Twenty Four Hours

This piece was written in 2019 during a period of severe anxiety and emotional distress. It is shared here as part of the Of Bones & Breath archive. Please read with care.

5:45am

I wake to the sound of Cowboy stomping down the stairs in his big ole cowboy boots. He sounds like a herd of elephants. Why can’t he be more graceful? People are trying to sleep here! Great. He’ll undoubtedly wake up the girl with the super sonic hearing. It’s only a matter of time before I hear the pitter patter of little feet above me followed by the systematic beat of C descending the stair case one stair at a time. I’m awake now. What time is it? It’s light outside. Fuck! It’s not even six yet. But you are awake, Lis. Maybe you should get up and do something just for you: Meditate, get out in the crisp morning air and take a walk, get in a power session of writing.

Slow your roll, sister. Let’s just start by going to the bathroom. I unplug my phone from the charger and shuffle towards the porcelain throne. Ugh. My body is screaming at me. Pain radiates from my right hip and shoots down my right leg. How is it possible that I could be so sore from walking around a restaurant for six hours? You’re only 43. Sad. Pathetic really.

The cold toilet seat forces me further into consciousness. Reality sets in. Planet Earth for yet another day. Fan on, phone in hand. First things first, let’s check my sleep app. Five hours and forty nine minutes. No wonder I feel like I could sleep for another six months. Awake four times during the night with very little deep sleep. This won’t do. I need more sleep. What’s the temperature outside? My phone tells me it’s only 16 degrees. Well, that’s fucking frigid! I can’t possibly walk outside in such conditions! I need to go back to sleep. And there it is, like clockwork, the pit of impending doom deep within my stomach. I hope the girls are not sick when they wake up this morning. That would surely cause my hands to slip off the cliff from which I chronically hang. Deep breath, Lis. You never remember to breathe. Toilet seat down. Flush and get outta there before all the germ particles cover your body in a silent, but potentially deadly mist. Mission accomplished. Wash your hands. Wet hands, apply several pumps of soap, scrub hands intensely while reciting the ABC’s. I look in the mirror. Another day of torture.You look ridden hard and put away wet. When are you going to get your shit together?

Back in the bedroom, T mutters that C got up because she said the hallway light was not on, but Cowboy put her back to bed. How does she even know that? We close her door at bedtime. She’s really not adhering to the guidelines we set for her. Her Wake Up Clock doesn’t turn green for another hour and a half. I really need some more sleep. See? Even if you did get up early to take some time for you, one of the kids will surely ruin it. You might as well not even try. Ever.

I fall into bed again and with one felt swoop pull the cozy down comforter over my body, cocooning myself. T reaches for his auxiliary blanket. Is it possible to feel wired and tired at the same time? Obviously. I’m never going to be able to get back to sleep. I look over at T who is peacefully back in dream land, in his coffin position, sawing logs with his mouth gaping open. How the fuck does he do that? The man can fall asleep in thirty seconds. Must be nice. I feel a pang of jealousy and slight irritation. I guess I’ll boot up my lap top. Hulu, Netflix or Amazon? I need sound to drown out my thoughts.

6:15am

C busts through the door.

“Why are you out of bed again before your clock turns green?” I ask.

“Mom!” She exclaims with one hand on her hip.“I had to climb over the gate and come downstairs because I’m just so so hungry and my tummy growled TWO times!” She holds up two fingers. “I need a bar and juice!”

Why did she suddenly become a “wake with the fucking roosters” kind of girl? A morning person I am not. By this time C has wrestled her way up on our bed and is getting ready to dive between the two of us. When she does, she grabs a full handful of my boob, yanking it along with her while landing.

I cry out, “Ouch Charlie, that hurts!”

“Oh. Sorry.” She replies.

Yeah, it really sounds like it, kid. My skin hurts to touch. I hope I’m not coming down with something. Probably just the gluten and three glasses of wine you scarfed down last night,Lis. Alternatively, maybe my body is so toxic that poison is seeping into the layers of dermis. Layers of dermis? Is that the correct term? Sounds right. Anyway, poison is leaking out of my pores thereby causing my skin to hurt when touched. I’m sure that’s it. There’s so much poison inside of me. Clearly, I am not going to get anymore sleep. Time to get up. Say it out loud: “I’ll get up with her.” Nooooo! I don’t want to. I’m praying and hoping with every thread of my being that T will say it first. It’s a secret standoff to see who will cave first. I win this game frequently. Wait for it…Wait for it…

“I’ll get up with her, sweetheart. You try to go back to sleep.” There it is.

