January 25, 2021 Brain Dump

Dear Diary….

This isn’t a fancy article for a publication. This won’t be proofread. It’s just a raw dump of what’s been in my brain for sanity sake. Maybe the content will eventually fuel a formal submission, but for now…this isn’t it.

I’m trying.

I’m really, really trying.

This week sucker-punched me. But I felt like I came up with a solid plan to bounce back (wrote an article about it, pending approval by Publication Gods That Be if it’s deemed worthy).

Thing is, when you’re getting back up, you’re still weak.

It’s the dumbest thing that set me off today.

An email from our CEO. He told us that the first wave of returns to work (for essential personnel that need to be on-site, like IT support, not me) won’t be until at least September.

Just typing that is making me shake.

What will happen between now and September? Who knows. Maybe next month all the restrictions will clear and vaccines will be available to the masses like me. Unlike other businesses, my company loathes that we work from home. That’s the date they’re giving in an attempt to rush us back.

September is the “rush back to work” date.

I don’t live in one of the beach cities, where the rest of us joke that they don’t give AF about COVID. It’s like a different planet when you drive in where the rest of us plebs live. I got a laser peel today and with my face slathered in post-care cream, I couldn’t put a mask on while leaving the building. Even the 30 second walk had me paranoid that I would get yelled at for not wearing a mask.

So when I hear “September”, I think of my prison sentence.

It’s a first world problem. We both kept our jobs. We have the income to support the things we need to make this situation moderately tolerable. I know there are people who risk eviction. I don’t take any of this lightly.

In a Slack channel with two girlfriends today, one of them mentioned she has to keep her son home from preschool (not subject to public school rules) for ten days due to a teacher catching covid. She was genuinely freaking out. Both friends asked how I’ve done it this whole time, with the kids at home.

I told them, “it’s hell”. I’m a piece of garbage for saying that about being stuck at home for almost a year with my kids. I can’t imagine having my kids in all-day private school…geezus fuck I’d be the most productive, happiest human on earth. Instead, I’m failing in all areas of life.

I’m not saying that to beat myself up. I feel like I’m doing the best I can. There’s always better but given everything, on top of living with Joseph and all that, I’m doing the best I can. Doing my best is yielding failed results.

Maybe my bar is too high. Not sure if that’s possible, every passing day I lower it further.

Speaking of the quasi-ex-husband…

Hearing him chew, even when we were dating, has always made me what to stab him in the jugular. I can hear him when I’m in a different area of the house. It’s petty when I write it out. But the sounds of it makes my skin crawl. I dig my nails into the palms of my hands. I try to leave the room as fast as I can (usually I’m only subject to it if he’s eating while I’m making food for the kids. I sure as fuck don’t eat with him.)

I’m sitting here at my desk, my vantage point being the same fucking view for over 300 days, like a prisoner looking out of cell bars. You’d think “well, go mix it up! Work outside!”. Yeah that doesn’t fly when you have children who need assistance and constant prodding during online class and then homework. Plus both of them get various therapies and intervention tutoring which means I have to get all that set up multiple times a day. At this rate, I’d kill to just bring my laptop to my couch that I foolishly bought imagining having friends over to hang out. Fucking Pottery Barn made bank off me before this pandemic.

Joseph does help a lot too, don’t get me wrong. In the end, it evens out. He gets up to make sure they’re dressed, gets them breakfast, and most often gets them lunch as well (although that’s because I need the break to finally get my stuff done). It’s not as much as I’d request if we were a legit in-love married couple, but I have to accept what I can get.

And so…September. Going until fucking September stuck in here, listening to him chew, being in the same spot, I feel like I can’t fucking breathe.

I want to move on. It’s like being at the starting line of a race while everyone is off, and I’ve got a shackle around my ankle that won’t let me leave.

This isn’t a pity party. Again, I know I’m blessed blah blah. I’m wound up now that the only time I was able to work out before (during their hybrid class in-person) so I don’t have much of an outlet other than here.

Normally I’m just in robot mode during all of this. But to take a leap of faith to tell your husband that you no longer want to be a couple is like a Jack in the Box popping out. Except this situation isn’t allowing any of that.

I could maybe convince him at least until September to get a rental and we could try “nesting”. But there wouldn’t be any point, the kids are a two-person job with school and therapies.

