His answer hit me hard. He was right. I hated myself. My friends hadn’t seen me as someone deserving of hatred and pity, though. Only I did. And if they hadn’t found me and been willing to show me love, I’d probably still feel that way. But I unclenched my fist and clutched, instead, the hands they extended to me. I slowly stopped hating myself and my life. It took letting people into my mess and seeing it through their eyes for me to find the goodness in me, in my situation.
And as for those who added to my pain after the divorce? Over the years, I have been able to reconcile with most of them, too. This is important to include. It’s the story I needed to hear when I believed I’d be shunned and judged forever, that some of the people I loved the most would never be a part of my life again. I need you to know that if you’re in pain, there is still hope. I need you to know that it is worth staying open. Most of all, I need you to know that the negativity thrown our way isn’t always personal and people can change. Really change. So it’s worth giving those who have written us off a chance to come around. And in our lowest moments, we need to welcome our people into our messy, imperfect lives. Give them a chance to hold us up. And give ourselves a chance, too—a chance to be loved even when we hate ourselves.
Four
Wednesday Night Dinners
In my darkest moments, I thought about taking my life. I never actually tried. I just thought about it. I wrote lists of pros and cons. I contemplated what would be the easiest way to go—physically for me and emotionally for everyone around me.
I know it’s hard for people who have never been in such a dark place to understand how any mother could think about taking her own life. But parents who contemplate suicide don’t feel that they are being selfish by leaving their children without a mom or a dad. Parents who contemplate suicide genuinely believe that their children will actually be better off without them, that their children’s world will be easier and happier without their parent in it. You have to be in a hell of a lot of pain to think that way. I was in a hell of a lot of pain.
To say I was just sad would be an understatement.
I was depressed. Depressed as in “my doctor suggested all kinds of pills” depressed. Depressed as in “my friends were more than worried about me” depressed. Depressed as in “I gained twenty pounds in one month” depressed. You know you’re a mess when your doctor is handing you a brochure on antidepressants and a brochure on Weight Watchers all in the same visit. You start asking yourself, “How did I get here?” You start telling yourself, “There’s no way out of here.”
And I was still struggling financially. Another understatement. I was broke. Broke as in “sleeping on the floor in a small bedroom I shared with my two children” broke. Broke as in “looking up homeless shelters in the area in case I couldn’t afford to keep paying rent” broke. Broke as in “I’d started stealing toilet paper and tampons from the restaurant where I worked because I couldn’t afford basic hygiene products” broke. (Years later, I finally confessed to one of the managers. They forgave me.)
At night I would lie awake next to the bunk beds my friend had generously bought for my kids because I didn’t have the money to do so myself. It wasn’t the physical discomfort of sleeping on the floor that kept me up; it was mental torment. My routine of nighttime anxiety that started the moment Luka was born was intensifying:
Are my kids getting enough nutritious food? Are my kids getting enough exercise? Do my kids have enough toys? Do I have the right toys? Are we playing enough educational games? When my son was telling me that story, did he know I was ignoring him because I was doing something else or did he feel heard and seen? Is the free preschool he’s attending good enough? Was his tantrum because he was tired or was it because of something that happened at school? Do I know everything about my kids’ lives? Am I paying enough attention? Does it matter that my child saw me naked today? At what point should children not see their parents naked? I lost my patience and I snapped at my kid today—how will those negative words shape him? Am I supposed to give them more than just a daily vitamin? What’s the right ratio of vegetables to carbs? Does it matter that the milk I got for free from that WIC program isn’t organic? Is my daughter going to grow boobs at age five because she’s not getting organic milk? Are we all going to get cancer from the pesticides?
My run-of-the-mill maternal concerns had mushroomed in my mind until living with them didn’t feel manageable. The water was getting too high and I didn’t have the stamina to keep paddling.
Because I hid the jagged edges of my marriage until I announced my intention to get a divorce, some had perceived me to be a selfish, terrible mother bent on ruining her family. It was unspeakably painful to have people I loved so much think so little of me. After a while, I couldn’t help but wonder, Am I really a horrible person? I started to become convinced that my children, the two most important people in my life, deserved so much more than the crappy, depressed, selfish, home-wrecking, broke loser mother they’d been saddled with, one who had to apply for food stamps because she couldn’t even meet their most basic needs.
At night, I began to wonder if I really mattered, if my life mattered, if any of it was worth struggling for.
I was also lonely. Another understatement. Even though I was lucky to have a cadre of friends who continually stood by me, I still felt really, really lonely. You don’t have to be completely alone in order to feel deeply alone. And I was bitter, and angry, and confused, and cynical, and miserable, and, yes, those are all understatements, too.
When you get like that, when you fall so deeply into your misery, you become self-consumed—or at least I did. I lived and breathed and ate and drank and made out with self-pity. I didn’t talk about it constantly. I didn’t share my sob story with everyone I met. I mostly just kept it in and wallowed in it behind closed doors.
Do you know what someone who is deeply struggling looks like? Most often, she looks just like you. She looks like someone who might not be deeply struggling. My theater degree came in handy, as I showed up to each work shift convincingly playing the part of a confident, put-together, recently divorced mother of two who is doing just fine. I made jokes, joined in on pranks the staff would play on one another, and lied a lot when asked by customers or coworkers about my personal life or my state of mind.
At the end of almost every shift, around midnight, I’d order the restaurant’s signature flatbread. Employees got 50 percent off, so this was a cheap dinner for me. I’d get in my car, place the cardboard pizza box in my lap, and start to cry. Understatement. I’d sob. All the way home, I’d sob while stuffing my face with the yummy crust, covered in greasy caramelized pears, roasted walnuts, and stinky, creamy, delicious Cambozola cheese. All the emotions I had held in for hours while on my shift would pour out during my drive back to reality, where I’d no longer get to pretend my life was easy or good. The flatbread became my grieving buddy, my comfort food. By the time I would pull up to my apartment complex, there were only a few bites left, always soaked in my tears. (Not trying to sound poetic here. They were literally soaked in my tears.)