“Are you sure?” I ask. He knows the right answer to that question.

“I’m sure.” He says.

What a good boy. I sure picked a better partner the second time around. I’m blessed. Gross. I hate that phrase. I curl back into my cocoon and fire up Hulu. I half listen to old school “Will and Grace” while trying to convince my body to settle down enough to nod off for a bit. What’s today? Tuesday. E#2 has her appointment today at three. I have got to go online and re-certify our insurance. It’s overdue. I hope they won’t drop our coverage. Oh, and do something about my student loans again. What a pain in the ass every six months. Student loans, but no degree to show for it. Nice job. Way to go, Lis. I’m the only one in the family without a college degree. Maybe S was right. I am a loser. Don’t say that! Stop thinking. Stop thinking. Oh, and don’t forget about amending last year’s tax return. And the business taxes for this year. I hope Trump’s Tax Cut won’t affect us too much. Okay. I’m not going to get back to sleep. Just get up.

8:30am

I join the family in the living room after having successfully done nothing but stew with my eyes closed for two hours.

“Mommmmy! You’re awake!” C screams as she runs over and rams her sweet little head squarely into my crotch while giving me a “leg hug”.

Her words, not mine. She prefers the “leg hug” over other hugs. These days “leg hugs” are all she seems to dole out.

“Yep. I’m awake.” Is all I can muster.

I shuffle to the kitchen, grab a soda water and then get to the business of taking my meds. One Wellbutrin, one Concerta, two Excedrin Migraine for an extra shot of caffeine and on account of my sore old lady mom bod. Wait. What’s this one? Trazadone. I better get these into my bedside table before I accidentally take one and end up zonked out on the couch while the children go rogue around me. Down the hatch. I shuffle back into the living room and settle into “mommy’s spot” on the couch. T asks if I’d like him to go get coffee. Yes please! It’s a turbo shot kinda day. I’ll just put IG in her jumpy and put something on the idiot box for C. Then I can veg until T comes back, when I’ll figure out how to mainline my coffee.

10:30am

It’s like I’m in that Bill Murray movie, “Groundhog Day”. IG is roaming around on the floor using her amazing eyesight and fine motor skills to find every minuscule object she can and immediately put it in her mouth. C has wandered upstairs once again because Peaches was naughty and needed a time out. She promises she’ll only go to her room, but eventually wanders off and comes downstairs with nail polish all over her face, including her eyelids. Coconut oil does the trick, in case you were wondering. T and I alternate back and forth between studying our news feeds and sharing any insights we may have about the drama that sucks us into spending too much time on social media. Some annoying kid show provides background noise. We are all in the same room, but none of us are here. I mean really present and connecting as a family. We are disconnected. We’re all off doing our own thing, in close proximity to one another. Here we are, again, doing absolutely nothing inspiring. Instead we’re filling our heads with stories from the fear mongering media where the comment threads are full of hateful words and pettiness. We’re taking in all of our friend’s dramas and energies. We read PSA’s that are so terrifying we want to put our kids in a bubble and not let them leave our house. Ever. Is it any wonder so many of us live day to day in survival mode?

I can feel my little cocktail of happy pill, stimulant and caffeine start to kick in. It wells up inside of me. First my stomach starts rolling around enough to trigger my gag reflex. My stomach tries to heave, but I’ve learned how to force it back down. It feels, all of a sudden, like my insides are shaking. How can I help calm myself down? I know. Nicotine. I need to sneak a smoke. What are we out of that I need to go grab from FD before T leaves for work? Think, Lis, think.

“We’re almost out of TP again. I better run down to the store before you head to work.”

“Okay sweetheart.”

