My absences both from the blog and from a variety of friendships has gotten to the inexcusable point.  I know I’m going to lose some friends over my inability to communicate; it upsets me but from a distance, like I can’t feel those emotions clearly.  I know they are there, but they are inaccessible.

A friend asked me to go out for a glass of wine after Write Club last night - I simply couldn’t go.  I forced myself - literally forced myself - to go to Write Club.  The gods were on my side because only 3 people showed and they are all close friends of mine, so writing was not really discussed but plenty of other things were.  Even that small amount of time exhausted me. I’ve been really bad since last week.  Talking is an effort, explaining my situation(s) makes calculus seem easy to me.  Everything is hard, especially concentrating on work.  This is particularly annoying since I am extremely focused on getting some billable clients right now and actually have a couple of virtual assignments at the moment. 

I’m in some sort of hibernatory (made up word?  don’t know) phase right now.  I’m going on 8 months of personal turmoil, at times exhilarating, at times hellish, at times nearly bearable.  I’m flat out exhausted.  My brain feels like it’s mired in sludge, and I constantly feel like I need a nap.  If Nikki wasn’t around to help out with keeping the house clean, the 5,000 pounds of laundry my family generates, and braiding Arden’s hair every morning (her new obsession), I do not know how I would be functioning.  Things that used to come naturally for me - empathy, sympathy, understanding, the desire to be there for others - have flown out the window.  I’ve felt drained in the past, but it’s nothing compared to this level of emptiness. 

I can relate to things my mother told me about her life after her first husband left her.  My situation is totally different of course, but I still feel a bit like she says she did - like a RoboMom.  I go through the motions and occasionally I can break through and access my normal emotions toward my children.  Most of the time I am closed down, but able to cuddle them and feed them and do the things that need to be done.  I guess the major difference is that I don’t enjoy much of anything right now.  If someone else was talking to me about this, I’d calmly explain the symptoms of depression and emotional exhaustion and suggest therapy or medication.  I’m doing both, and working harder on my baggage than I’ve ever before.  I know that there is a light somewhere and I’m heading in the right direction.  I know that I have to trudge through this.  I know there are no shortcuts for grief or loss or mourning or recovering.  I must keep on going, because I’m convinced there is a better me on the other side. 

The buds are starting to appear and tomorrow it’s supposed to hit 71 degrees.  I’ve been running outside in the sun whenever I can because even though I resent those cheerful birds and drooling dogs crossing my path (stupid happiness!  How dare you!), the sun does improve my mood.  It helps mitigate the irritation and frustrations that are common in this ‘phase’ of the divorce process.  I know I am irritating the hell out of Mike; he is doing the same to me.  We are both extremely careful not to involve the children or forget their needs come first, and I’m proud of both of us in that respect.  No divorce, no matter how amicable, is easy.  We still have things to nail down, documents to sign, houses to sell. 

Spending yesterday on the phone with both of our mortgage companies was not fun for me in the slightest.  Few things make me cry anymore, but there are two guaranteed to turn on the waterworks.  The first is my children, if they express that they are suffering in the slightest.  The second is the house situation.  I cannot express the utter sadness and anger I know we both feel that we worked so hard on this stupid house and we are going to be ruined from it, at least for a little while.  I take solace in the fact that so many others are in the same boat, and I feel badly for all of us as a whole.  We made a bad decision (though Mike probably feels it is me that made the bad decision, forcing him into this house), and a bunch of factors went along with the decision.  Economy, my business, our marriage.  The situation is bleak no matter how you slice it.  The house will go on the market next week - and once the sign is up, the neighbors will start their gossip fest.  That part helps me be glad I will be moving, even if it means single-handedly lowering the property values on the street by having to do a short sale in the best case and deed in lieu of foreclosure in the worst. 

A friend asked me yesterday, “How’s it going?”  I answered, “It’s going.”  She responded, “Where is it going?”  Good question.  The only answer I have is “forward”.  Let’s hope that forward is the right direction. 

There is a love seat and a couch in our family room.  Over the years we’ve played with the kids on them, had tickle fights, naps, and foot rubs.  Tonight, my husband sat across from me while I coiled up on the love seat, behind this very same laptop.  He shuffled the paper version of what I looked at on my screen; a bizarre, coldly-worded and very legal-sounding divorce decree and property settlement agreement. 

A few weeks ago, I sat across from a friend who is also a divorce attorney.  I wrote him what felt like a big check for an “uncontested” divorce, but compared to litigation, a very small one - and he handed me a bunch of documents to fill out. 

These same documents floated around our family room tonight.  Between us, a large Groovy Girls tent sat on the coffee table.  An empty Capri Sun pouch listed to one side and a random stuffed penguin sat still near the fireplace.  It’s the same house we’ve been in for over three years now, the same messes and weird items, the same farting Labrador and carpet that could use a good vacuuming. 

