As I hear my ex’s car pull up to drop off S, I open the blinds. The light goes on in the car.
She is sitting there. I don’t see her face, I have never seen her face…but I see the toss of a head. Long curly hair.
I feel sick. I feel my aloneness, my acute loneliness. Who am I kidding with this Year of Loving Myself Passionately. Tonight I am not feeling it.
He opens the door, looking ridiculously handsome in his grey corduroy jacket. He had always loved his style, always looked good. He never knew how good-looking he was. I wonder if he knows now. I wonder what occasion has him so dressed up. It’s not for me to know what happens in his life.
My ex hands me my son, and I am silent, not saying anything for fear of waking him up. “He’s out,” he mumbles. I carry him upstairs and deposit him in the bed. I watch from the bedroom window as my ex and his new family drive away.
The pain is so big I feel like I can’t stand it. But that is a lie. I know it will pass. Tomorrow is another day. But there is something about seeing her, there in the passenger’s seat, the one who replaced me 2 plus years ago. The one he lies next to every night. I wonder if he loves her.
Why can’t I get over it? Why can I not accept reality?
I know this isn’t about him. That’s the most recent story I tell to myself. But I know it’s BS.
I wasn’t satisfied when I was married to him, and I’m not satisfied alone.
I will never be satisfied, with myself or anyone else, until I do some honest, inner work.
I will never be satisfied until I learn how to practice acceptance.
Until I find a way to come to terms with the way things are I will always see what is missing, I will live in not enough, and I will live in yesterday, and tomorrow, and I will live in the anxiety that propels me speeding forward into this life, with so little peace in my head, and my heart.
I want more peace in my head and my heart.
So I will take this grief and these tear-stained cheeks and I will hold myself through it. I will snuggle up to my little guy and I will allow myself the “poor man’s nirvana” of sleep.
Welcome to this blog - my chronicle of the illuminating, character-building path of single parenthood. I'm making this up as I go along. My life is my practice, and my five year-old son is my greatest teacher.