I shoot out the door. Initiate Operation Sneak a Smoke. Which secret smoking spot should I go to? Yes. You read that right. My secret smoking habit brings me so much shame that I go to extreme lengths to hide it. It’s disgusting. It smells. It causes cancer. A mother of eight who smokes? Yes. I know. Deplorable. But I love my secret smokes. There I said it. I decide that the Blackwater Boat Launch is in closest proximity to FD, so I’ll go there. On my way down the hill, the road that I lived on in my youth, I see my parent’s neighbors walking. I smile and wave. Cue the thoughts of unworthiness, lack, and envy. L is so beautiful. Her skin is as smooth as a porcelain doll. She looks much younger than her age. She has always exuded an air of quiet confidence and friendliness, but yet she’s still humble. Her home and gardens are gorgeous. T is so smart. He’s traveled all over the world. They have more money than God. He takes such good care of L. Their kids are wildly successful too. They’re so cute together. I bet they’ve never struggled a day in their lives. And they’re out walking. You know, taking care of themselves. While I spend my time scheming to privately pollute my lungs with cancer causing agents. You suck.

Thankfully the parking lot of the boat launch is free from humans. I pull into the far dark corner that’s heavily wooded so no one will spy me from the road. I pull my secret smokes from my secret pocket and get out of the car. I go to the far side of my car, so as to be hidden from sight and light up, deeply inhaling that first delightful drag. My stomach heaves. I gag a little and then take a few breaths to force my stomach into submission. That is really the only pleasure I derive from the whole process. Hurry up. It’s a small town. I don’t want someone I know to catch me. I look up at the jogging trail above me. I hope nobody runs or bikes by. Here they are trying to be all healthy and I am polluting their air. I should be exercising to relieve this anxiety, not smoking. It doesn’t really calm you down like you think, Lis. I am weak.

After sucking down my cig as fast as humanly possible, I begin my clean up routine. I fish the Febreeze out from underneath the seat. I immerse myself in the smell of April Freshness, spraying up and down the entire length of my body. For good measure, I douse the inside of my car too. Just in case I bring some smoke residue into my car. Hand sanitizer next, back and front and up my forearms too. I can never be too careful. Now mouth wash. I take a big swig of blue and then swish it around frantically trying to get the nasty taste out of my mouth. I open up the car door and spit it on the ground. There. Minty fresh. Now get on outta here before someone catches you.

Now, as I drive to the store, I justify my own behavior to myself. I carry so much shame surrounding this that I won’t even purchase my cigs from a store where people know me. If there are folks I know in the store that I choose, I will not buy smokes. Most days I only have one or two. I’ve never smoked while pregnant. Postpartum, I vow to myself to never pick up a cig again. And then my anxiety ramps up and I go crawling back. It took everything within me to confess my transgressions to T. His voice ricochets in my mind. “Lis, you’re a grown ass woman. If you want to smoke a cig, go outside and smoke a cig.” I just can’t do it. If anyone asks me if I smoke, even my PCP, I will lie. Smoking is an atrocity. Especially with the vast knowledge I have amassed about health and wellness over the years. It’s all useless information. It doesn’t matter, because even though I possess the knowledge, I can’t force myself to apply any of it. I must keep this a secret, or people will know how fundamentally broken and bad I am.

Back at home, I enter the house with great trepidation. Please don’t let anyone smell me. Please don’t let anyone smell me. T is preparing to leave for work. My stomach ties itself further into knots. Twelve hours at home by myself. How am I going to survive this? I’m so lonely. I long for connection, but can’t bring myself to venture out of the house with the little girls. Too many germs for them to be exposed to. Plus, I’m too fat to go out in public. Also, I’m still wearing maternity clothes. I look like a worn out frumpy old grandma. No. I can’t go out. It’s far too overwhelming. As T hugs the girls and says his farewell, tears well up in my eyes. I don’t know if I can do this again today. I feel like a tiger is about to take a big ole bite out of my ass 24/7. T embraces me and looks into my eyes.

“

It’s going to be okay sweetheart. I’ll be right back.”

His words are anything but comforting. And all I can do is purse my lips as tight as I can, just in case the stench of smoke may emanate from my mouth. He is gone. I need a plan for how I am going to survive today.

