Highlights of my past two years
By Suzanne Strazza
As I lie here in my bed in my parents’ house in ID, hacking up a lung because I always get sick when I show up at my mommy’s house, I have had a lot of time to think over the past two years and how far I have and have not come.
I’ve revisited the list I made two years ago about what I had done since the split and reflected on what has and what hasn’t changed. Here is what I have come up with:
Still have the new brown couch and red table – couch is covered in cat hair and the table is on its last legs (so to speak) but I will never part with either since they are the only pieces of furniture in my possession that weren’t “ours.”
Had a pen explode all over the new sheets that I had bought so that I wasn’t sleeping on bad memories. Now they are blue with black streaks all over them. But they are still organic and soft.
Had someone ask why all my sheets have stains.
Duh, I live, eat and write in my bed.
Did contact one of those old boyfriends – one of the ones that was ex-for-a-reason.
Should have left him as an ex.
Had a nervous breakdown after the ex became ex-ex.
Still watching a lot of bad TV – although I’ve narrowed it down to House and Bones – decided to stick with the ones with men about whom I can fantasize.
Finalized my divorce. Several times over.
May end up doing it again.
Foreclosed on a house. The dream house, actually. The one that had us living in tents and the garage for a year while we built it. The one that contained my heart and soul. The one that completed the demise of a marriage.
Walked away without even a glance over my shoulder.
Moved into town.
Had a “man cave” for the boys and their friends. Got rid of the man cave due to drinking and late-night girl visits.
Had to move again to do that.
Got a house with a fireman’s pole.
No, not a stripper pole. Please, there are children in the house.
Stopped taking Xanax. Although some days I really miss the clouded bliss.
Upped the walking to running.
Developed two bad knees, one bad shoulder and a wretched Achilles’ tendon.
Ran on a treadmill while watching “Keeping up with the Kardashians.”
That could be addicting.
Still reading Pema Chodron.
Have narrowed the books on divorce down to “Divorcing a Narcissist.”
Still royally screwing up my children.
Stopped dyeing my hair – takes way too much energy.
I’ve gone gray.
Bought a bra that makes me look like I had a boob job.
Until I take it off.
Bought another vibrator – one is never enough.
Lost a lot of weight.
Gained a lot of weight.
Lost some of it again.
Quit smoking for the 900th time.
Learned how to text, Facebook and blog.
Gave up cooking anything but hot dogs, mac and cheese and a few Mexican dishes that can be created by opening a can or two.
Have embraced rituals such Huevos Wednesdays and Pizza Fridays.
Have vowed to never, ever, ever marry again.
He did. The thought gives me hives. Got the boat.
Haven’t been on the river in forever.
Bought a truck.
Butchered a sheep.
Started climbing again, although that seems to be bringing some unforeseen challenges. Like major blows to my already fragile ego.
Still calling my mom – almost every day – but crying a lot less when I do.
Explored new ideas such as celibacy and friend-sex.
Figured out which one I like better.
Paid off some debt, racked up some more, re-contemplated filing for bankruptcy. It’s still not out of the realm of possibility. Realized that I can and prefer to do this on my own.
I have become a whole lot closer to my boys since there’s not a third one getting in the way.
Learned to be thankful every single day for what is in my life and what isn’t. Weeded out the good friends from the not-so-good ones.
Grew up. A lot.
Acted like a big fat baby. A lot.
Not such a bad list, right? A considerable amount of forward momentum and I’m only still stuck in a few places.
I may still be broke, a disastrous mother with wiry gray hair and saggy boobs, but at least I haven’t run over any dogs lately, haven’t worn my pj’s to work in well over a year, and haven’t had another nervous breakdown.
I’d say it’s progress.
Suzanne Strazza writes from Mancos, Colo.