It's a Wonder

I got some good news at work today. News that I am proud of and news that I want to share.  But there's no one to share it with.  I get so mad at myself when my first thought is, "I can't wait to tell Jim." I just want a damn rewind. I want to go to sleep and wake up and have all of this be some bizarre dream. And if it can't be that, I want to tell you to forget it all and just come home. I'll fix it. I'll fix everything. Just come home.  I know that's ridiculous ... for so many reasons. You don't want to be here, first and foremost. And that just kicks me in the gut one more time. 

Remember those two crazy kids who set out to have a good time and nothing else? They were both sort of surprised by the way things unfolded, I think, in a really good way.  Remember the fun they had learning to play house? New floors, Memorial Day parties, peach trees that grew and birch trees that got sawed off, not-a-tornado siding, boat port, Kati's bedroom upstairs/no downstairs/no upstairs, ringing in New Year's Eve 2000, pretend sleeping on late harvest nights and so much more.  Remember the early disaster of the construction business and the climb out, promising we were in this together, no matter what? It was followed by the triumph of the new, glorious house and the years of sunshine that followed there.  Remember the trucking business failure, the cancer, the job change and the shift from sunshine to partly cloudy? Both too afraid to blink first, we wandered wounded, scared and fragile into a dark and dangerous place, neither one of us knowing how to ask for wha...

I've been reading over old text messages, looking for some sort of explanation. I still can't get my head around this. I don't understand it. And, you know me, I want to pick it apart until I do.  Something struck me yesterday. You said something about being so scared and so hurt that you curled into a ball and fell in a black hole. Your big shoulders broke and you just collapsed.  You also said that you were just beginning to come out of that, a little at a time.  That breaks my heart in a million pieces.  I just want to tell you that I'm proud of you for surviving. I'm grateful that you chose survival. I'm so sorry that you were hurting so much and thought you had no where to go here.  I also want you to know that you always did ... and do ... have a place to go here. 

Fancy jobs don't cover up all that comes with an alcoholic husband, addict daughter, custody of grandkids, stress, debt, heartache, fear, loneliness, and whatever else might be in play.  Just as supportive family and 'til death do us part can't cover up cracks in a foundation, whether they're seen or unseen by everyone involved.  We all need someone to help us carry the heaviest loads. We all want someone to turn to in the coldest and darkest of moments.  Sometimes it's a little intoxicating to be the one who can "fix" things for someone else. Especially when you're feeling like you haven't done anything "right" in a long time.  Being wanted, needed, trusted ... it feels good.  But, she wasn't the only one who needed you. Or who needs you now. 

I wish I'd had the good sense to run away first.  Maybe you understand this feeling ... I want out of here so badly I can taste it. I want to leave all the bullshit, all the mess, all the stress, all the pain behind.  I want to head toward sunshine, literal and figurative.  The cold, hard truth is that you're my favorite travel partner of all time, so when I think about running away, I can't imagine going without you.  But I guess the feeling wasn't mutual. 

Was out past dark tonight for the first time in a very long time. This whole pandemic thing and the husband-not-being-home thing means I spend a great deal of time by myself, at home, alone.  Of course, the Christmas lights are out. A lot of them, too, it seems. And it's so fucking painful.  You see, this is my first Christmas without you.  The first, you ask? That's not right.  We'll chronologically, you're right. It's the fourth Christmas you'll spend with her. But in my head, it's the first without you.  In 2017, you were here on Christmas Eve ... or the day before Christmas Eve, I can't remember exactly. We ran to my mom's to show off Bootsie and Rosie and to let everyone know that you had a hot, high-paying load, so you had to miss church and Christmas Day.  I didn't have a God damn clue.  I even joked to my mom and my sister ... remember? I said I made you come along and explain to them what was going on, so that they wouldn't think you...

I shouldn't have looked at the realtor's photos. But I did.  The garage was awesome.

You know that feeling you have about Bella and her cancer. You said you always knew she'd be OK. You could feel it in your gut.  You never waivered in your belief. It actually held me together more than once.  My head and my heart have been having a hell of a battle for the past 2.5 months. They are both kind of off the rails, tugging me violently in every direction around the clock.  My gut, however, has yet to get sucked into their drama. 

This dream actually happened before Dream No. 1 and Dream No. 2. But I just remembered it today.  I don't remember the actual dream part of the dream. So I don't have a great story. But I do remember the waking up part.  I woke up with a huge pit in my stomach. You know the feeling. It's a big, black, empty hole. It flutters ... but not the good flutters of new romance or nervous excitement. They're the terrifying flutters that you can't stop, and they sink over and over again, making the black empty hole feel worse.  I was breathing sort of fast and short, too, as I tried to remember the dream that made me feel that way.  I searched my subconscious for the origin, a little piece of the dream to explain these feelings.  It landed hard. It was guilt.  In my dream I had done SOMETHING that was unfixable. Unforgiveable. Something evil and bad and wrong. I was in trouble. I couldn't take "it" back or fix it.  The actual thing I had done would never come to...