Your Life Was Destined For Better
The midlife realization that it all went wrong.
Twelve days ago, I wrote a Medium article about the worst milestone: when your friends age, get diseases, and die. I referenced Nikki, a close friend dying of cancer.
The present tense of “dying” is now “has died”.
I waffle between feeling helpless and angry, to downright in denial. Until there’s a funeral, I refuse to believe it. But the loss still eats away at me.
I’m angry for her children. Saturday night was the last night they will ever, ever get a goodnight kiss from their mother. They will never, in their entire lives, ever feel her hugs as they fall asleep. This morning they woke up and had that brief moment of forgetful bliss before remembering they still don’t have Nikki.
My brain spirals and I begin to wallow about adult life. Adulthood is the biggest pyramid scheme, scam, racket, hustle, and bamboozling of all time. As a kid in a love-deficient violent household, I eyed adulthood like Judy Hops moving to Zootopia.
My kids know better. They see grown-up life as the sham it is and sometimes cry because they don’t want to get older. At least their generation sees the deception behind the shiny veneer.
I took on a new job that is already stressful, demanding, and light years out of my skill set. I wouldn’t have given up my ultra-cushy job of ten years but divorce life means I’m short one entire salary getting deposited in my bank account. Women often get the short end of the financial stick during divorce and I would be stupid to turn down an opportunity that provided some breathing room.
My heart goes out to all single people of the world. I truly had no idea how good I had it with an extra income, even if my ex-husband was a shopaholic hoarder. I could still afford to get gum grafting not covered under my insurance (unlike this month, where I opted for the cheaper option of fillings to slap a bandaid on my receding gum situation). I could still afford to splurge at Sephora and Nordstrom.
More importantly, I could afford to sleep at night without panicking about living paycheck-to-paycheck or stocking up on toilet paper to avoid doing another Costco trip. These days, Costco is out of my budget; buying in bulk adds too much to my bills despite the per-unit costs being cheaper.
I haven’t sent holiday cards since 2019. The pandemic was my excuse in 2020 and in 2021, my divorce was full throttle. I’m sending out cards this year for the first time with only the kids’ names and my own. Thankfully, I have hundreds of stamps courtesy of my stockpiling during my former married life. The cheapest card option is from Costco, which is $14.99 for 50 cards (although they no longer support in-store pickup).
Lacking the budget for my usual family photographer, a friend of mine took pictures with her fancy camera this past summer. You get what you pay for; these pictures aren’t the greatest. I’m grateful for her help, don’t get me wrong, but I miss the razzle-dazzle of true professional pictures to slather on cards that will end up in everyone’s trash by January.
I glanced at the photos from my 2019 family photoshoot. I look fucking fantastic because I had the dough to spend on professional makeup and a new dress. I’m leaning as far away as possible from my ex-husband Joseph. At least I don’t have to stand next to him pretending I love him anymore.
The most striking part of those 2019 pictures compared to my ghetto 2022 photos is the light in my kids’ eyes. They looked happy. They had fun. They looked like kids should.
These 2022 pictures show a hint of sadness. Despite not saying anything, they knew it was odd to take pictures with my friend instead of having a full family event. My daughter gained a lot of weight and my son looks tired.
These pictures are reminders that I fucked over their lives for my happiness.
Correction: I fucked over their lives to stop my unhappiness. If my marriage were simply neutral, I could have lived with it.
As a mom, I’m supposed to sacrifice everything for my kids. And yet, I was too weak and cracked under my extreme depression and suicidal thoughts tied to the shackles of a miserable marriage.
Yeah, I’m still angry at Joseph. I’m pissed off that he was the king of weaponized incompetence, forcing me to mother him along with our kids who he was barely there to raise. I’m angry that my bar was so low, a fucking “thank you” and “tell me about your day” would have made my marriage infinitely better. Instead, I found his secret massage parlor credit cards and wasn’t even angry about them; my issue was that I was too scared to approach him out of fear of his rage.
This wasn’t supposed to be my life.
This wasn’t supposed to be my life.
This wasn’t supposed to be my life.
I thought the caveat to having a shitty childhood was the promise of a happy adulthood. Turns out, I didn’t know how to have a happy adulthood. I didn’t know my worth. I didn’t know my strength. I didn’t know that you only get one shot. I didn’t know that canceling my wedding would have been the better option than going through with it because, at the time, I thought it would be too much work and embarrassing to contact attendees.
In hindsight, I’d fucking walk to everyone’s doors and deliver the news in person that my wedding was off. Still easier than going through a divorce with children two decades later.
For the first time I’m with a man who has everything I could possibly want and because my self-worth is garbage, I’m letting the “anxious” side of my “anxious-avoiding” attachment rule my brain. That’s not like me and it’s just another thrill of adulthood gone awry.
It’s like instead of choosing Door #1 opening to a serene ocean wearing a romantic dress while listening to Lana Del Rey, I’ve opted for Door #2. The door that opens to a carnival mirror funhouse with fuzzy-sounding clowns laughing through the speakers, tilting floors, and flickering lights.
Every time I think that I’ve escaped the house of mirrors to open Door #1, life sucks me back in to remind me that this nightmare of a ride called Being a Grownup: Jen Edition isn’t over yet.