My mother has mentioned that she feels uncomfortable now in our house.  Welcome to my life, where all aspects of my living situation and relationships feel weird and uncomfortable and sometimes downright scary. 

My reality is now my surreality, because there is nothing normal or expected about calmly discussing how you are going to tear your marriage apart.  It is a little like buying a car - you know how much you have to spend, but you don’t want to spend too much.  In fact, if you could get it for free - steal it, so to speak, you know you totally would.  You want to get out as cheaply and as unscathed as possible.  Only this new car feels like an alien spaceship you don’t know how to drive, let alone fly.  Things that are weird in my life? Where to begin?  Having Nikki living here is weird, but comforting.  For people who don’t know us, we probably look like a happy lesbian couple, alternating lunch-packing for the kiddies and driving the station wagon to and fro the library.  It makes me giggle, and I’ll take all the giggles I can get.  My mother asks if it’s weird.  Yep.  Is it weird having Mike gone?  Yep.  Is it weird renting a room at John’s? Yep.  Is it weird breaking down your lives, and your children’s lives, into tiny paragraphs with checkmarks and annotations and schedules A, B, C?  Hell, yes. 

Want to make me gag and feel like dying?  Use the word “alimony” in my presence.  “Spousal Support” is only mildly better.  I am Carol Brady after Mike Brady has told her he’s gay and left her ridiculous winged hair for a greased-up body builder with a 6 pack of abdominals and a tacky Popeye tattoo on his ass.  Carol would have to fire Alice the Maid.  She’d ruin her cat-like nails by scrubbing the floor on her hands and knees (Alice was always so sturdy!  No amount of Clorox would dare mess with Ms. Alice).  She’d throw herself down at Mike’s feet and beg for some of his architectural income so she could continue to get waxed and put tv dinners in the oven.  My feminist self rears its unkempt head and hairy legs; then it burps.  This cannot be happening to me - and I brought it on myself!  Spousal Support??? Who makes this crap up?  What woman born in 1971 is stupid enough to ever lose financial independence?  Watch out, ye womyn in yer 20’s - never let yourself become dependent on a man.  Bringing forth those children, we all make choices and sacrifices.  My career came second.  It was still important to me, and I still loved it, but after the moment I found out I was pregnant with Lily, it was never the same for me. 

I “wanted” to start my own business.  I sure did.  I wanted something that would allow me the flexibility to have it all.  I could be around for my children, but still work.  I could be well-networked, use my brain, make some money - and still be Carol Brady but without the random winged hairdo and the tv dinners.  This is all a myth of course, but other women have written about it much more eloquently (and succinctly) than I ever could. 

For now, we sit across from each other, a pink tent with leopard-print piping between us.  The meeting lasts all of 20 minutes.  We attack the document like lawyers do, even though I’m not one (I only play one on tv).  We hit the bullet points, cross off the numbers of the pages we’ve agreed on.  With the minor exception of spousal support, we’re pretty much on the same page.  I will live in the house until it sells; he will get an apartment with hopefully enough room for the girls during his scheduled visitation.  Everything is explained on paper and neatly drawn up.  At some point the paper will go back to the lawyer, and the lawyer will do whatever lawyers do with paper and courthouses and stamps from clerks of courts.  The paper will end up in both of our filing cabinets, with addendum A showing who gets the love seat and who gets the couch.  Those same couches that held our warm soft asses will be divided as efficiently as our marriage. 

Saturday I completed my first 5K in, like, 100 years.  I loved it, except the part where we were made to freeze outside for 45 minutes.  There were a lot of half-hearted jumping jacks and full-fledged bitching.  We finally figured out the Food Court was open and attempted to warm up there.  I peed about 23 times because I was so nervous. 

I wouldn’t say the race was easy, but it was definitely not difficult.  Laura ended up running it with the Run Like A Mother posse; I have two regular running buddies in the group.  We all finished in under 35 minutes, a personal best for me.  I wasn’t sore and I wasn’t tired.  I was pretty damn proud of myself. Toward the end, I heard the music from Chariots of Fire and sprinted the last 300 yards.  I was almost screaming, “I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR!”  Then I nearly puked walking to my car.

After a reapplication of deodorant, I headed up to Maryland to see Julie.  The drive through NoVa was its usual cluster - 4 1/2 hours later, I had made it the 160 miles to Sykesville.  Her friend Christine hosted a baby shower for her soon-to-be adopted Ethiopian daughter.  It was great to see her, even though she kept calling it a “Smash and Grab” visit.  She got a lot of good stuff and had, I’m sure, a ton of fun trying to cram it all into a duffel bag for the flight back to Colorado.  Whenever I see her, it’s like no time has passed (cliche much?) and Christine was an amazing host.  My one bone to pick:  Christine kept telling me to drink a wine cooler, and I did.  Um, it wasn’t a wine cooler.  It was a Smirnoff Ice something or other.  After running and not eating much, I was a staggering disaster after about 20 minutes.  No more Smirnoff Ice for me, ever - but it was pretty tasty! 