12:30pm

Only an hour and a half until nap time. I can do this. I settle onto the floor in the living room to play with the girls. I’m going through the motions, but I’m not here. What am I going to do while they nap? This is not fulfilling at all. I can’t stand another minute of “Boss Baby”. I despise Bootsie Calico. My thoughts are interrupted by C asking me to taste the imaginary soup she’s just made. I comply, but it’s a feeble attempt at enjoying the air soup at best. Why can’t you just enjoy them? C tries to hug IG and I let her, but panic rises within me as I wonder if either one of them is coming down with something and will share her sickness with the other. The invisible nature of germs cause me to feel so out of control. IG finds a stray sippy cup on the living room floor and puts it to her mouth. I jump up as fast as I can, forcing my tired old body to move and rip it out of her hands. She juts out her bottom lip and her eyes fill with big crocodile tears as if to say, “What am I doing wrong, mommy?” I can’t bear the thought of the kids sharing food or drink ever. One of them may be coming down with the plague at anytime. You just don’t know. Ridiculous. Why can’t you just be a normal person? I approach life from a place of fear. Every damn day.

“I’m sorry pumpkin, this is C’s juice cup”

I can literally feel hot guilt coarse through my veins like lava, straight from my heart, spreading to my extremities. I scoop her up and cuddle her. She rests her head on my shoulder and nuzzles into my neck as if to say, “It’s okay, mommy.” Here come the tears again. In my head, I hear S’s voice. “You’re so over dramatic and emotionally needy. Calm down.”

I prepare lunch. Even though I am well aware that it’s completely irrational, when I gaze in the fridge, I think about how each food item would be if one of the girls were to suddenly become ill and vomit. Yogurt? No. That would be awful. Steer clear of milk products. C requests a ham roll up and Pirate’s Booty. Okay fine. But once it’s on the table, she refuses to touch it.

“Are you going to eat your lunch?” I ask.

“No thanks, I’m good” she replies.

“Why don’t you want to eat? Does your tummy hurt?” I take notice notice of moisture emerging from my under arms. I’m sweating. My palms are clammy. C blatantly ignores me. She’s too engrossed in the same episode of “Boss Baby” that we’ve watched a bazillion times. I ask again. And again. Finally out of desperation to get an answer, I pause the TV.

“Why did you stop it?” She asks.

“I asked you a question. Let me try again. Does your tummy hurt?”

“NO!” She screeches, clearly irritated by my line of questioning. See? I even annoy my three year old daughter.

2:30pm

Girls are asleep. Peace and quiet. What should I do? A Beachbody workout downstairs? Meditate? Read a self help book and jot down plans for a real transformation? Should I start putting the words I’ve written in my head a thousand times onto my laptop? Even thinking about these things causes my heart to beat faster and my gut to fill with fear. No. My mind is too chaotic for me to sit still for one minute. Not today. I hate those instructors on the Beachbody workouts, they’re so fucking chipper about working out. Let me tell you something: exercising as an 80 pound overweight, forty something, secret smoker is not fun. A self help book is tempting, at least I could sit down and rest…but my brain is so foggy, it feels too overwhelming. I really don’t want to numb out by scouring Netflix for a new series to binge watch. I’ll watch a documentary. Then at least I’ll be learning something. I’ve successfully talked myself out of actually doing something that may actually create real measurable changes in my circumstances. I have become an expert procrastinator over the years. Paralyzing fear stops me dead in my tracks every time.

“Hungry for Change”. That looks interesting. One part of me is watching it while another part of me chats away inside my mind. I said I wasn’t going to give C sugar or juice. She has both all the time. I wonder if that contributes to her overall wellness and propensity for picking up a bug?I bet other kids are healthier because their moms care about what they feed their kids. I read all the books. I know how tainted our food supply is, and I knowingly feed it to my kids anyway. I’m a monster. Knowingly poisoning the children. How the hell have I managed to keep them all alive over the years? I wonder if they know what a train wreck I am? I mean, I’m an expert at mask-wearing. Perma-smile on. Initiate people pleaser mode. Now commit to things I don’t want to do. Now sign up for the newest Meal Train, baking donation, committee, or event. The goal here is to fill my plate so full that I won’t have time to reflect or go inward. I just can’t! Everybody needs me! Sorry, Lis. You just aren’t worth it. You come in last again.

