Lesbian log thirteen-zero-two-twenty-one
It’s been one month since I officially started my new life.
For the first time, ever, I made my way on my own gumption, blood, sweat and tears. I moved into a new home, alone, on my own, arranged my own finances, qualified for my own credit cards and loans (which wasn’t easy when you basically haven’t existed for 49 years), and began my journey toward a new identity, a new reality.
It’s been a hell of a month.
I crossed the threshold of my new life at 6 p.m. on January 13, after saying goodbye to and walking through the home where my youngest child grew up, where my children had found their dearest friends, where I’d carved a loving life for myself and my ex for over 15 years. It was hard to say goodbye to the house, not because I was particularly attached to the paint and plaster, but because it was a symbol of a life being left behind.
In truth, it was gut-wrenching.
But I didn’t have time to grieve. I was knee-deep, full steam ahead into the chaos of moving day and there was too much to do, too many responsibilities, too many moving parts to let the swell of emotion consume me. So, I tucked it back away for another day, hoping another day wouldn’t come. I was good at that.
Fourteen hours. That’s how long it took four movers and two trucks to clear out a life of 29 years, catapulting my belongings toward an unknown future. The boxes arrived in my new home, stacked in corners and against walls, formidable and daunting in their volume. The furniture, that had once fit so perfectly in the past, now sat awkwardly around each room, uncertain where to go, shuffling their feet and nervously tapping their legs as they took in their new environment and wondered how the hell they were all going to fit. This was alien territory. We might as well have been in an outpost on Mars.
I was determined to make it work, somehow blending the past with the future in a way that would create comfort or at least a sense of familiarity amongst the raw grit of uncertainty. It took weeks to settle into a fit, where things felt right, or at least, reasonable. I knew it would be a while yet before this felt like home, but with each passing day, my environment became more welcoming, my surroundings less foreign.
It was a hell of a lot of work.
Sorting, organizing, finding each item a place and a place for each item. It was a formidable task, and I made good progress, but there was a startling amount of boxes stuffed with things that didn’t fit anywhere at all—things that belonged to my past, that had no space in this new future. Those were relegated to the garage, a remote outpost crammed to the brim, trapped between two worlds. Unable to part with them because of sentimentality or the inability to find the energy and strength of will to sort through 29 years worth of marriage and companionship, they stayed sealed and forlorn, out of sight, out of mind. Everything else found a place, even if that place sat cheek by jowl on or beside something else. I swear, by the time I was finished, I had packed and unpacked over a thousand boxes in total. This past week was the first time the waste disposal team were finally greeted to a recycling day without an alarming stack of boxes that needed to be crammed in the truck. I actually received a grateful wave.
I’ve moved before, and moving in and of itself is brutal, but since my ex and I were moving to two different locations and I was in charge of packing everything, I had been packing for months. Months of preparation and planning, staging and moving—it never seemed to end. Given the emotional toll combined with the physical exertion, the amount of energy required was unparalleled. It was exhausting—physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually.
And that was just the move.
With moving day behind me and a routine finally shifting into some semblance of order, one of my sons tested positive for COVID-19. Unfortunately, before he started developing symptoms, he unknowingly passed it on to one of his brothers. The whole house went into full quarantine and the boys were relegated to their rooms.
Hands sanitized and masks on any time they left their rooms, my ex was in charge of feeding the brood, delivering them their meals through a crack in their door. In fact, they jokingly referred to their dad as the Warden. It was a time of heightened anxiety, but they kept their spirits up and tried to make light of the situation, though they all took the matter quite seriously.
For my part, I had to sit and watch from afar, since they had been living with their dad since the first exposure. For a helicopter mom, it was excruciating not being able to care for them. Though, I had no concerns about their dad’s ability to ensure their well-being, it was difficult not being there to help, or soothe.
It was four weeks of anxiousness as I prayed for a quick recovery and healthy outcomes for everyone in the house. Fortunately, all went well. No one else became sick and all infected are fully recovered. Then, with a clean bill of health, all three boys made the trip to stay with me for the first time—for their first two-week stint back and forth.
I was nervous as hell.