The trip back was much better and took less than 3 hours.  Wahoo! 

In about 10 hours, I will be running the first 5k race I’ve run since 2001.  The last race I did was the Komen 5k, back in the days before babies, cellulite and sleep deprivation.  Julie ran it with me.  It was hard, because I didn’t train properly. 

This 5k race replaces our regular team training run; the race atmosphere should make it more fun and make me more spastic.  I’m excited for it because two of the women on my training team have promised to stay with me as we limp toward the finish line. 

In all seriousness, I’ve been training very well and as of yet, have not missed a single training run or cardio workout.  I should be able to do this.  I CAN do it.  I’m ready! 

(call 911 if you see me face down in front of the food court at Short Pump Town Center tomorrow)

“It’s day for self-flagellation,” says me. 

“Okay,” I respond.  “Let’s get this party started.”

Run faster, run longer, run harder.  Take all of the frustration burning up your lungs and expel it through sweat.  No one judges sweat or thinks of it as weakness, not even you. 

Later in the day, there are pictures of women who are prettier, smarter, thinner than me.  Or so says me.  Then a list of all the reasons I am unlovable, undesirable, unhealthy, unwanted.  There is a list of words, all beginning with the prefix un-.  I take all of my family’s guilt and heap it in one heavy pile on a plate the size of my head.  I wallow in it, roll around for good measure.  I take random phrases my children say and turn them into myself.  My fault.  Destroyer of lives, homewrecker, woman with no foresight.  It doesn’t matter if malice wasn’t involved, I say, looking around at the wreckage of my personal plane crash. 

I ask myself why after years of fighting do I still struggle with the same things I always have.  Self-image, security, my failure to see the good in myself because I don’t have a searchlight bright enough to see through the bad.  I know it’s a weakness. Even my weaknesses have weaknesses.  It’s a never-ending circular spiral of crap.  I despise egomaniacs, arrogance, snotty people.  Stands to reason, says me, that I should also despise their flipside.  The punishers of self, those who can’t focus on the good in themselves instead of their shortcomings.  Perhaps my impatience in general stems from inability to give myself a break. 

I have this conversation with myself for a good portion of the day.  The lowest common denominator is always my physical image, because it’s something I can control and it’s something I can beat into submission.  Years ago I stumbled across a picture of someone’s ex-girlfriend.  I loved the someone, but seeing his ex made me want to crawl into bed and stay there.  It’s been 18 years since I happened across that picture, but I can still tell you exactly what it looked like. She was stretched across a couch, one arm tucked behind her and one thin hand thrown above her head.  Her hair was tousled and she stared into the lens of the camera, long before digitals became the standard.  Her power came through the glossy paper; she smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. The corners of her lips pulled up very slightly; she was confident and she knew that she was beautiful.  She had dirty blond hair streaked with black, because then it was cool to have bad hair coloring.  She was painfully thin.  Even through the denim of her tiny jeans, her hipbones jutted out and one was partially exposed.  Her shirt was slightly raised on one side - a simple white tee.  Her skin was pale but creamy and she wore no shoes or socks.  Her toes were painted a dark red but the nail polish had begun to chip.  Her fingernails were long.  Her eyes were hazel.  Looking at her, I knew that my someone could never love me like he loved this beautiful and strange person on the couch captured in chemicals and paper. 

Throughout the years, this picture has come back to me at odd times, including yesterday.  This woman became what my vision of beauty was.  It’s interesting I would choose a 5’ 9” woman to mark myself against; I’ve never worn size 0 jeans in my life, and I’ll never blow past the 5’ 1” mark.  It is impossible for me to change my eye color or my darker skin.  I am not built like a ballet dancer; I’m built like a gypsy meant to have children and work in the fields.  I’m sturdy, mule-like, beautiful in my own clumsy way, but there is no amount of plastic surgery or starvation that will make me look like her.  Finding beauty in all things opposite of me is an unbearable theme in my life. 

I am sick to death of my lowest common denominator.  I’m sick to death of having this same conversation.  To my younger friends still struggling with body image and eating disorders:  I am sorry that I can’t set a better example and show you that years of working on these things mean success.  It does get easier - more natural - but to still struggle with the same issues while teetering on the edge of 40 years is both sad and truthful.  It really is a lifelong struggle once you give yourself over to your own denominator. 

Today is a better day.