4:30pm

The beasts are home from school, but the girls are still asleep. The pit of impending doom returns with full vigor as the sun sets. The girls will be up soon. How am I going to tame my nerves until bedtime? I’m gonna need some wine to take the edge off. I ask Cowboy to keep the little girls safe while I run to the store and he agrees. I think about all the local shops in town and try to remember where I last bought wine. I hope and pray that no one I know is there. The last thing I want to do right now is fake some superficial conversation about how things are going right now. I’m just going to lie. I’m going to say things are great, then flash my biggest smile, nod my head, respond emphatically, and lie through my fucking teeth. It’s imperative that I portray my best “wholesome and good mother of eight” persona at all times in public. And on social media. I only post positive or funny posts. I post pictures of my kids highlighting one tiny snippet of one day when everybody was happy and behaving. I post anything that I think will convey that I am the best mother ever living my best life. I ask for advice. And then immediately regret doing so. But not enough to delete the post. No, only enough to check my phone every time I get a notification. Then proceed to yell out as if I’m speaking to the advisor telepathically. “Of course I’ve already fucking tried that, Susan. Do you think I’m an idiot?” Only in the confines of my safety zone, can I be brave. That’s the rule. If I just don’t speak and fly under the radar, nobody will know about the secrets I struggle to keep inside of me, hidden far within my troubled soul.

Once inside the store I walk briskly to the wine aisle. I know right where I’m going. Top shelf mid way. The personal size Black Box Cabernet. It’s imperative that I only purchase the three glass serving size. I don’t want to get out of control. Three glasses is the perfect dosage for this method of self medicating. One glass between the hours of 5pm and 8pm. Enough to take the edge off. This is another one of my coping mechanisms that creates a whole shame shit storm inside of me. I’m well aware that I am self medicating. I know that it affects my already shitty sleep. But every afternoon when the pit of impending doom descends on me with the coming darkness, I need relief from my paralyzing fear and chaotic mind.

7:30pm

T-1 hour until the girls bedtime. I’m almost there. I can do this. I start the bedtime routine with C and IG. C never wants to get ready for bed and thinks it hilarious to come as close to me as she can without me grabbing her and then sprint away laughing maniacally. Every time she does it, I slouch a little more. I’m getting pissed. Please don’t make me get up off this floor to get you. I finally lasso her in and then fight with her to step through her pant legs. She wants to do it all by herself. I’m watching the clock tick and fantasizing about 8:30pm. That is when I can start shutting down the hyper vigilance. After wrestling with Ms. Bossy Pants, IG always feels like a breeze.

IG is having her last bottle of the night and C is having “a few minutes of a show”. Ahhhhh. The home stretch. I cuddle up with C on the couch. As she watches the television, I look at her. She’s so beautiful and full of spunk. That girl is going to speak her mind. What kind of example am I setting for her, living life in a constant state of fear? I should be modeling behavior for them, not cowering on the inside while living a lie on the outside. I want to make a difference in this world. I know I have a purpose here. I want my life to be extraordinary. There has got to be more than this. In my mind’s eye, I can see a tiny flickering light deep in my solar plexus, reminding me that this isn’t who I really am. It keeps inviting me back, every time nudging me a little closer to the edge. That place inside me where my I’ll find my true self, my true voice and I’ll find the courage to finally speak up and tell my story. Tell the truth. The good, the bad and the ugly.

I’ve been at this place more times than I care to count. And every time, I’m too frightened to take the leap. Among the chaos that is my brain is a loud voice drowning out all the other noise. She’s been there for as long as I can remember and she is a fucking bitch. She’s a perfectionist, a real all or nothing kind of gal. She keeps me in line whenever I dare to dream about a different and better way of living, of giving the light and love inside of me to others, or embracing the idea that we humans are all connected to one another and the universe. It’s all bullshit, she says. She reminds me of all the times I tried so hard, but ultimately failed. Not finishing college. A failed marriage. Being fired from that job. Starting a business that we ended up despising. Dropping the ball on A’s financial aid for college because I was too wrapped up in my own pain to be there for her. That time I yelled at my kids with so much rage that I pissed my pants. Our history, (hers and mine) is rich with failure. Every time I start to rise up and step into my power, she drags me right back down. She puts me in my place and forces me to watch old memories run through my mind as if I were watching a reel of home videos. See? She says. You’re never going to amount to much of anything. You’re just an ordinary mom. That’s it. And not a very good one, I might add. Most of your kids don’t even respect you. Now sit down, shut up, and go back to meeting everyone’s needs but your own. I’m getting really fucking sick of her. It’s time for her to die.

