I’m not talking about the kind of tired that a full night’s rest on a comfortable mattress could solve. I’m not talking about the kind of tired an overnight Spa visit could handle. I’m deep-seated tired. Exhausted. Plumb tuckered out.
It’s not enough that I’ve been laboring endlessly my entire life to bring about a better life first for myself and later for my offspring. It’s not enough that I put in a solid eight years of trial and error with the man I thought I’d love forevermore. It’s not enough that I’ve spent about as much time pushing through the flaming hoops of higher education.
In the last year I’ve faced friends and loved ones applauding my supposed braveness for leaving the man when I reached that level of too much that some women never reach and perish by. In the last year I’ve toiled away at manual labor jobs at grossly under-calculated wages (my time and pain should be worth more than the cost of a Big Mac and fries large-sized with the fountain drink and the extra dipping sauce). In the last year I’ve shed many a tear over where things were and where they were going.
Now I find myself wondering what I did it for. Why did I give up two albeit low-wage jobs in Arkansas and a decent roof over my head and a steady curriculum at my chosen graduate college for the dessert of Arizona and what it eventually failed to yield to me? Why did I subsequently give up that oasis-in-disguise for the empty promises of The Empire State?
As of today, I am no longer in either mirage…I am back in the land of red clay and overly-sweetened tea. I am back in the land of sweat-of-my-brow and church on Sunday morning. I am back in the land of my forefathers and foremothers (at least back four or six generations so far as I can tell).
I travelled here the way a lot of people in generations past have, cramming my belongings into the limited cargo of a four wheeled transportation device, though to be sure mine was pulled by front wheel drive rather than oxen or horses.
I’m sure some may think me daft by putting all of this out here, where friends and enemies and frienemies and ends alike can see it, but I need to stop this madness.
This is not a suicide note.
So don’t freak out, people. I just need to give up on trying to do what everyone else expects of me, what everyone else deems appropriate or fit or right for me and my girls. I’ve tried the open approach in the first ten months of my separation and that did lead to a great deal of heartache, but from March to now I tried to do as was suggested by authorities in NY and simply sever all ties with the abusive man who seemed not to care very much about me or his children during our initial separation.
That only led to recurring nightmares and unnecessary added apprehensions and extra tears. Sure, I’m quite concerned about the psyche of my children after what we went through before I left, mostly of Luna who learned to never respect me among other bad habits. It pains me to know that Freya has no concept of “father” and that to Luna he is merely a memory entangled with the notion that he sent us away (this I did not encourage her to feel or think, but kids come up with these ideas).
Now I find out that his life has gone genuinely as shitty or perhaps much moreso than mine has in the last twelve months. And while I want to gloat about what I have managed to accomplish over what he has not, we’re really both in a similar boat, though he’s not one to share his feelings or concerns with most folk.
Twelve months ago I looked upon my departure as potentially a trial separation. Now perhaps things have gotten too mottled or muddied or meandered to matter anymore. It’s clear he had no trouble moving on from me with the stories I’ve heard both from him and friends in the area of his many exploits; still I cannot lie and say I haven’t allowed my mind, eyes, or heart to wander either.
At this point, I’m sure the best thing for us all would be a cordial divorce and him getting state-supervised (so I don’t have to be there) visitation with his children, but the other night I dreamt I’d driven up to the old house, unlocked the door, and was welcomed warmly which lead to all the various fun places and positions he and I have done over the years…I’m sure it was simply a sex starved labido grasping at straws, though.
Surely, there are no latent feelings of love and adoration buried beneath the hurt and anger and twelve months of little-to-no communication? Surely, I don’t still, on some weak level, hope for reconciliation. Surely, I am capable of embracing my newfound freedom and selfconfidence and moving forward into the world to pursue bigger and better things, such as the fruition of my graduate school pursuits come
But as I have said, I am tired.
I’ll keep looking for gainful employment in my current locale and meanwhile keep taking the best possible care of these little angels as I always have done. I’ll keep inwardly wrestling with the complex emotions that come up such as the ones that almost steered my car past Little Rock and on into Fort Smith last week where I surely would have met with heartbreak rather than a welcoming committee.
My friends and family will keep ridiculing me for thinking this way. My kids will keep begging me for extra snacks between meals and randomly telling me they love me and all of the other random things children do. My resumes will keep going off to various publications around the country. I may even get back into regular blogging. Life has a way of working itself out when we stop trying so hard.
And I’ve stopped trying so hard.
Because I’m tired.
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