Facing the Dragon

Posted on by stilllearning2b

It. Happened.

Almost four years now and it happened.

The event I’ve been anticipating and dreading since the text.

I saw him.

Let me go back a bit.

I received the text in July of 2009. I have had no direct communication with him since – only a single text conversation with my mother (detailed in the book) and through layers of lawyers during the divorce.

The divorce was final in March of 2010.

I kept up with his whereabouts (and his other wife’s location) during that time. The last time I looked was the day after the divorce was final. I have not know where he was living or who he was living with.

But today, I saw him.

I was at an annual Atlanta festival, one I used to go to with my ex and one which I now attend with my fiance and our friends. At the time I saw him, I was sitting on a tarp with a single friend while waiting on Brock and the others to make it to the park.

It’s strange. The last time I saw him was three years ago in court. My mom and I walked right past him and I didn’t recognize him, even though I knew he may be there. Today, I had not thought of him at all, yet when he crossed my path, I recognized him immediately.

He had the same walk. The same gray Banana Republic Shirt. The same hair. He was heavy. Fat, even. His weight varied quite a bit through our relationship, from a scrawny 160 on his broad 6’1″ frame to a high of 250. When I saw him in court, he was back to his skinny high school frame. Today? He must have been 280. His belly strained the fabric of his designer t-shirt.

But I knew him instantly.

He was hand in hand with a woman. It may have been the other wife. I’m not sure. She was blond and hippy like her, but I only knew her from pictures, phone and email so I cannot be positive. It doesn’t matter.

From our vantage point on a hill, I saw him several times. I felt sick. Ill. The shaking returned. Even now, home again after a purifying shower, I’m emotional yet I can pinpoint no singular emotion.

I certainly felt no love. No jealousy. No desire to speak to him.

I wasn’t angry.

But I feel violated in a way. I don’t want him here. In my circles. My city.

I came here for him but I’ve claimed it now.

I chose to not to run but also not to approach. I watched him for almost thirty minutes. By the time Brock and others showed up, the crowds had thickened and I did not see him again.

Part of me thought of alertng the swarms of police to the wanted felon in their midst. I guess they didn’t check for that when they checked IDs at the gate.

I watched him and I remembered being at that festival with him four years ago.

I watched him and I remembered a 4th of July festival on the second to last day we were together as husband and wife.

I watched him and felt a strange sense of disconnectedness, adrift from my old life.

I watched him and felt my body tremble with the release of emotion.

I watched him and felt relief that I faced the dragon.

I watched him and felt nothing.

So why am I still shaking?

Why the tears?

 

A few hours later… Raw.

And then humor returned…Slaying the Dragon

 

 

 

 

Missing

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I woke up this morning with that dull ache that comes from missing someone. I wasn’t surprised to feel that void – Brock is out of town, I don’t see family much and most of my local friends have a different spring break this year. But the ache wasn’t for any of those people. It was for my ex mother in law.

I got to know my mother in law well over the 16 years I was with her son. She and I even lived together for a couple weeks while the men were away at work. She was a good woman with a giving heart. I always felt a little sorry for her, however. She was always a bit timid. A bit weak. Uncomfortable in her own skin. Almost missing in her own life.

She had a great relationship with her father yet allowed her adult life to be limited by her complicated relationships with her mother and siblings. She was afraid. Of driving. Of crowds. Of new experiences. Of being alone. That last one is probably what kept her in the relationship with her husband, even as his drinking grew out of control and his personality became more abrasive.

She was a caring parent, yet a distant one. She wanted the best for her son, an only child, yet wasn’t always equipped to help him achieve it. She didn’t want to pass her insecurities on to him and she worked hard to avoid that.

My ex had a complicated relationship with his parents as we moved into adulthood. He went long periods without contact, even though they moved to Atlanta along with us and ended up settling two streets over. His tough love approach seemed to work; they stopped drinking at some point. Even then, he didn’t always maintain contact. I’m not sure why, but I always let him be the one to decide how much contact he wanted. After all, they were his parents.

The last time I spoke to his mom was on the phone a couple weeks after he left. He had been arrested for the bigamy and spent a day in jail until his father posted his bail. He was alone that night. He had been caught. His other wife, upon learning the truth, had left him and his computers and car were impounded. He had nothing. He tried to end it all that day, taking an overdose of sleeping pills. Through a very unlikely series of events (serendipity?), my parents and I ended up saving his life.