9:00pm

The girls are asleep, but I’m still on the clock. The beasts need me. E#2 needs help with a school project, she currently despises all the boys in the world and needs her hair French braided so she can have perfect waves for school tomorrow. Cowboy wants to tell me about his day and get my laundry out of the dryer so he can wash his clothes. My sweet little old man likes to go to bed early, so he asks if I would mind switching over his laundry before I retire for the night. I don’t know why he keeps asking me to do that because my track record for remembering is almost zero percent. K called and needs me to send more contacts down to college, sign her FAFSA for next year and is in tears because she’s sick and just wants to come home. It breaks my heart that she’s so far away and I can’t get to her to soothe her. E#1 is wondering what time his PT appointment is tomorrow and what there is to eat. And by eat I mean what food-like products do we have in the cupboards that only require opening a package and shoving food down his gullet. He reminds me that I need to go grocery shopping. I know buddy. I just don’t know when I’ll be able to escape. At least they keep me busy enough so that I don’t need to be alone with my thoughts.

T will be home from work soon. I’ve almost made it through this day. He’ll sit next to me on the couch and ask about my day. I’ll give him the highlights and then fold into his arms and lay my head on his chest while he tells me about his day. T is a story teller. I’m not going to lie, as he begins his monologue about his day, my mind wanders off. And that damn reel of memories starts running.

I travel back in time to the day I decided that my marriage was over for good this time. This was no ordinary day because I would file for divorce three times before one finally stuck. To this day, my bones ache under the weight of guilt I feel for putting my kids through five years of mixed messages. Breaking up. Getting back together. All the fighting and verbal accosting I engaged in. I did not want a failed marriage. I loved S so much. I thought if I just loved him harder, I could fix his wounds. I tried tirelessly to be enough. Good enough. Smart enough. Nurturing, but not too mushy. The perfect wife. The perfect mother. I always came up short. And on this day, completely heartbroken, sobbing and totally vulnerable, from somewhere inside me came a tiny little voice: “You deserve better. For you and the kids.” I knew if I stayed there was a chance that I would not survive. I remember where I was. In my maroon Toyota Camry (AKA The Cams) in the dirt parking lot of the quaint little church at the bottom of the hill. I had picked up my morning coffee and was sneaking a smoke while talking with S. I had just gotten out of the hospital after basically collapsing from burn out. I really needed support from S, but instead all he said was, “You’re just too emotional. Why don’t you try to get through a few days without drinking and then I’ll see if feel like working on our marriage.” That’s it, I thought. I’m done.

I was scared shitless. My first thought was, “Who is ever going to want me with a metric shit ton of baggage and six kids?” A side note, because I’m programmed to defend myself at all times: I was absolutely self medicating with alcohol, but not to the point that I couldn’t make it through the day without it. During my hospital stay, the docs conducted several evaluations and not once did I present with any symptoms of withdrawal. S had me convinced that I was an alcoholic and a druggie. He convinced me that I was crazy and I was starting to believe him. I signed myself up for an Intensive Outpatient Program run by the hospital. We met three mornings a week for two and half hours. S told the kids that I was in rehab. I don’t know of any rehab program that meets three mornings a week for two and a half hours, do you?

I needed to get my crazy under control, so I could be there for my kids. I felt so out of place in the IOP. I had to blow into a breathalyzer every morning. I thought, “Do people really drink first thing in the morning?” I also had to pee in a cup to make sure I was drug free. Some of my classmates went to the Suboxone Clinic each morning before coming to class. I know what you’re thinking. This chick is in hardcore denial. Except that I’m not. Despite my habit of self medicating, I still worked 60–70 hours a week, was in the thick of single parenting, all the while trying to lock my pain into a tiny little compartment and throw away the key. Still, even back then, I acknowledged that numbing out with alcohol is a slippery slope that I best not slide down. But that’s another story for another day. I made some wonderful friendships in the program, learned a lot about positive coping methods, and came out of the program with a formal diagnosis of C-PTSD. I completed all twelve weeks. In hindsight, I didn’t feel like I belonged there, but it’s part of my journey and I’m going to own it.

I’m jolted out of the past when T nudges me and says, “Lis, are you listening?”

“Yeah, Sorry.” I said.

