Embracing ME

I could sit here and write about all the ways I am disrespected by my husband and my youngest son.  I can rant and rave and rage against the trials of living in a house of testosterone or how hard it is to be so sensitive and misunderstood by my own family.  (Although, I suspect my youngest son is a lot like me, he just doesn't know it yet.  I hope he recognizes his sensitivity soon; ignoring it just leads to a pretty sad life.  I know.)  

But I don't want to bash my family because I do love them.  It's just so HARD sometimes. I'm sitting here in a hotel room right now typing this post.  I packed a bag Monday afternoon, after some convincing from my sister, told my family I loved them, and left.  I don't know what to expect when I get home.  What I do know is that having my own space, all clean and uncluttered with no dishes or laundry to do, has been therapeutic beyond belief.  There are no moments of tiptoeing around wondering if another argument is going to unfold or trying to be pleasant when al I feel is distrust, anger, and heartbreak.  Looking at my beautiful son and wondering how the hell he can be so sweet and then call me a fucking bitch moments later.  

I called my sister in tears Monday.  The worst part is so much of me wonders what I am doing wrong.  Why am I the one that stirs the pot, so to speak.  For so many years, I felt that I was broken and that everything my husband said was the truth.  That I needed to let things roll off my back.  That I needed to smile more and not take things so seriously.  And he is partly right, but what about the rest of me that feels things so deeply because that's who I am.  That's what feeds my soul, connects me, breathes life into me.  Without feeling anything deeply, I am just floating through the days looking for the next feel-good moment, do my job, do the laundry, say hello, say goodnight.  Actually, as I write that, if that was enough to satisfy me, I'll take it.  That sounds like a lovely, simple life.  Unfortunately, that's not enough for me.  I need that vulnerable, authentic, raw aspect to life.  That facet that connects me to others and others to me.  

I tried.  I really did.  I drank and I drank and I drank.  For years.  My children saw me drunk far too many times, something I will have to hold onto for the rest of my life.  I tried to numb the depths, to fill the hollow void that was missing true connections.  

In my 20's, I tried to have sex with whomever because that's what women do, but that just left me feeling more empty.  I tried to love when love wasn't meant to be, but that just left me feeling more broken.  I prettied myself up, I drank so I could flirt, I danced because I could (actually, dancing to live music is the closest thing to connecting with myself that I have ever found).  

Here I am, 47 years old.  A beautiful 18 year old son ready to spread his wings.  A 16 year old son who has that depth like me, but man, does he have a temper sometimes.  I'm perimenopause, I'm quitting alcohol, and I have a husband wondering what the fuck is going on because now all of a sudden I'm demanding that deep conversation, that connection.  Unfortunately, he doesn't like change that takes him out of his comfort zone and this is so far out of his comfort zone... enter the constant arguments.  I know I am not the angel here.  I am not able to clearly explain what I want because quite honestly, I don't know how to name it.  All I know is that I want to be heard for who I am, who I have always been buried beneath the life of a mother, wife, teacher.  I want this ME to be held and welcomed with open arms.  I want HER to be caressed and understood and heard.  No one knows her, yet.