not and I know, is not, on me.

I’m thrilled to go back to work, through the agent and references I’ve known all these years. Tonight it struck me that looks like I just underestimated what it actually meant, for me to be a part of h’s life. Maybe for him, love comes and goes.

Not for me.

Steady on.

« Last Edit: February 11, 2020, 09:07:49 PM by terra »

Online Treasur

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Re: Bird box.
« Reply #93 on: February 12, 2020, 12:39:09 AM »
One of the things that rang out from your story about the book is that someone else's need to lie is, in a funny way, nothing to do with us at all.
That what matter is our ability to trust that we know what feels like lie or truth.
And that it is easier to do that if their lie doesn't matter very much, if it doesn't link to an outcome that matters so much.

Often as LBS the lies matter I think bc we are trying to make important decisions contingent on facts so we keep trying to pin it down or bc we feel someone is trying to force their lie into becoming our truth so we naturally try to resist that.

That sounds like something very useful to remember for all of us  ;)

You could have reacted differently, Terra, about the book. Refused to cancel the order. Got into a big extended exchange about what was true or not. Threatened to charge them for reneging on their commitment to buy. Or doubted your own judgment and lost confidence in yourself or the word of others. Instead you just thought weird, confirmed the facts and cancelled the order. Their loss and now the book is available for someone else to buy who will really appreciate it right? Hmmm, strikes me that the book story has a lot to teach us as LBS maybe. ....thank you for sharing it.
T: 18  M: 12 (at BD) No kids.
H diagnosed with severe depression Oct 15. BD May 16. OW since April 16, maybe earlier. Silent vanisher mostly.
Divorced April 18. XH married ow 6 weeks later.
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"Option A is not available so I need to kick the s**t out of Option B" Sheryl Sandberg

Offline terraTopic starterTopic starter

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Re: Bird box.
« Reply #94 on: February 13, 2020, 07:31:17 AM »
Thank you, Treasur. I think that’s one of the biggest gifts of all this  t i m e  for me, the slow reckoning of “I/me/mine” and “You/yours”. I’m not sure how any of Me got lost or obscured or suppressed, with h or anyone else. I had always been distinctly myself but ? somehow the dynamics with him landed me in a constant wash of who *he* thought and acted like and said I was.

But I wasn’t. I was still Me. Just ...buried? Or at least greatly overlooked.

That bugs me sometimes because it wasn’t like my persona or personality wasn’t equal to his in size or expression or vibrancy. He just somehow ignored or belittled it, or parts of it, and I guess I let him. And I’m not blaming him for it today. Just sort of wondering why I would do that, how did it serve me or us or him, for me to do that, and how was it that I did it without being definitively aware that I was doing it.

It’s not like I need all parts of me to be recognized or valued or upheld, either, celebrated. Rather that if you see it, at the very least you oughtn’t disrespect it.

Anyways. I am still in the vortex of filling out new hire paperwork and setting up time for trainings and visits with the agent company. I might be on the edge of getting sick; I feel muddied, mentally, but I’m weathering it and slowly pushing through. The new hire tasks go fairly smoothly and then some discrepancy crops up and it’s four steps back or diverted while I sort it out again. None of that is my fault or within my control, but I know that each discrepancy or diversion in the process is something that h would criticize and berate me for.

Some people are maybe mentally clearer or more structured in their thinking or perseverance. I seem to be a person who is most qualified to always break the system or to find the flaws or gaps in it. Not on purpose. Just a natural quality tester, and mostly by surprise and accident. It’s a learning curve or a discovery path and I usually reach the finish line in good time and good cheer, but with some feedback for whoever has just put me through it. Sometimes I offer the feedback and sometimes I don’t. I try to stay in my lane, anymore.

H gets angry with me when there is any backward step. He seems to think I do these things on purpose or am stupid somehow. Neither of those things is true of me. When I’m tired but “doing it anyway”, I get cross and annoyed at being judged or criticized in my efforts. I’m just not sure anyone has any right to do that. To me, for sure, but to anyone really. It’s disrespectful. It’s also no one else’s business. And it’s further distraction or derailment, which, if you want me to get this done? Just stay out of my way and let me do it.

My parents were masters of whatever that is. Negation and unwarranted, unhelpful, interruptive criticism.

These last few days I am continually aware at every turn that “he is not here”, and feeling the strange freedom and settling of being here alone IN A GOOD AND SAFE WAY. Aware at every sudden complexity that “no one is going to b!tch at me about this, or about how I proceed”.

That is the newest and strangest feeling, that sense of being ok to proceed in my own fashion and at my own pace. Knowing that I am heading into something vital and structured and positive, friendly, and that the people I know and am about to know are asking me to participate with them in an engaging and productive venture. That the promise doesn’t include belligerence or put-downs; that instead, it asks and offers trust, respect, acknowledgment, fairness, and reasonable boundaries.

