Let's No Longer Pretend

Sometimes I just don't know where to start, or really what to say. I think it's during those times, for me anyway, writing is the most therapeutic.

I'm really sleepy, or at least I think I am, but I know that sleep does not fall upon me easily. I'll turn off the light, snuggle under the pillows, and before I know it, three or four hours will have passed, and my mind will still be processing thoughts of the day.

It's been a difficult day to get through. Cores have been rocked, and thoughts, never before imagined, have run through my mind, actually they've been brought to fruition. Nothing physically harmful, nothing physically dangerous, only, before last night and today, emotionally unimaginable. It made me realize that I am more fragile than I like to portray. It's a weakness of mine in reality.

I think the fear of abandonment runs deeply within my veins. How does one really, I mean really, not just going through the movements, get through that? How does one heal, move forward, and find a sense of value, of worthiness and of security?

So much of the time I attempt to ignore the fear, the gnawing, but ignoring it doesn't make it go away, it only hides it for a time. The soul of fear hides in the shadows awaiting the perfect time to dig in its talons, and hold me tightly, attempting to asphyxiate the feelings that should prevail, feelings of light, and solidarity, of faith and of familial belonging.

I guess hitting it head on might work for some, ignoring it for others, but for me, I've not yet figured it out. I think it's in those times I fall into the welcoming arms of self indulgence. My therapist would tell me, and has told me, that is a good thing. I need to take care of myself, he says. I need to step away and focus on myself and my needs. I, however, I know the truth.

Self indulgence, for me, is as harmful to my being as razor blades, in the past, were to my arms. It does have the same effect, euphoria, numbing of all things hurtful and a sense that I do exist, that I am alive. I know that, truthfully, it's nothing more than superficial motions. Motions, that for awhile, take away the sense of being alone in the world, of wandering lost within a darkened forest, with not another sole on which to lean.

I play a good game, most of the time. There are a few, a very select few, I entrust with the reality of the fears that haunt me. I've not even revealed the depth of those feelings with the one I should trust more than any other living being.

This morning was especially difficult to navigate. Because of my hurt and confusion an argument ensued, not one that was warranted, it only signaled something more deep, more sinister, and so totally unexpected. But the one that was used as a target for my pain, only brought me a glass of iced tea, a slice of pizza, closed the door and left me alone.

He's learned, through the years, that there are times I just need to "be." He's learned not to ask questions, but to wait for me to share, or to not. He's felt isolated far too many times because of my shutting down and withdrawing from everything I should cling to.

Yes, this writing has been therapeutic. A light has suddenly been illuminated and I've realized what I've done to him is the same thing I've feared happening to me, abandonment. I've unintentionally inflicted insecurity on him, and have rocked his core, his sense of worth, his sense of belonging.

I know how painful it is, I know how scary it is, and I know how hurtful it is when someone you trust, you love, turns their back. Now I know I've done that to him, and now I know it's something I need to change.

I don't want him to experience the feelings I've experienced, I don't want that uncertainty to bury itself within his soul. I want him to know he's important to me, I want him to know that he does matter. I want him to know, to feel, to live and to breathe, that not only do I need him in my life, but that he is important, that he does matter. Yes, he is all those things, and although I've always known that he is, I now know that I need to show him.

Yes, it's true, at least in this instance, every cloud does have a silver lining.

Now, who do I write the co-pay check to?


 

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Happy Valley Moms

Happy Valley moms aren’t really any different than the moms of any other affluent town. Many volunteer at the neighborhood school and make it a point to get to know the other Happy Valley Moms. Their white collar husbands work eighty hour weeks and the moms themselves stay home, keep the house immaculate, and run kids to dance, soccer and lacrosse.

For the most part their hair is blonde, some natural but most is “enhanced” and always perfect. They have well manicured nails, constant pedicures and see their massage therapists on a regular basis. No one is supposed to know, but everyone does, that they see their “counselors” monthly, sometimes more, to discuss the hardships of being a stay at home mom with their 2.5 kids.

The kids, by the way, also are generally blonde haired, blued eyed, perfectly dressed and stars in school. During the mornings you’ll find the moms in the neighborhood Starbucks dressed in new matching workout gear and pristine cross-training shoes. Their flaxen hair is pulled into ponytails and the requisite Dolce Gabana or Chanel sun glasses are propped snuggly on their heads. They’ll grab a bottle of filtered spring water along with their lattes before jumping into their leather upholstered cars to head for the gym.

BMW, Lexus, Land Rover and Mercedes are the cars of choice and they’re always perfectly spotless and gleaming. You’ll find them parked neatly in rows away from the “other” cars in the parking lots in the community. Many of the cars are also labeled with the stickers of the liberal politician of the day.'

The Happy Valley Moms are always outgoing and seemingly friendly. However, it’s mostly a façade. If you’re not a part of their bunco games or volunteer organizations (which are impossible to penetrate) they’ll politely rip you apart over margaritas and tapas at their weekly gatherings.

Yesterday after coffee and on the way to the gym I glanced into the rear-view mirror of my Mercedes and screamed “Holy freaking shit! I’m a Happy Valley Mom!” My highlighted blonde hair was pulled in a ponytail and was shimmering in the sunlight that streamed in from the open sun-roof. I had my Chanel sunglasses on and my designer bag was at my side.

There was a bottle of filtered spring water in the cup holder next to my latte. I could feel my heart race as I froze in that horrific moment of realization. I quickly ran through my lifestyle, searching for anything to separate me from that clique. OMG! There had to be something! I had to find it before I hyperventilated and wrecked my Mercedes.

It wasn’t looking good. I had just had a pedicure and my massage appointment was scheduled for the next day. I kept driving and saw my therapist’s office on the right hand side of the road. The sight of it jolted me. I grabbed the wheel of my car and jerked it back into my lane. My latte spilled all over the leather interior. I needed a xanex. I could feel a panic attack coming on.

“Breathe Teri, breathe” I kept repeating to myself. I reached to turn down the volume of the entertainment center. Wait! That’s something! I had to turn down the volume of my new Nickleback CD. No other Happy Valley Mom would be caught dead with a Nickleback CD in their car. Ok, good. That’s a start. “Keep going Teri. You can do it”.

The pressure was on. I ripped the Chanel glasses off of my head, pulled the hair tie out of my hair and let my chemically treated tresses fall around my shoulders. “I’ve got it, I’ve got it!” My 2.5 blonde haired, blue eyed kids totaled eight at last count and they were far from the stereotypical Happy Valley kid. My kids are black, white and conservative.

My husband, while the owner of a company, is blue collar and my house is anything but immaculate. Ok, now I’m getting somewhere. Hey, what about the Harley, and the tattoos? My breathing slowed and my heart began to return to a normal pace. The secrets I told my therapist weren’t ones of the trials of raising children they were much darker and much deeper.

I never volunteered at the schools, my kids were home schooled, another difference between us. Then my thoughts wandered to a subject that I hadn’t thought of. Yes on the outside I looked like the typical Happy Valley Mom, just like the other moms. How did I know what they tell their therapists? What if they had wanted more kids and couldn’t have them? What if their husband’s jobs were on the line? What if, what if, what if?

When I stopped at the red light I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, put on my Chanel sunglasses and turned up the volume on my Nickleback cd. I couldn’t judge them anymore than they could judge me. The light turned green and I drove on to the gym. I wasn’t a Happy Valley Mom on the inside and they might not be either. For all I know late at night after the 2.5 kids are tucked into their designer beds a glass of wine is poured and a joint is lit.

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