By a Thread

This past weekend, I realized that I'm a little bit broken.

Forgoing all normal responsibilities and coulda-woulda-shouldas, I headed to the beach with a few friends.

And after a day of lounging in a blissful breeze and a glorious sun, while splashing in the salty water one hour and reading on a fold-out chair the next, I managed to push out of my mind all the boxes that had yet to be packed and all the lonely minutes that I'd yet to endure in this last long month without my husband.

It was the first time I had done that in 3.5 months.

And the stark happiness I felt while biting into juicy chunks of watermelon while lingering in a swimsuit sticky from sunscreen was such a contrast to the state I'd been in before.

The state I'd been floating along in since February, unbeknownst to even myself.

I realized later that night - tired and vulnerable like only a day at the ocean can make you - that I haven't felt whole in quite a while.

That I haven't known complete safety and happiness since we started this whole journey back when my husband left.

I had geared myself up so much -with countdowns, with distractions, with our one weekend together two weeks ago - that I simply didn't allow myself to feel it.

But, the truth is, no matter how much I suppressed those feelings of sadness and anxiousness, they were still there.

They simmered below the surface, quietly, the whole while.

Until, it seems, the bottom fell out.

I'm packing up a house right now; I'm packing up my office right now; I'm desperately trying to convince over-dramatic teenagers that having a new journalism teacher next year will be a good thing.

But it's all a bit half-hearted.

Because I'm cracked.

I'm tired.

I don't want to get out of bed and face another day of putting stuff into boxes, another day of doing more at my job just so I can leave it, another day of going to bed alone, another day of getting jealous - no, downright angry - at others who have done nothing wrong other than have what I so desperately want - nay, feel called to - and yet can't have.

It's like a headache that won't go away.

For so many reasons, Mother's Day about put me into a depression. Packing up my office last week about gave me an anxiety attack. Phone calls from my husband - where he wasn't overtly loving and adoring - drove me into a mild rage.

I had a student call me "cranky" last week. And, fact is, she was right.

I'm cranky. I'm unhappy. I'm showing up with a half-hearted smile on the good days. And the rest of the time? I just want to get out of here.

I'm mad that it's not easier. I'm mad that I've felt no grace for a woman living without her spouse, packing up her entire life, quitting her jobs, and moving to an entirely new town.

Don't get me wrong: I want to move. I'd have moved last week if it was possible.

The biggest mistake I probably made during this whole thing was telling the school I'd finish the year up with my students. It seemed like a self-less, financially smart move at the time, but now, as I live out my decision, the selfish side of me has won out, and now I'm just resentful.

And because of that melee' of emotions, I'm also at a bit of a loss. I don't know what to do anymore.

I'm a tough girl. I've been that tough girl for three months.

I don't want to be that tough girl anymore.

I want to cry and scream and tell my husband it's not OK that I'm alone, that I'm tired, and that I'm mad. I want to tell everyone around me that it's not OK for me to handle all this by myself. I want to tell God to make it all stop and send angels pronto to pack up the rest of my home and fly me to South Carolina on some kind of heavenly wind. I want to tell that student that I may be cranky, but it's only because I've been juggling 218 balls since February with no reward.

My arms are just tired.

But the load keeps on coming.

When people inquire about my state of being, I always smile and nod and use the old "I'm hanging in there. Things are busy, but we're in the home stretch."

But it's a lie.

I want to scream, loudly, that "I'm not OK. Did you know I broke my toe two days ago because I dropped a box on it while packing? And no one even cared enough to be there to hear my scream? Do you know that my husband and I had our first 'long-distance fight' over the fact that I asked him to look up places to buy a scratch-and-dent washer and dryer for our moving day, and he told me he was 'just too busy?' Do you know I've taken to crying at least twice a day as therapy? Do you know that I'm moving in 26 days and still have so much to do at home, work, and everywhere else that I'm pretty sure I won't be sleeping for the next three weeks? Do you know that I don't even have the energy, time, or empathy to say a proper good-bye to everyone here in Florida? Do you know I'd steal away tonight if I could? Did you know all that?"

But no one does. No one really knows it.

In fact, I didn't know it. Not until I took a day at the beach and felt temporary happiness.

That lightness brought about by the sun and sand was such a contrast to the dark, petty selfishness I'd been feeling up until that moment that it hit me like a crashing wave.

I need to get out of here.

I need to run away.

I need to stop pretending I'm happy being alone and independent.

I need to move.

Because I'm not OK without my husband; I'm not OK living among my possessions packed away in Rubbermaid containers; I'm not OK going to work every day and ushering kids along through these last few weeks of school; I'm not OK crying myself to sleep while watching Friends DVDs.

Flirting with my husband over text messages is no longer enough.

Shopping for the perfect coverlet for the new guest room is no longer fulfilling.

Cooking my favorite dinner for one doesn't even taste good anymore.

I'm done.

Call me weak. Call me selfish. Call me whatever you want.

But I'm not the woman I should be without my own house with my own husband - working toward goals we have for our family.

For a woman who used to wonder if she'd ever get married, this is big, my friends.

Huge, even.

Because it's no longer about my career; it's no longer about my position in the community.

I'd cut and run now if I could.

Those things don't make me happy.

Because, after all of this, I realize I'm just a little bit broken. I'm cracked. I'm not quite whole.

I'm hanging on by a thread.

And I'm pretty sure I will be for another 26 days.

***

Happy Tuesday, everybody. Be back tomorrow with something a little more upbeat.