And money. I am thrilled to go earn it again, thrilled to do the math of finances and to allocate and rebuild. Already planning first paycheck, first for rent but secondarily for things that D had asked for recently and which I am happy to produce for her.

My letter of clear terms to h in December was a major and necessary turning point and a major and apparently permanent shift in my thinking about him/us. I no longer have any care or hurt or expectation that he is going to help me live this current life or help me provide for retirement. I also have no cares about retirement and now just assume it is fine to live just for today, for right now. There’s a freedom in that, too, and in realizing again that if he is not here, “no one is going to b!tch at me about it”. Which is good, because it was hard for me to weather his strategies and complaints while I was doing leaps and bounds and, like, feats of excellence to put money away for our future.

He didn’t acknowledge, respect, or value those efforts either, and I couldn’t ever explain that to myself. So now I am here, alone, back with an employment group I knew almost 20 years ago, and about to go into a position much like the one I was in directly before we ever met.

And I think I am finally fine.

I noticed last night out on an errand in the dark, that I feel I am finally starting to integrate all the broken pieces of myself, now ? 2.5 years after the moveaway. I don’t remember the math of the calendar anymore. I have begun replacing memories or relationship facts with a different and happier recollection that has nothing to do with h or that bond; matching up a music timeline in retrospect, and just letting songs from then be representative of then, even though I hadn’t known them then. The getting back with this particular employment group and my professional network has been really restorative. Landing this job is a pure blessing.

I also noticed how concretely and permanently the BD blows us apart. Not h and me, but us: LBSs. It shatters everything of a marital timeline and throws our memories and meaning, even of self, into chaos and disarray. But you know? In the aftermath, it’s that book again. Picking hope or facts out of the rubble and finding out if anything is still of value.

The book in the dream and in reality is a representative of the things of value. The thing the buyer lied about, was both a thing of value represented in the book, and also, the relationship with that family. I knew I had both the relationship and the correctly identified thing of value. I have several of them, and know it, and the relationship with the family, and the family itself, both confirm that I do and that I know.

Last night I dreamt a long dream of h, totally opposite of the nightmares. He surrounded me in softness like the mist around this morning’s moon. “I can’t believe you’re here with me, and we are both gently dreaming about each other,” he said in the dream. I simply saw him, and beyond him, his father watching over us.

When I woke, I marveled at the intricacy and fickleness of the brain and psyche. But I appreciated the difference of this dream. It was like the old days of us, the beautiful ones, the years when we both knew we loved each other very much, and more than anyone else in Life.

On with the day.

Online Treasur

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Re: Bird box.
« Reply #95 on: February 13, 2020, 07:52:40 AM »
I also noticed how concretely and permanently the BD blows us apart. Not h and me, but us: LBSs. It shatters everything of a marital timeline and throws our memories and meaning, even of self, into chaos and disarray. But you know? In the aftermath, it’s that book again. Picking hope or facts out of the rubble and finding out if anything is still of value.

Yup, that book packed a big punch of meaning didn't it? Funny how that happens sometimes. Your story about the book has really lingered in my mind too.

I do think....and it is easier to see from further out/away....just how much gets blown up by this experience. Not just the ending of a m, but the way it happens. It really is a big thing. We have all had tough or painful experiences in life but it is rare to have one that touches almost every bit of our lives simultaneously and both past, present and future. Where we don't have a stable spot untouched by the chaos perhaps until we get strong enough to build one.

But i can see how you are progressing, Terra, and I hope you can too. It is unlikely that your h or my xh would add anything useful to that process imho, just more chaos. And congrats on the new job!
T: 18  M: 12 (at BD) No kids.
H diagnosed with severe depression Oct 15. BD May 16. OW since April 16, maybe earlier. Silent vanisher mostly.
Divorced April 18. XH married ow 6 weeks later.
Healing and growing found here

"Option A is not available so I need to kick the s**t out of Option B" Sheryl Sandberg

Offline terraTopic starterTopic starter

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Re: Bird box.
« Reply #96 on: February 14, 2020, 08:38:58 PM »
Yes to all you’ve said, Treasur! I don’t always see my own progress, but lately, for the past month or so, I really do.  Very grateful for the clarity, inside and from witnesses.

I signed employment contracts this morning, then found myself wandering into a Catholic Mass at the church nearby. Literally called to it, by the blessings being spoken over a PA as I walked back toward the parking lot. An unexpected way to spend time and thought on Valentine’s Day, and really, a gift. Pretty much the right thing.

I prayed for h, and his S, and his parents. I’m not sure what that will even do, but it felt right to be there this morning in that manner. And it was nice to be among faithful strangers in a parish that was not even mine, and to still remember the words and the right responses and gestures, the old rhythm.

