The New Normal

Nearly eighteen years ago, only a few days after my daughter was born, I remember thinking “It will be good when things get back to normal.”  This thought came to me in the midst of a deep, bone-wearied fatigue, mountains of laundry, constant diaper changes, and a nursing baby girl who was constantly hungry.  I was so tired at that time of my life that I would literally salivate when I saw the bed…as if a nap might assuage my exhaustion. 

The irony in all this is that ‘normal’ never returned, at least not in the way I had known normal before.  Sure, life got into a routine and that constantly hungry baby, grew into a constantly moving toddler, but the quiet normal of a life without children never returned.  By the time my son came along, I knew better than to expect normal to return again.  Interestingly, it was so much easier to integrate my second child into my life than my first.  I suppose my expectations were lower.  Perhaps my son was an easier child.  More likely, I had learned that the house could be a little less tidy, and the laundry didn’t have to be perfectly folded.  In any case, another new normal came along and life was good.

Life has brought with it a never-ending series of changes over the years; the kids grew from babies to toddlers to elementary students to pre-teens to teenagers, my partner and I separated, we each dated others and those relationships started and ended and started again, the world around us changed, and most unfathomably, my ex-partner, Amy, died suddenly in October.

Just the other day, I found myself, once again, thinking about life getting back to normal.  In a misguided moment, I even found myself looking toward life ‘getting back to normal.’.  The past six months have been hectic, emotional, and bone-wearyingly exhausting.  It seems that the slow motion of the first few weeks after Amy’s death quickly shifted to life at a frantic pace.  Work seemed to intensify, the kids’ needs amplified, the addition of Amy’s two animals into our household increased the animal care responsibilities tenfold, and now I share my home with my children full-time vs. the former shared custody arrangement.  I find myself constantly tired, and yet unable to make time and space to actually rest.  It has occurred to me that I might be manufacturing reasons to stay busy so I didn’t have to hold still and think about our loss.  I have come to the conclusion that this is only partially true.  Certainly, the anesthesia of being busy is helpful at times, but it isn’t everything that keeps life moving at the speed of light.  The speed of life?  Yes, that’s it.

So, as I anticipated life getting back to normal the other day, I also had a parallel thought.  It occurred to me that life may simply be a series of reaching milestones, traumas, events, and occurrences which so dramatically change the dynamic of our world that our prior ‘normal’ can no longer exist and the normalcy of our life transforms into a new normal.  The new normal ~ get used to it.  Don’t get too comfortable with it though, because as surely as you get comfortable, something else will come along and change everything once again. 

~ Mk Michaels

Rest

“Sleep,” she said, “I’ll watch the cave door

so you can rest the whole night through.”

Completely spent with no reserve left, I had no choice

but to lay my weary head on her shoulder

and trust all would be well.

The night came and went.

the sun rose in the East and

I came through the night unscathed.

My head still on her shoulder,

I stretched along her length and

inhaled her warm scent, familiar after only one night.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” she whispered,

nose buried in my bed-rumpled hair.

A new day begun.

 

~ Mk Michaels

 

The Thaw

A chunk of ice falls and hits the floor in front of me.

I step over it, barely noticing, yet aware enough to avoid slipping.

The melting ice leaves small puddles in my wake.

Life goes on.

Fridays come and go and the empty expanse of too many weekends pass

leaving their empty time, miraculously filled with activity after activity, behind.

I stay busy.

Too busy.

Busy enough to not think,

to not feel,

to not remember.

 

 

Morning after morning, I hurl myself out of bed

feet on the floor,

That’s what your mother always said,

     “Feet on the floor, Amy,”

because you weren’t a morning person.

Ever.

 

I watch, I worry,

I keep the refrigerator stocked

and make breakfasts and lunches

every morning,

like little prayers to keep them safe.

Our children.

It is the least I can do

It is all I can do.

I stay busy.

 

Your passing brings her home

except the locks have been changed.

Her key no longer fits my heart

The mask stripped away, I see the ugly.

Correction, I acknowledge the ugly.

I knew was there all along.

The mean spirit.

The fear based living.

The running and hiding

to avoid her demons.

     Point a finger and it keeps blame at bay.

Disguise it as a wounded bird

and it will be taken in.

Loved.

Cared for.

Flaws labeled as war wounds.

Hatred attributed to childhood trauma.

The hate.

The hate was the hardest to stomach.

As your ashes sit on our children’s bedside tables,

the hate still stirs in her,

swirling around me until I draw the line.

Enough.

     “Hate if you must, but be quiet.

     I won’t listen any longer.”

What is the point?

     “True, Amy did not help us,

     but she did not ruin us.”

We ruined us.

Your unfettered fear stopped us in our tracks.

I used to take the blame.

My need.

My fear.

My full set of baggage

complete with valise, overnight bag, steamer trunk, and cargo hold.

 

In hearing your voice,

The honey stripped away,

I hear the ragged screeching

of hate in your heart

and know.

I know I will never return.

I know I am free,

in a sense.

This freedom comes at a price.

The price of feeling the pain.

The price of stopping long enough to suffer.

The jagged shards of ice falling

and as they rip away from my still-beating heart,

they slice through my chest,

thudding to the floor.

 

Excruciating twists

Jar me from my sleep

even then I try to pretend

they are something else,

age,

a busy mind,

a weak bladder,

a need for quiet time

taken only when the house is asleep.

Lies.

All lies.

It is you.

It is Amy.

It is nearly three decades of

being unable to discern

who loved who,

who hated who,

who was real and true and good,

who was hurtful and manipulative.

Caught in the middle of two

who would tear me apart,

keep me down,

make me less,

for their own gain.

I stayed with each to feel safe.

I own this.

 

Tonight, I am ripped from my deep need for sleep,

ragged sobs erupting

as the biggest chunk yet of the iceberg falls

leaving my heart raw, bleeding,

but beating still.

Two women who loved me with all they had to give,

neither whole enough to love me true

at least in the time we had.

     Me not whole enough to love either true

     at least in the time we had.

One got help, came clean, and the walls came tumbling down.

The other, a gypsy still on the run from fear, an artillery of hate by her side,

spewing anger, bitterness, and vitriol

about the dead mother of my children.

No spun Southern sugar this time,

just pure Southern hatred.

I taste the bile at the back of my tongue

and am sickened at the years and role I chose to

play in the tragedy.

 

I allow myself to acknowledge

that I miss my dear friend, my ex-wife, my children’s other mother.

Sobbing uncontrollably,

the dam bursts and

my heart breaks all over again.

Racking sobs seize me

and, for once, I do not fight them.

I let them come.

I allow them possess me,

trusting I will not be consumed.

I will come through this night.

 

The sun will rise, and

I will make two breakfasts and two lunches

like prayers for the future.

Our children’s future.

They will live and laugh and love,

so I will, too.

Because that’s what mothers do.

They show up each and every day

and let their icebergs melt in the dead of night

to keep their children from drowning

in the ice-riddled oceans left behind.

 

The morning will come in about an hour.

I should try sleep.

But know I won’t.

Instead, I light a candle,

remember the good,

and look toward the future

knowing I will keep you alive

in all our hearts.

 

~ Mk Michaels