Does No One See That You’re Drowning?

Smile and wave, all is fine

Everything since March 2020 feels like one long, drawn-out episode of a movie that needs to end. Kind of like the first episode of Lord of The Rings, which easily could have ended halfway through that damn movie.

I’m not the same person I was before.

Before Covid life, I was a working mother who was the next best thing to a single mom because her spouse chose to work crazy far away. I had routines. I managed everything. I struggled to keep my marriage afloat. As much as I hate going into work, going into an office provided structure to my day.

Maybe it’s an autistic brain thing. I’m still learning about that part of myself. I need schedules like my 10-year-old does to keep the spinning plates from falling.

Since the pandemic, every day feels ad hoc. I can create schedules all I want but without external entities to enforce them (such as going into an office or gym class times), I’m not good at following them.

I know to the outside world, I look okay. I’m the master of looking like I can keep my shit together. But that’s usually because I am keeping my shit together. It’s stressful, but it works.

Nothing is working right now other than the fake smile I plaster to the world. It’s a difficult decision to keep this inward when part of my mental metamorphosis is to be authentic to those around me. I don’t know if this is a regression or simply self-preservation; it’s my emotional cigarette after quitting. For the record, I’m not a smoker but if I ever did, I certainly would cave and get my Marlboro on.

I waffle between feeling optimistic over this divorce and my kids or feeling crushing guilt. My son’s reaction when we told him is seared in my brain. His face scrunched up, he put his hands on his face, then laid down face-first into the couch cushion. He didn’t even make a sound.

Later, Joseph told me that he struggles with not lying to the kids about the reason for the divorce. “I don’t want to make you look bad so it’s hard to lie when they ask if we couldn’t keep trying to make it work.”

I didn’t reply but it’s been days and it’s making my blood boil. You don’t get to be absent for almost 20 years and in the eleventh-hour show up, expecting welcome arms. You don’t get to have the marriage you want when it took a marriage counselor and a nervous breakdown for you to realize you fucked up. You sure as fuck don’t get to act like I’m not the one willing to make an effort when you continued to yell at me, swear, and call me names.

It seems that’s a common tactic in divorce. The wife spends years begging with her needs ignored. Only when she’s ready to quit does the husband step in and finally join the team. When the wife leaves, the husband then says how he was trying to make all these efforts and she wasn’t the one willing to try.

It’s thrown me for a mental loop. I spend every day just waiting to die because I was so unhappy. But now his words repeat in my head and I feel this enormous Guilt Weight on my shoulders because out of the four people in this family, I’m the only one who wants it split. What if I made the wrong decision?

My mother is on instant messaging overload. My parents are panicking about my physical safety living on my own and my mother insists I must delete all conversations in case Joseph reads them. Not that he has any way to do that (my phone is quite secure, nor does he know how to use an Android) but even if he did, so what? I can talk about whatever I want to my parents and I haven’t said anything bad.

I spent almost two decades with a shitty marriage in secret; having my parents all up in my nuts is unnerving. They mean well and I’m grateful our strained relationship hasn’t cast me off from their affection. It’s time-consuming and I feel like I have to lessen the blow for them just as much as my kids.

My side outlet has been my time with Thomas, a guy who has fallen in love with me and is patiently waiting until I’m ready to commit. Sometimes his affection is too much and I push back. Lately, he’s been fantastic.

Except…I’ve also got Sean on the scene. He travels a lot so seeing him is next to impossible but he messages regularly and asks me over whenever he’s in town. I can’t tell if it’s a booty call because he gets all chatty and relationship-y with me. Part of me wants to ask but another part wonders if there’s a point; I’m in divorce mayhem and can’t give any more of myself anyway.

Which is part of the problem. I’ve repeatedly told Thomas I won’t commit to anyone until I’ve settled into my new home because I’m not in any position to go into Girlfriend Mode. I’m in escrow now. He’s going to call me his girlfriend and ask for commitment. He’s wonderful to me and would give me the moon if I asked. He’s a rockstar at sex (possibly the best I’ve ever had). But there are enough red flags for me to hold back. And I’m not ready to give up Sean, who is the complete opposite human from Thomas.

Home buying is a whole other beast. Doing it on your own is fucking terrifying. I don’t make boatloads of cash. My savings will be depleted and it’ll take a while to get emergency reserves back up. There are loads of DocuSign emails and meetings with vendors. Decisions like whether I want to buy the fridge that’s already there or how difficult it’ll be for me to change the sheets if I get the kids’ loft beds because there’s no room for their stuff.

The problem with a Generalized Anxiety Disordered brain is that you’re playing Dr. Strange, looking at all possibilities for a given event. I decided to turn the garage into a pseudo living space to max out my real estate. Today I parked my car in my driveway and the southern California heat, my leather seats felt like a blowtorch to my skin. No sun visor is going to resolve that. I spent over an hour agonizing between parking my car in the garage and not dealing with the physical discomfort versus losing an entire room in a house 1/3 the size of my current one.

I don’t even know where I’ll put my work desk. I agonized over that until I decided that I’ll eventually knock out the only linen cabinets I have in the upstairs hallway and turn it into a mini loft with a desk. Where I’ll store my towels and bedsheets is a whole other issue. I’ve decided I can get two waterproof outdoor mini sheds and store bulk shampoo, cleaning products, and paper towels in there.

My brain is on overdrive playing Tetris of where I can store things.

I should be using exercise as an outlet but I can’t consistently find the time. I can’t work out when I first wake up, I’ll pass out from low blood sugar. So then I wait a bit after eating. But my body is so exhausted, sometimes I pass out on my bed soon after breakfast. If I have to go somewhere I’ll take a shower; if I could squeeze in a workout I’m not doing it after that with wet hair. Let’s be a real, a true full workout is a solid hour if you factor in changing into workout clothes and getting everything queued up. An hour is a luxury I don’t have.

Says the girl who wasted an hour watching TikTok videos because she needed the comedy laughs to ease her anxiety. And now I’m writing this article at almost 2 am.

We’re going out of town this weekend for my son’s birthday. By “we” I mean, myself, my kids, and my soon-to-be-ex-husband. I hate playing fake family. But for my kids, I suck it up. I haven’t even bought him a gift because I paid a small fortune for next week’s birthday party and I know his dad will go overboard. Do I get to take credit for those gifts like we did in the past? Or are these gifts specifically from him? Joseph has been a Disneyland Dad long before this divorce and buying too much crap for the kids is his specialty.

I did remember to get something for Joseph’s upcoming birthday. Just another thing weighing on my mind.

I pause and realize I’m doing the number one cardinal sin of people who suffer from extreme anxiety: I’ve stopped breathing. My breaths become so shallow, it’s just enough to keep my heart beating. I need to stop getting sucked into dumb streaming stuff when I’m working and I definitely need to find a way to work out as a way of easing the stress.

I have a handful of grey hairs that have grown this year.

There’s too much going on for me to be authentic with anyone. It’s too much effort to explain everything when they ask questions. I have to retreat, smile, and wave like all is fine.

Wearing the mask of happiness is the one skill I’ve mastered like a pro.