I asked in prayer that h be led back to the body of the Church. Not so that he will be again in an environment or language or rhythm that I understand and can relate to, but so that he might feel the good of what faith offers; that he might feel the comfort and steadfast love of Christ, God, the Holy Mother, the Holy Trinity, the saints, etc., etc. And I acknowledged there in the church that it isn’t mine to decide or even sway. Just, please, Father, bring him back to You, so that he will know Your love.

Just, sort of an unexpected morning. Fortuitous and surprising and satisfactory, beautiful. A communion, although I did not partake of the Eucharist this time.

I need to remind myself from time to time that really, sometimes I am full of love for everyone on this earth, and that there is no husband in my house is not a problem. Not even on Valentine's Day. Today I was glad beyond words, that there is no man here.
« Last Edit: February 14, 2020, 08:44:10 PM by terra »

Online Milly

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Re: Bird box.
« Reply #97 on: February 15, 2020, 03:49:46 AM »
Terra, I think financial security is very important to our healing. The ability to be able to make money and to decide what to do with it. Like you said, the first thing is the rent - your responsibilities. Even just doing that gives me comfort and a sense of achievement. This is why I don't understand why these MLCers don't get that feeling too. Then you want to treat your D. That's how normal parents feel. We work, we scrimp, to give to them.

I love your stepping into a Church as a Valentine's gift to yourself. You've got a lot of stuff on your plate but you'll get through it a day at a time. We all do. Hope you have a good weekend.
Married 1989, together since 1984 
BD May 2014,
D25, D22, S15
OW Physical Affair same one. He and she said she turned 34 the month of BD. She turned 52 this year.

Offline terraTopic starterTopic starter

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Re: Bird box.
« Reply #98 on: February 15, 2020, 04:05:03 PM »
Thank you, Milly. The funny things is that I was working, through most all of this. I’m not sure exactly why this latest employment situation feels so different.

Maybe because the other ones, I knew something was wrong but not quite what, and still felt hope about h coming to his senses and coming home? I’m not sure.

This time, something is different. It’s like I am looking in the mirror now and just seeing that yes, objectively the woman in it is an attractive woman, beautiful enough both outside and in her spirit. Objectively, yes, she is of a certain age but she is both receptive and ...awake. Objectively that is a woman of talent and experience, and particular devotions that we don’t get to question or intrude upon. Because those are legitimate devotions. Her family, being one of them. Her self authority, being another.

Objectively, that woman in the mirror deserves respect and gives it. She’s friendly and exhibits integrity and expects same. That’s legitimate, too.

Objectively, she might appear to be alone, but she really isn’t. That woman in the mirror is known by her community and peers and those other people all want good things for her. Objectively, that is a woman that other people, even strangers, all really like. Because she likes them, and is like-able.

And she’s clearly ready to work, to labor, and to learn — and to have a good time doing all of that, while also respecting and attending her own life.

This time, it’s like I’m walking into a brand new world, in a brand new way. Not chaotically but rather like a pre-planned and structured entrance, with the promise that it will go well. I know we can’t promise anything like that or rely on really anything to go as expected. But something feels different.

I have worked pretty hard to make various mental shifts, these past two months. That seems to be bearing fruit, although as I said I think in Acorn’s thread, I almost feel like I’ve overshot “detachment” and landed smack in “indifference”. That’s not what I was going for and I’ve felt a little dismayed about it. But it’s been better for me also, so I’ll keep heading this way.

I feel a lot like I did in the months before I ever knew h, before I was even aware that he even existed. Like it’s just me here (which it is), and there’s no man and no promise of one (which is and may continue to be true), and there’s a path forward anyway and I’m on it.

All in all, it’s good. But bewildering, too. But also, I find I feel very excited to go to work next week, to meet and join my new team, to learn what those dynamics and structures and personalities are, to do the work and net the paycheck and spend my weekends my own way, in a different way.

I find I *LIKE* it.

I kind of wasn’t expecting that, either.

Yesterday after contracts and attending Mass, it occurred to me that whatever this new life is for me, I want very much to *protect* it. From h, from ow, from anything to do with that story. So I have loose plans not to think about the old story much, until maybe after Easter has come and gone.

That feels good too. I want my space right now; I’m finally finding enough of the pieces of me to realize I like how things are right now, and don’t want interruptions from him. I am so glad to finally feel like I am coming whole again, my own full Self.

Offline terraTopic starterTopic starter

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Re: Bird box.
« Reply #99 on: February 18, 2020, 09:17:50 AM »
The day after I last posted in this thread, I woke again too early on a Sunday morning, because our dog was having a grand mal seizure at the foot of the bed.

That happens, sometimes. We’re more or less used to it.