The next day, I learned from the police that his parents were coming up from Atlanta to pick him up from the hospital. I called them, wanting to reach out and give them any information that I thought might help their son. I wanted them to understand how much help he really needed. I talked to his mom for over an hour. She was in shock. Like with everyone else in our lives, the reality of his double identity stunned her. They just wanted to get their boy home and figure out what to do from there.

We hung up when they arrived at the hospital. She said she would call me back. She never did.

I can’t even fathom the terror and pain of a parent upon discovering that their child is in crisis and a criminal all with one phone call. I worried about her. I still do. At the courthouse, 8 months later, his father was there, stoic and silent, but his mother was noticeably absent. I hope she missing only because she was afraid to face the court, a fear I can easily relate to, but I don’t know.

His parents took him in for a time after the suicide attempt. I don’t know what he told them or what he did, but I’m afraid that they were a victim of his cons as well. I know of one defaulted credit card with a very high balance that had her name on it as well, as it was taken out before he was 18.  I hope they were able to protect themselves even as they tried to help him.

This morning, I missed her. I thought about when we sat on her living room floor, looking through his baby pictures. I thought of her trying out Puerto Rican bread pudding recipes, trying to nail down her father’s favorite childhood dish. I remember her coming in to my first “regular” job at a pet store and immediately falling in love with a young Papillon. I placed the dogs in her arms to handle a customer; she always blamed me for her decision to purchase the puppy:)  I remembered her stories of her early married life in California and the stories of her parent’s courtship. I remembered when she sewed a liner into the white bikini I had foolishly purchased and when she emergency-hemmed my wedding dress in the back of the restaurant where we had our reception dinner.

I miss her. I just hope she isn’t missing from her own life.

Broken Windows

Posted on by stilllearning2b
Broken windows theory
Broken windows theory (Photo credit: Roel Wijnants)

I need to fix my broken windows.

Not literal windows, luckily, since it’s been snowing for the past two days in Atlanta, but metaphorical windows. The types of fractured panes that, if you subscribe to the broken window theory, will lead to greater calamity if left unrepaired. Unlike the criminological perspective of the original theory, I am not concerned about increased vandalism or an uptick of violent crime in my actual or figurative home, but I am concerned about a cascade effect if I don’t make the minor repairs now.

Brock and I currently reside in a rental home. We selected the home because we love the location and the space and price suits our needs. However, the state of the house is a bit…rough. It’s been a rental for many years with no major updates or repairs. The floors are poorly laid. The nails and screws form connect-the-dots pictures on the walls. None of the interior doors lock and none of the fixtures match and none of them work particularly well, either. Apart from painting a few rooms upon moving in 16 months ago, we have not put much effort into the home, not wanting to waste time or money on a temporary stay. Even with those restrictions, we still settled in to some degree, hung pictures on the walls and curtains on the windows.

We plan to buy a house next winterish (for those of you unfamiliar with the season, it begins in October and continues until the last of the sweaters are put away). I’m ready. I’ve lived in temporary housing for the past 4 years after owning a home for the previous 10. I’m tired of feeling unmoored. I want to put down roots and put down new floors.

In my old life, my physical space was very important to me. My stress levels and ability to relax were directly tied in to my surroundings. My ex was helpful with this. He graciously helped me redo my office between work commitments when I was desperate for a change of scenery after completing my master’s degree. In my new life, I have had to learn to be content despite my surroundings. I’ve lived in a spare bedroom in a home with a young kid and lots of clutter. I moved into Brock’s space for a time and had to carve out my niche in a bachelor’s domain. And now, I am in this rental, with all its marks of tenants past.

It’s been 16 months. A picture has fallen off my office wall. It now sits in a corner awaiting a new nail that I have yet to hammer in. My cork wall tiles have been leaping off like lemmings and, now that I’ve tired of trying to convince them not to jump, rest stacked in a pile on my printer. I have a jacket that lives on the floor of the guest room closet because I never transferred any hangers to that room.

These are details. Unimportant in many ways. But they are also broken windows.

This is my home. It’s not permanent (is anything?) but it is home for now. If I ignore these minor fixes, I am allowing myself to not be present in my current environment. I am making do and making plans, rather than being in my surroundings. If I allow myself to agree that these details don’t matter, what will not matter next?

