Saturday, January 12, 2013

The "D" Word

I think I’m going through post-traumatic stress from the delivery of my son.  I randomly throughout the day will have flashbacks of the pain and the helplessness and I become overwhelmed.  And the inadequacy I feel from having had a c-section after all of it…it’s difficult for me to bear.  I do feel like I failed in some essential way.

That then leads off into me feeling immense guilt for not breastfeeding my son.  I had my reasons not to.  Including the fact that I was prescribed (and am supposed to be taking) Zoloft, but…I haven’t taken it.  I was taking it before I was pregnant and had to come off of it right away once I found out I was, but I could’ve come off it long before that.  My sadness now I think is just that…sadness.  And my OCD hasn’t reemerged despite the sadness, nor has the anxiety.

My biggest fear right now is that my son will hate me and blame me for the fact that myself and his father aren’t together.  (My husband – “J” as I call him in most poems – has officially told me, among other things, that he has a lawyer and so us divorcing is definite at this point.)

After my experience with him at the birth of our son, I couldn’t see us reconciling anyway.

But does anyone, anywhere, understand that we have only been apart since the end of June?  And that I can’t help but remember things with him that happened before…before I even knew most of the people currently in my life?

The day I first met him, it was autumn; we had mutual friends.  I was 14.  What do you do at that age but hang around outside and act like a hooligan.  We were on my friend’s street.  I knew that J was going to be joining us.  I saw him as he emerged, rounding the corner in a kind of crazed dance-walk.  And he laid down on the sidewalk.  No one introduced him, or said anything to him, so I walked over and I told him my name.  And he told me that his dog Shadow had just died a few hours before.  I told him I was sorry, that I had a dog and I understood that it’s not “just a dog.”

And I went home that night and called my friend Iana (still one of my dearest friends).  And I told her I met someone and I thought I loved him.  And I explained our exchange and she told me I was crazy.  And I said I know it wasn’t much.  And I knew I had just met him.  But I felt something was there.  Something I didn’t know how to describe.  Like comfort.  Something that made me unafraid.

We dated for a little while.  It didn’t last.  We were very young and dealing with a lot of outside issues.  He 16 when I met him, just about to turn 17.  He was dealing with his coming high school graduation, and not knowing where he could go or what he could do.  So he joined the Army without talking to anyone.  He was going to be leaving after graduation.  We stayed together into January.  I didn’t really speak to him for the next few months because although I did love him, we just couldn’t be together based on a million other things at the time, and it was too difficult.

The following July, the week before he was going to be leaving for boot camp, he asked if he could see me before he left.  He took me to the city on a Saturday and we went to this little restaurant which, I don’t remember what it was called but I could paint it from memory.  We spent the day together.  On the ferry boat on the way home, he kissed me, and I kissed him back.  He told me no one would be around that coming Tuesday, the day his recruiter would be coming to pick him up to take him to the airport.  I’ll never forget the sound of his voice when he said, “Please don’t let me be alone that day.”

So I didn’t.  I spent the day with him.  Walked out of his house with him and watched him get into the car that was waiting for him.  Watched the car drive.  Do you know what I did then?  I ran.  (Bear in mind I was 15 at this point and not driving.)  But I ran.  I felt like the air was crushing me.  I ran to the train station, hopped on, and got off at my stop.  But I realized I couldn’t go home.  I felt destroyed in some way.  I called my mother from a payphone.  (Do you see how long ago this was?  A fucking payphone!)  I told her I would be getting dinner with friends.  Then I walked from the train station to the water, and sat on a bench and watched the boats moored in the harbor.  And I just stared and stared until the sun had almost set and I just started crying.  A man walked by and asked me if I was ok.  I remember smiling weakly at him.  He told me to go home; that it was getting dark and I shouldn’t be out there alone.

There are a million stories.  There are all the things I’ve done for him.  And all I ever wanted from the moment I first saw him round that corner was to marry him, have children with him, be with him forever.

Just having Brandon is in and of itself a miracle.  He is a healthy, strong, amazing baby.  And now I just feel anger when I see him hold our son, after having been so alone the past few months.  We both made some bad choices.  But nothing was ever perfect with us…but it was perfect in its imperfection, which is why I was so in love.  Why was I the only person in the entire universe not eligible for a second chance?  I’ve given him many.

I know he’s not the same person I fell in love with.  He doesn’t wear those ridiculous shirts that are 4 sizes too big.  He cares what people think.  He never wanted to just sit and listen to music with me anymore.

I couldn’t make him laugh anymore.

Anyway, part of what’s been upsetting me is the nonchalant way many people in my life expect me to move on.  I just mean, I’m not a flipping idiot.  I know it’s been bad.  But I should not be made to feel guilty/stupid/pathetic for actually having loved the person I married and for wanting to try to make it work with him.  I didn’t get married with the intention of getting divorced.  It’s not something I want[ed].  And now I’m going to be stuck with the stigma of being a divorcee, and I don’t want the judgment.  But what are you supposed to do when your husband leaves you?  It’s beyond my control.  You can’t make a person stay, and honestly, why would one want to?  I married him because I loved him.  But if he didn’t feel the same way about me, then why should I suffer the rest of my life with someone that loves me less than I deserve?

I’m sorry Brandon, that it didn’t work out the way I wanted.  I loved your dad.  And if nothing else, he gave me you.

P.S. – On an entirely different note, I have this strange problem that makes me want to forget everything/everyone I know and start over somewhere else entirely.

I wish this was a viable option.

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