My new home only had three bedrooms. I had one, which meant two boys had to share. As young men, this was an unappealing prospect. I promised a curtain to help divide the largest room, so they could have some private space, but I knew it wasn’t the same as having their own room—one with a door and complete privacy and alone time when they wanted it. My new home was also much further afield. Not quite as far as Mars, but to my boys, it seemed pretty close.
In order to be able to afford a living arrangement that would fit us all as comfortably as possible, I had to look a tad outside the community they were coming from—thirty minutes outside to be exact, and only one of them had a car.
This created a further inconvenience.
Where work was once only 10 minutes door-to-door, now they would be travelling a half-hour or more to achieve the same goal. They would also be a half-hour from friends, though with a COVID lockdown and stay-at-home orders in effect, that was irrelevant, however, at some point in the near future, a small social circle would once again be possible, and that circle was now much further away.
Other than my offer to chauffeur, two of them had no other means to see their friends, since regional transit doesn’t exist on Mars.
I strategically managed my financial resources so I could put a small desk in each of their rooms, so they could complete school work or play their computers in their free time. I bought the fastest internet speeds rural living could muster, to try to ensure their gaming, learning or teaching would not be dramatically impacted. I installed shelves and closet rods, where closets were non-existent. In short, I tried to anticipate every creature comfort they were used to and match it as closely as possible.
Because this would be very different.
For the first time in their lives, they had to travel back and forth between mom and dad’s place, and I was terrified they wouldn’t make the trip, or once they got here, decide the trip wasn’t worth it, despite getting to see their mom, whom they loved very much, because the distance and amenities created too many challenges.
I’m still not sure where they all land on the subject. Their rooms look like hotel rooms. Clean, orderly, but without a single touch of personalization. Dad’s place has posters and memorabilia, keepsakes and prizes displayed. In fairness, they had nothing else to do during quarantine but set up their rooms for a month, so my home feels like a temporary, transient arrangement, with dad’s place being where they will call home.
For someone who prided themselves on how close their family was (and still is), it’s difficult to accept that this change in life circumstances may have precipitated their move away from me faster than had life stayed the status quo.
Let me explain.
If we were still living in our old home, in our old way of life, the boys wouldn’t have to jockey between homes or wrestle with alternatives. They were content to stay at home while attending school and getting their lives in order. They were in no hurry to fly the coup. They were comfortable. They had it pretty good and they knew and respected that. I’m pretty sure had nothing changed, they would have stayed with us until they were in their 30s, saving and setting themselves up for a good life with a solid foundation, financially and emotionally.
This dramatic change in circumstances, and the subsequent choices I was forced to make for financial and personal reasons will create a faster track to an empty nest. I see the inevitability of this looming. Had things stayed the same, I would have had more time with them. Now, I know I do not. And it rips my heart out.
But despite the inherent and expected heartache and hardships, there are some interesting things I’ve discovered since being on my own.
There are moments for example, when its quiet, when no one else is around. When I become acutely aware that I do not have anyone else’s needs to meet. When I can stop being the person who looks after everyone else, who gives everything I have to everyone else, and finally take a moment to give back to me.
I can give myself moments to grieve or moments to just sit in the silence with no expectations. Those moments have been few and far between with the busyness of this new life, but when the silence comes, I now welcome it. I explore it. Sit with it. Make friends with it. For the first time in my life, I appreciate it for a gift.
I’ve had a few gifts on this journey, including the love of incredible people—my children, my ex, my friends and my beautiful girlfriend. But it’s been a long road. Nothing is easy anymore. Everything has changed.
In the past, I wrote blog posts with the intent to inspire and motivate, my words a beacon to light the way for those who were lost, a siren’s call to grab life by the horns and take control. I wanted to lift people up. I thought that was my mission in life. But these days, I just can’t seem to find the words. Gone are the days of eternal optimism and finding the silver lining behind every cloud.
These days I’m often lost myself, wandering alone in the dark, wondering when the ground is going to finally give out beneath me.
I’m hopeful that one day, the light will come back, that one day in the not-so-distant future, I will once again find the hub of the wheel and sit in a place of inner peace.
But I’m not there yet.
It’s been one hell of a month. Here’s hoping the next one is better.
In gratitude,
Marissa xo