I’m not going to go Martha Stewart on my house (after all, I do see perfection in my chipped plates!), but I am going to take a few moments over spring break to restore the wall hangings and transfer a few hangers. Although I am looking forward to purchasing a home, I am not going to let myself live in the home of next winterish while I am still in the present season. So I will fix those broken windows and appreciate their view. Even through the torn screens:)

Say Stress to the Dress

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I am a grown-ass woman. I have degrees. I’ve won awards. I can go on national television. I can do home repair. I’m generally pretty confident in myself and my appearance. So why is it that some 22-year-old working in a formal shop can make me feel about as insecure as a teenager in front of her first crush?

Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself.

The wedding is slated for October. It will be a very simple affair – a private outdoor ceremony in the Smoky Mountains followed by a dinner celebration at our favorite restaurant back in Atlanta. No pomp. No circumstance. No stress.

Well, other than the dress.

I’m not really particular about the “look” of the wedding, but it is important to Brock. Even though I still have several months, I wanted to try to find a dress today. Partly because I had a day off work but mostly to leave myself plenty of time in case it became more difficult than expected. I asked a friend to accompany me and to act as a guard against those scary 22-year-old dress sellers.

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Not the shoes I’m wearing but they’re good for a laugh:)

For my first wedding, I ventured into a Dillard’s alone and found a prom dress for $98. It had a satin bodice with some contoured seams and a long chiffon skirt. It was simple, elegant and cheap. It was perfect.

I wanted something similar again. It’s difficult with second weddings. I chose a ring, a dress and a wedding location the first time around that fit me. I don’t want to repeat that but those same aesthetics still appeal. My idea was to go to the mall and scour the racks of formal (non-wedding) dresses and hope for a similar find.

My friend suggested that a stand alone store that specialized in wedding attire first. She had been in there previously and remembered that they had some budget-friendly items.

I felt like I was walking in to some five-star hotel designed by Disney. There were glitter and rhinestones everywhere. The place was full of employees, dressed head to toe in black, scurrying around to attend to their charges. There were brides everywhere, most accompanied by their moms, choosing dresses and accessories. Everything was over the top and designed to make women feel like princesses. Along with the princess price tag. After talking with the consultant (I’m assuming that’s the proper term), we learned that their dresses started at $2,000.

Started. At. $2,000.

Who buys these things? After saying our “thank you’s,” we promptly left and got into my car (current value – not much more than $2,000).

After touring a few department stores at the mall, we knew we were on the right track. Our last stop? Dillard’s. And they came through again. Even in that more relaxed environment, I was still tense. Sometimes, I don’t understand myself. I’m completely fine trying on bikinis. No sweat. A formal dress? Yeah, that brings out all of the body insecurities. I feel silly in super feminine things with my athletic build and casual nature. It can be frustrating to have arms and shoulders that burst seams and to have trouble fitting my lats into a dress. Would it be out of place to get married in a bathing suit in the mountains in October? Yeah, that’s what I thought.

To complicate matters, I’m weird about spending money. Especially on myself. I feel guilty. Somehow I don’t feel like I’m worthy of spending money on. It’s frugality mixed with a dash of neurosis. I wish I could find a way to keep my thrifty ways but nix the guilt.

I only ended up trying on one dress. It’s formal but not bridal, which apparently is good for a 90% discount, as it was only $200. It’s simple and elegant and relatively cheap. But it’s different than before. It fits my frame, showing off my muscle in a flattering way and the sleeveless style gives my shoulders endless room to move. I can borrow jewelry from my friend and I should be able to find shoes once the weather warms up. Mission accomplished.

So now the dress is hanging in the closet waiting for its fall debut and my blood pressure is slowly returning to normal. I should be okay now as long as those 22-year-old dress consultants stay away:)

Recalculating

Posted on by stilllearning2b

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Early April of 2010 was a strange time for me. My divorce had been finalized a few weeks before, I had given notice at my current school that I would not be returning the following year, I had just started falling for Brock and I was planning on moving to Seattle in June. I should have been in a panic.  The life I was living had an expiration date. I didn’t know how I would make money or where I was going to live come June. I should have been scared of the unknown, especially since I am a planner by nature. Surprisingly, I was only slightly uncomfortable with the amorphous nature of my future. I think I was so relieved to have survived the divorce that I felt like I could accomplish anything.

