This ain’t no treat, please God tell me this is some cruel trick?
We have conflict. This has never happened before. Not like this. Not with you. Not OUR family. God forbid there is ever conflict in this “happy smiley family”. A fight. Not a disagreement. A full on fight, tears, with loud voices and stuff, like the stuff that happens when people fight.
I’m lost because I’m so shocked.
I stand my ground.
I Brave the Wilderness.
I’ve shouted my boundary from the mountains for years.
I stay out of my ex’s life and I focus on our excellent, healthy co-parenting relationship. I focus on our kids. It’s the right thing to do. Anyone would tell you that. You know my boundary. You don’t agree with it. But you know it. But the other day you crossed it. All up my shit about his business. Planting seeds in my head. Messing with me. Pushing me emotionally. It’s like I was being poked. Over. And over. And over. You can’t let it go. You need to heal like I have. You need to cry and vent and shout and navigate your feelings. But not with me. I have my own feelings to cradle. I cannot engage with your need to know his every move. Please don’t ask me if he works. If he drinks. If he has a girlfriend. It took years of work for me to not ask myself those questions. Please — don’t ask me.
Trick or treaters come a-knocking. You hand out candy smiling while I cry and cry, grateful my kids are out with friends. In-between, we attempt to fix each other’s feelings while standing our own ground. It doesn’t work. It goes nowhere. A fight on Halloween night. The plan had been to have a lovely time while you helped me out. Being a single mom on Halloween requires help. I’m thankful you came.
But now all I want you to do is leave…yet comfort me at the same time.
I’m 5. I want to be held and cradled and cared for. I want my mommy. I want my mommy. But here’s the thing. You are already here, in my kitchen.
And I’m not 5.
Rage doesn’t visit often. Never really.
Except that one time I happened to find out my husband had a fake job, a fake life, and had a shitload of drugs. Oh, and was fucking a married woman with four kids?
Yup rage has visited once before.
But now rage is here, again- and it’s because of my ex, again, god dammit.
To be disrespected in one’s own home summons a ferocious mama bear protective swipe with sharp claws!
— — these bear sounds I make in my mind, they vibrate just as loud as the spoken FUCK YOU sound you make.
The swipe I give…
it draws blood
Today, I still process what this all meant.. what this was about…stung
While you post away… days later, with words and images of your happy moments…appearances of perfect and your likes abound
While you do this, pretending all is fine, my heart still bleeds
Walgreens doesn’t sell bandaids for “Fuck You’s”.
I protect mi casa with a Fierce Ferociousness, and at the same time, the world caves in on me.
Drowning in the tears that nobody hears.