I got out of bed and hauled him out to the yard in the dark. My shoulders still hurt from the effort. I didn’t get back to sleep, on Sunday. Just lay awake in the dark, unable to think of anything other than that h left me alone with this and is living instead with some ow now for years in a place he thinks is Paradise.

Annoying. Insulting. But finally, as the sun came up, just “what Is”.

The dog is fine. D and I are fine. My shoulders are tight, though, and I was grateful for the Monday off and knowing today is my own time too. I feel like I am on the verge of getting sick. But it’s not debilitating, and maybe I can knock it out with this maybe last day of rest. I am expecting a call from agent today, and we both anticipate that I will be out at the office for my first day of work, by tomorrow or end of week at latest.

D went off to her dad’s last night; she is on a break from school and they are flying across the country tomorrow for a big arts and culture trip. Museums and theatre and music, big deal music. The music part wasn’t planned; it all was announced *after* her dad booked the trip. Really, it’s so specific and well-aligned that it’s clear to me that’s God’s hands in it all. And I’m grateful for that. It’s astounding, how perfectly it is structured.

I will see D for a few minutes today, to give her a ride over to a friend group date while her dad is at work. Then they’re off and across the country until their return on Sunday. Then it will be Monday and time for school and work again, and I’ll see her then, and hear all about all her big experience.

We had a beautiful day yesterday here, very much a vacation day although spent idly at home. Somehow the topic of floorplans and bedroom and bed sizes came up. I told her that when we don’t live in this house anymore, there will be new rooms of normal size, with normal-sized beds. She said “I know. But I won’t be living with you, then.”

Miraculously, I did not take this personally at all, and miraculously, nor was I hurt or surprised by it.

Miraculously, it was just a simple statement and true. When we move from here, or at least, if we stay here as long as she is in school, by the time she graduates, it’s very likely she will have other designs and dreams for her life. She is a vibrant teen and although a bit wild, she is practical. Independent in ways I’m not sure I expected or was ready for. She’s known her intentions for years. I haven’t disputed any of them. So it was just a small and matter of fact conversation, both of us acknowledging that she is growing up.

Later I ventured to ask, “If you don’t live with me then, where would I move to?” and later still, “What if I lived in [home state]?”

Not because of my family or because of h. I don’t see those interactions anymore. I wouldn’t live there because of them.

I would live there only because I have intended nearly all my life to live there. Because being there, I feel I belong. If not to the people there, then to the land itself, and to the many species of birds and sea life and flowers and trees.

It sounds kind of dumb when I say that out loud, so I didn’t say it at all. I simply asked, what if I live there?

“That would suck,” D said. We both laughed, because we both know that’s true.

But then she said, “Because I would have to travel to [home state], to see you.” And I blinked at this, because, I know that’s not right or how it would even be. And that’s when I realized again, the way things have been with h and with my parents all this time, is just not how I do things, or how I will ever do them again.

“No,” I told D. “That is definitely not how we would do that.”

But I also realized, just as I don’t know how to manage or accommodate any contact with or from h while he is living there, I don’t know how I would manage living there and still also having a reasonable and accessible relationship with my own daughter.

H “hears from S every so often” and they text each other every two weeks or so. S is now ...20? He’ll be 21 near the end of this year. S can come and go as he pleases. He’s an adult, albeit a young one.

S will be on his own, when his mother moves back to the state where D and I live. Another reason h says he will never come back here.

Did I say? I recently realized that if h is never coming back here, there’s no reason for me to have any further contact with him. It was a weird realization and I’m still not sure what to do with it. Just, if you’re not here with me, you kind of don’t exist, or if you do exist, you don’t really matter. Not living somewhere else, you don’t.

From what I’ve heard from h, his relationship with S is intact and just fine, if a little less frequent than h wants it to be. But we both/all think or know that this is partly because S is nearly 21 and almost on his own and that S “must” explore life in his own way, independently, to become the man he will become.



You know what? It’s kind of none of my business, how h and S are or are not. Is it.

I only know that D and I have an open and deeply heartful dynamic, and that even as she spends more and more time in her own studies and socializing with her friends, with an eye toward her own future — we do both expect that she will always have ready access to me, easily and wherever I am.

Where will I be?

And, why?

Why will I be there, wherever I live then? And will I be there because there makes me happy? Supports me with the right services and landscapes and housing and employment?

Where do I belong?
Why do I belong there?

Who else is there, to know? Or to live with?
Will I be alone? Still? Again? For how long?

For always?


And still, miraculously, I do not take it personally. It’s just a strange set of questions that have to be asked and examined and fitted with different and even disparate answers, again and again, until something makes sense and some direction is found to seem right.

In the meantime, no contact with the old story is great. Full contact with child and self are great. I’m looking forward to the new office and tasks and colleagues, and hope that it all will be fine.

It’s weird, to start to understand so gently, finally, that all of this life right now is Mine.


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