Two years, four months. It hasn’t gotten any less than this. Has not eased up. no. Has intensified, solidified. And that, I believe, is a good thing. Yes.
I’m fairly astonished that I had this much clarity only four months out. In fact, I am damn sure that this was my brain in ultra survival mode.
It is exactly the entirety of my body my psyche my soul. It is exactly what I have been settling into for the past eight hundred fifty-two days
no longer so foreign so alien.
I am learning how to meet people where they are and also to recognize that no matter how much love I have for someone how much hope sometimes it just isn’t enough to be sustainable. not without harm. I don’t want to be in pain over love anymore. I can’t. I won’t.
As I sit in my backyard, dressed in my dead husband’s jammy bottoms, flip-flops, a Sleepy Hollow Old Dutch Church Fest hoodie (the real Sleepy Hollow, not that bullshit place on TV), a fuzzy green jacket with ears, last night’s makeup on my face, my “t r a n s c e n d e n t” Spotify playlist filling the crisp air, a cup of coffee, and an as-yet unlit little bowl full of weedy goodness, I feel ready. Ready to go.
Ready for this next chapter in what has become This Widow’s Life. “You Are The Best Thing” by Ray LaMontagne is on; I’ve hit shuffle as I always do. I was about to skip through it when I realized, I am the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I am. Me, in my infinite iterations.
Next up is “Dreams” as covered by LÉON. I’ve lit the bowl by now, the beauty of the music wending its way through my brain. “…when the rain washes you clean, you’ll know…” I am enjoying being swept away by the lyrics and emotion and don’t even bother to argue with it as I usually do, “thunder only happens when it’s raining” because THUNDERSNOW.
Tedeschi Trucks now, with “Keep On Growing”. This is my soundtrack. This is my direction. Forward, ever forward. Yeah, yeah, yeah!
Gary’s last Christmas, at my brother’s house in Connecticut.
We had finally become, after fourteen years together, aware, cognizant, and appreciative of most of each other’s most pressing and (otherwise seemingly) frivolous/unnecessary needs. It’s incredible to me now; just how much time we spent getting to the beginning of clarity. We had it, in the beginning, I think every cerebrally-minded couple does, but then life and mental illness and physical illness and unemployment and underemployment and medication side effects and more flavors of mental illness all dump themselves unceremoniously into the (already) deliciously complex stew that was our relationship.
Both of us stubborn, at times obstinate. Both of us eternal students, intellectuals, always needing to know more, and why. And to then debate both. Ad nauseam. Never satisfied with “author unknown” or “because I said so”. Dear gods no.
I miss watching TV with him. Needing to allow time for discussion and unpacking. Missing so much the back and forth. Not, however, missing the bad bits, and there were some really, really bad bits. Bits where I felt scared for my safety. Where I don’t doubt he was scared for his. I can be pretty fucking scary. Scared because I knew that the nastier it got, the less able I was to back away. Until he’d finally scream full-volume at me, in my face, stomp upstairs (watch that first step, it’s a doozy), and slam the door to his office. Further screaming and literal hysterical crying ensued. On both sides of the door.
I didn’t see how much danger we were in. I didn’t see (and neither did he) just how badly we were hurting each other. We couldn’t understand each other, couldn’t even speak civilly to each other. I know the truly horrific shit I thought about him (and never, ever said, no, not to him) and can never un-experience the truly horrific shit he said to me (no fucking filter on that boy no SIR). So many terrible things. So many red flags. And yet…
We never gave up. Came close a few times.
Lessons of the first 18,032 days of my life. Supernovaed the very next day. Big Bang. Everything coalescing into the shitstorm of the past 833 days and has led me to today, Christmas Day, 2019. More patient and less tolerant. More willing to give people enough rope to hang themselves with, and to then to pull the lever when I’ve had enough. No hard feelings on my end, just no thank you anymore. Unsubscribe and DELETE. No more time for negativity; my brain manufactures enough TYVM.
there is no one at home to surprise with anything no one waiting to see anything no one who can express anything other than
“oh good, my warm lap / food provider is here”
it is in everyday moments, things that no one else would take notice of nothing anyone would see as special these small things that strike so sharply these seemingly insignificant things are what I am missing the most.
“So, ah, I was walking through my front hallway to go sit on the couch where I’m sitting now, and uh, caught my toe in the bottom of my, um, pajama bottoms and tripped and if I had fallen I would have definitely hit my head on the flagstone and um, yeah that could have been the end I could have tripped and died and then I sang myself a little song and said ‘I could have died and no one would have found me because I live alone.’ Whoa, wow. Okay.”
listening to talk of “bucket lists” places they want to visit
long ago we shared our bucket list adventures not actually going anywhere, no. but talking about them. seemed rational, if not feasible. I’d sent away for this catalogue this Antarctic adventures catalogue. came once a year and lived in the downstairs bathroom. I mean. we were living in our stay put forever house. why not think about forever plans?
I haven’t really thought about Antarctica in a long time. sometimes it creeps in I push it away.
So the super paranoid part of me is convinced that I trashed this burgeoning relationship.
The ever increasingly rational part of me is counseling the paranoid part. Telling her, That’s dumb. He definitely doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to do that. And if that is what has happened? Then he isn’t worth another thought.
So I never liked my last name growing up. Schwartz One syllable, one vowel, lots of consonants. My sister and I were the only ones with it in grade school. Come middle school and a whole bunch of new kids. Lots of Schwartzes, none of us related. I never liked introducing myself, either. Didn’t like the sound of my own name in my own mouth. The sound of it on the lips of others still odd to me, strange. Always feeling accusatory at first, second …
I’d changed it to take my first husband’s name, Block. Which wasn’t even his, really. Block. ugh. Got rid of him and his fool name. Back to Schwartz by default. The second one, Aubert. OH-bear. (don’t marry a rebound, people. It doesn’t end well.) “Best thing in my life right now,” I told him on the phone as I was leaving the DMV, “is getting my own name back on my license.” Accurate, but certainly not kind. Unnecessary to say. I’m sorry now that I did then.
The third one, though, the third one stayed up. Hoffman. What if I hyphenated it? Schwartz-Hoffman jfc no thank you that’s a mouthful. We discussed combining our surnames, this wonderfully wonky man of mine. Schwartzman. Or…
Hoffartz. I mean. Truly.
In the end I decided that I wanted to be Mrs. Hoffman. And since I decided (upon resolving my second mistake) that my signature would be a mononym forevermore signing it like Cher or Madonna somehow it got easier to say my own name. Lysa. Like lovely. Lysa with a Y. (watch the furrowed brow as they try to put that together where? where does the Y go?)
On facebook I dropped my middle name in favor of putting my maiden name there (maiden name! ooo how archaic!) yet it annoys me beyond reason when people use that entire name. Lysa Schwartz Hoffman because that is not who I am. I am Lysa Hoffman.
When I berate myself it’s usually to say “c’mon Schwartz, hustle up” liking that name now, perhaps only as an afterthought, but feeling comfortable in it.
so today, feeling a measure of all the things you’re supposed to feel at thanksgiving and more content and pleased with my comfort in my evolution I changed my name again, relegating (Schwartz) and elevating myself to who I decided to be when I married Gary.
I finally got there, here. Train’s not staying, though, she’s moving forward. taking my name with me into the night. Because what other comfort is there than knowing my true name?
The Salty Widow 