I had been applying to school jobs online in the Seattle area, but I needed to visit the city in person to complete the background check needed to get my teaching certification in Washington. My friend and coworker, Carissa, was in a similar situation. She was ready to leave Georgia and wanted to move to the NW to go to graduate school. Like me, she had vague plans but nothing solidified. We decided to move against the spring break migratory patterns and visit Seattle that April. We planned on a combination of sightseeing and job hunting/ school searching while we stayed with my dad and his wife.

We rented a car and plugged in my GPS, which I packed since I had only been to Seattle once as adult (I was visiting Seattle the previous summer when I received the text that my husband had left). Now, if you are familiar with Seattle, you know there is an area through downtown where the interstate splits into 17 levels (okay, so maybe it’s more like 3, but it feels like 17). As Carissa and I were traversing that area in order to get from the airport to my dad’s house, the GPS instructed us to take a left turn from the top level where there was no place to turn. We ignored its command since we hadn’t taken out the extra rental insurance. A few moments later, the device announced, in a voice that sounded like a robot raised in Australia, “Recalculating.”

It became a common utterance of the GPS over the next week as we traveled around unknown areas. We laughed every time we heard that word and it became the theme of our week. I’m not sure if it was due to the excessive cloud cover in Seattle in the spring, our wrong turns, or divine providence, but I have never heard my GPS recalculate so much before or since. Carissa and I never became annoyed at the machine, we actually laughed harder each time it needed to recalculate. It wasn’t worth getting upset about. We trusted the GPS to get us there even if it took a different path than expected.

It was fitting, as Carissa and I were both recalculating ourselves during that trip. We went into the week with grand plans of interviews (for both) and university tours (for her). The reality? We went whale watching, took the underground tour, did the wineries, saw Vagina Monologues, listened to live music, visited the Pike St. market and hiked the foothills of the Cascades (every trip peppered with “recalculating”. We only made one future-related stop and that was to submit the fingerprints and other information for the background check in order to teach in Washington. Now, Carissa really wanted to take a break from teaching and become a full-time student. She was only applying as a back-up. Me? I had no desire to go back to school; I was applying to be able to bring in a paycheck.

Except I made the decision at the last minute not to complete the process.

My entire life, I have played it safe. I have always been conservative with career choices and money. I only took very calculated risks and generally only when I was okay regardless of the outcome. I’ve never been impulsive. I’m not one to fly by the seat of my pants. I am a planner to the nth degree. I find comfort and security in lists and spreadsheets.

But that week, I recalculated. I made the decision to put aside the plans (and, yes, spreadsheets) of the previous 8 months. I decided to shelve my preparations for a move to Seattle. I still don’t really know why I did it and I still can’t believe that I did. I chose to follow my instinct that spring rather than approach the situation more rationally. So, after traveling 3000 miles from Atlanta to look for employment in the NW, I started looking for Georgia jobs while seated on my father’s couch. Nuts? Absolutely. But, strangely, I felt calm about the decision.

Within a few weeks, I had a job in Atlanta lined up for the fall and I located an apartment. It’s a decision that I’ve never regretted but I still can’t fully understand. Yes, I had started seeing Brock, but that relationship was very young and we had no idea that it was going to persist. Honestly, at that time, I would have said that my need to escape from the memories of Atlanta was stronger than my feelings for Brock. So, why did I stay? What was it in that moment that allowed me to trust the GPS of my gut rather than the itinerary mapped out in my brain? I don’t know but I’m glad I listened.

It’s easy for us to try to fully plan our route through life. But sometimes, our vision becomes clouded or we make a wrong turn or divine providence intervenes and we have to recalculate. Sometimes we get upset when that happens. We want to get back on the planned route and continue the planned journey. We might get irritated at having our preparations interrupted.Yet, we never really know where a path will lead. Every journey has an element of faith. Sometimes we simply have to trust that a decision is the right one for us in the moment.

As a planner, I struggle with staying calm when things unexpectedly change. But now, when they do, I think back to that spring, Carissa and I laughing in the car, and my instinct leading me the right way. There’s nothing wrong with recalculating. Even if you traveled a long way to do it.

Now, if I could only go whale watching in Atlanta:)