Surprisingly, what cheered me up was talking to a former-coworker-turned-friend-who-I-used-to-bone-but-ended-it-because-he’s-an-asshole. I’ve never told him about the affairs, other than the one with him obviously years ago. Geezus fuck I can only imagine the grief he’d give me over Jon (something along the lines that I fucked it up big time and at the very least, I should have had a boob job thrown in since I now have to find a new surgeon to fix mine).

But I told him about Cory, knowing full well he’d razz me over the sex situation with him. It made me laugh. I needed that outlet, even if he said that I should at least let the guy do anal since his dick is so small. I begged Former Coworker for help with ending things, despite that I do very much enjoy everything else about Cory. I have to avoid Trader Joe’s, the grocery store, Target, Michael’s…I pretty much have to move. Cory would be gracious if I ended things, I just don’t want weird awkwardness when we inevitably bump into each other in the bread aisle.

Fuck. FUCK. I am completely unsuccessful at doing breakups the way I intend on doing them in my head. Fuck.

Former Coworker Guy walked me off the ledge, and for that I’m eternally grateful.

I’ve got my tax situation figured out for 2021 if we file and still have to joint pay the mortgage. I found out that sadly, because I don’t have 2 years of Medium/Etsy 1099’s, I can’t use them to up my buyability. If we sold this house, I’d walk away with around $500k as my half of everything. Unfortunately, to stay near the kids’ school and not live in the ghetto, I’d have to put almost all of that as a down payment (I will forever make sure I have emergency reserves, I don’t fuck around when it comes to saving money).

Friday is my appointment with my divorce lawyer, I intend on asking what my options are for buying out Joseph from this house while promising him future equity stake (would he go for it? Absolutely not. But I’d like to know.)

Another analogy: it’s like I’ve painstakingly set up a board game but I’m waiting on everyone else before I can play. I’m stuck here, antsy, unable to do a whole lot to move forward.

I hate wallowing in this. That isn’t my style. I’m proactive and want to make things happen. Especially now…unlike the past, fear of the future is microscopic. My fear is tied into the well-being of the kids. I’m not worried about me. I’ll be fine. So now that I’m more adventurous and not afraid of life, that asshole Murphy’s Law decided to show up and be a dick.

So where does that leave me?

Tomorrow, talking to the divorce counselor and finally laying the smackdown on what I want.

Also tomorrow, I’m hitting up two plastic surgeons to chat about my boobs. Aside that one implant is creased a bit, I have this fear that my other one is going to bottom out. I’m about 15lbs lighter than when I had the surgery and I’ve been at my current weight for over a year so I need to assume this is my new norm when I actually exercise regularly. I wear a sports bra at all times, even to sleep, to compensate for the lack of fat supporting my boobs.

Unfortunately, every plastic surgeon I’ve looked at is in the same fucking medical building as Jon. So I’ve narrowed it down to just one surgeon in that building and I’ll hope I can make the appointment on a day that I know he’s in surgery. I don’t trust myself seeing him; I have this fear that if I saw him I’d jump and wrap my entire body around him like a spider monkey. That’s not the way to play it cool with an ex…you can’t let them know their pheromones are still intoxicating and put you in a trance.

Anyway…

I’ll be fine. I’m not Jack Nicholson The Shining yet.

I’m not resorting to retail therapy because I’m hoarding my cash for the inevitable physical split. Now that we have a designated “family credit card”, holy shit…I don’t spend any money on myself (the laser peel I paid for last year, courtesy of Medium money). My personal credit card balance is negative $64 since I returned some stuff.

When I think of buying things (despite that I’ve cleared out at least 30% of my closet during this pandemic), I don’t get as excited as I would have in the past. Not to sound all new age, but this has taught me that stuff doesn’t matter. While Joseph keeps buying shit for him and the kids (grr), I’m only spending money on things that make my life logistically easier, like office supplies.

I forgot, I still have a balance on the Victoria’s Secret gift card Jon gave me last year. I have enough lingerie to last a life time, but I could probably get some cute loungewear or workout clothes. I used up the rest of the Lululemon gift card he got me with a luxurious hoodie. You could get me a GC to Saks and in the end, I’m probably going to spend it on a hoodie. It’s an addiction, really.

And this my friends (she says to no one, because no one in their right mind would attempt to read this), is the random stream of thought I have all day at any given moment.