On my bathroom mirror is a little quote scrawled on a scrap of paper and taped to the glass. It reads, ‘you will find that it is necessary to let things go, simply for the reason that they are heavy...’ it’s been my mantra these past few weeks.
I’m not the most patient of people. I try to be. But I’m not. I’m fickle and unforgiving and when pushed have the bad habit of exploding.
I’ve been pushed.
I could have easily allowed myself to spiral into a bit of funk. Some days I wanted to. Some days I craved it; the shot of vodka, the packet of cigarettes, the binge, the bed, the giant fuck-you=finger to adult life and the shit storm that post-relationship aftermath creates. But I didn’t, because as much as that person is still a part of me, I’m not that person any more.
In the middle of my house is a big old wooden table. It’s new to me, but it holds the stories of many lives and homes and families. It has scratches along the surface and crayon down its legs. I sanded and worked it back and oiled it and made it soft and clean again. But it’s still weathered and worn. It’s still aged and alongside the signs of love are signs of years of being mistreated. Despite all of the bumps and bruises, the scratches and stains… it’s still strong and sturdy (and heavy, god is it heavy)… on top of it next to my electricity bill and a half cup of stale tea sit my divorce papers.
Signed. Sealed. Not yet delivered.
On top of its scratched and weathered surface sits the scratched and weathered surface of my own heart. Pages that represent my own battered past. Pages that represent so many things that went wrong.
Bo’s dad has been in town for the past week. His visit has been filled with the usual frustration and challenge that I feel when I am in his presence. I have found myself returning time and time again to the words of C. Joybell. C. let things go, simply for the reason that they are heavy… let things go.
I’ve had enough of being weighed down by heartache. I’ve spent the last twelve months freeing myself of the shackles of it all. Twelve months of gentle healing. Twelve months of powerful affirmations and hard work and many lonely nights fighting with my own vulnerabilities. Twelve months of work put me in this place, a place with a community of beautiful friends, a place with a strong heart, a place full of compassion and a no-bullshit attitude, a place where for the first time in forever I am opening myself to new opportunities, new people, new friends, new hands to hold… without fear.
I’ve had a lot of time in the past week (insomnia, my old friend) to reflect on relationships that were and were not ever meant to be. Relationships are hard. Marriage is hard. Life is hard. There is nothing clean or magazine-spread-pretty about real life. Real life is gritty and it’s full of awkward moments and imperfect friends. It’s looking in the mirror at your un-Photoshopped, morning breath sporting, lumpy nude self when you get out of the shower and not hating it. It’s sitting and talking to a friend over a glass of wine while one of you has a breakdown about marriage or life or parenting or food and actually listening to each other without judgement. It’s holding the hand of someone you love when you can’t say the words they want to hear. It’s heartbreak and constantly screwing up and saying the wrong thing and making mistakes and trying really hard not to endlessly hate yourself for it. It’s dirty nappies and sinks full of dishes and questionable stains and windows covered in tiny fingerprints… leftover remnants from exciting mornings watching, face pressed up to the window-sill, waiting for the garbage-truck to come by just one last time. It’s accidental pregnancies and rushed marriages and divorce and dirt and lies and disappointments.
Life is messy. It’s fucking glorious. But it’s messy. And anyone that tells you that theirs isn’t is serving you a big fat lie. We are all beautiful and awful all at once and there is no shame in fucking up and there is no shame in getting out and there is no shame in getting divorced or leaving someone you are supposed to love or running away… there is no shame in letting life be messy and gritty and ugly, as long as it’s honest. I’m finding the more honest I am about the shit the more great things are coming into my life. It’s like I’ve lived in an emotional shadow for so many years, in controlling relationships encouraged by my lack of self worth. Now here we are, out of the shadows and there is nowhere to hide.
There is no turning back into the darkness… all that lays ahead of us is bathed in light… gritty, messy, gorgeous, natural light.
I couldn’t be more pleased.