I don’t how the hell I managed to pick T. I read somewhere that studies have shown women like me tend to keep making poor relationship choices over and over again. We met at a time when I was broken and weak. My spirit destroyed in the wake of a horrific dismantling of my marriage. He quite literally saved me. He jumped into step parenting with both feet, supporting us both financially and emotionally. He held me while I cried and listened to me as I tried to wrap my head around what had happened in the last five years. He is my rock. He is steady and even tempered, loving, supportive of my dreams and is an amazing father and husband. I didn’t know what love looked like until I met T. Our relationship is comfortable, intimate and so easy. The polar opposite of my first marriage.

“Are you hungry?” He asks.

“A little.” I reply.

I eat one meal a day most days. Ironically, nobody believes me when I tell them that. My stomach is so angry most of the time that just the thought of eating makes me gag. I should be a fucking stick figure, given my food intake. But you know, Cortisol is always coursing through my body, I don’t get enough sleep, my adrenal glands are shot, I had two babies after 40, blah, blah, blah, but I digress. If only it was as simple as calories in vs. calories out. When T comes home, I am safe. I know that whatever happens, he’ll protect me. I feel myself start to calm in his presence. Minutes later I am taking a snooze on his chest while he watches TV.

11:00pm

Damn it. I did it again. Every time I take a little cat nap in the living room, I struggle even more than usual to find sleep. T gets in the shower and I get ready for bed. Time for my nigh night pill. I pop a Trazadone and swallow it down with a mouthful of soda water. Change into my nightie. Brush my teeth. Wash my hands again for the billionth time. Is billionth even a word? It must be. KJ always said I was quite verbose. Hand and face cream.Then I study my eyes in the mirror. They look sad and tired. How long are you going to fart around before you decide to take your sparkle back, Lis? I don’t have an answer. I walk away from my reflection and climb into bed. I let out an audible sigh, followed by the same thought I have every night when I climb into bed: ‘I survived another day. Please, sweet baby Jesus, let me sleep tonight.”

I put a show on my lap top and settle into what T and I call my “rubbins” position. On our wedding day, T promised to rub my back every night, forever and ever. He’s not perfect at keeping his vow, but he’s pretty damn close. He slides into bed beside me and scoots over until our bodies are touching.

“Is there A Closer Look tonight?” He asks.

“There is” I said.

We listen to Seth Meyer’s commentary on the current political climate, roaring with laughter. T is rubbing my back. I’m good enough for him. He loves me just the way I am, even my fat rolls, scarred skin, and sunken sad eyes. I lean in to him and feelings of love and gratitude flood my heart. His body twitches as it does every night as he begins to slumber. I’m wide awake and alone in the darkness. Yes, T is beside me. But that means nothing. That man could sleep on a picket fence if he had to. Waking him in the night really isn’t productive. It amazes me how one can be surrounded by people all the time, yet feel so alone. Listening to the sound of my newest binge-worthy Netflix series, I finally feel my eyes get heavy and I drift off to dreamland.

3:00am

I have to pee. Don’t open your eyes all the way. Don’t do it. It’s the kiss of death. My blind man walking trip to the bathroom is an epic fail and now I am wide awake. Shit. I hate this. Outside the wind howls. There is nothing worse for a troubled soul than the wee hours of the morning. My mind is already full steam ahead. I’m writing in my head. Oh, that’s a good thought. Better put that in my notes. I pick up “Workin’ Moms” right where I left of a few hours ago. Well, shit. Last episode and only one season. I so identify with these moms who struggle to balance it all-career, relationships, and raising kids. It’s enough to make anyone crazy. It’s too much. I watch as Kate quits her corporate job and flies home to join her husband and baby boy at the hospital. She leans over her son’s crib and apologizes for spending too much time doing things for herself. She climbs in the crib with her son and they both drift off. There’s a lump in my throat and tears streaming down my face. Why am I crying? I don’t know. And in the cold, windy darkness I sob. My body heaving from deep within, a release, if you will. “What am I feeling?” I ask myself. I feel sorrow. I feel grief. I’m sad for the woman I have become. I’m sad for the girl that was lost so long ago. My heart hurts. I want to find the girl again. I want to tell her I’m sorry for treating her so horribly. I need to forgive myself. I did the best I could given my life’s circumstances. I toss and turn, think too much, choke back tears so as not to wake T and stew until the sun rises. It’s going to be another long day.