2012 has proven to be a rough year for me so far. I was diagnosed with Reactive Airway Disease. Not too terrible to manage; in fact, I’m off the medication I was put on and am doing fine. However, the more difficult diagnosis was Poly Cystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS). This, coupled with my thyroid problems and anxiety meds, meant that the odds against me conceiving were stacking up at an alarming rate. Add to the mix that I’m overweight and was about to hit the age where it starts getting dangerous to get pregnant, and I was getting pretty worried.
My husband and wife assured me that we’d work it out. However, the way they chose to “work it out” was without me. In February, just a week after a really wonderful Valentine’s Day, I asked my husband on a whim if we were ever going to have sex again. It’s not the only way to conceive, but it was my preferred method. It had been about three (close to four) months since we’d last been intimate. I was getting concerned. And lonely. It had been about triple that between me and my wife. I don’t even remember how long it had been since the three of us had sex. My husband seemed to crumple when I asked. Feeling bold, I ventured that it didn’t seem he was attracted to me anymore. His response: It’s complicated. (The response later turned out to be very simple: no, he wasn’t attracted to me anymore.)
I should’ve known right then and there where we were going. Or at many other junctures along our life together. Part of me probably did. But a stronger and more persuasive part (that also listened to them) told me that we would work it out. I had so much hope and love.
We began talking about a trial separation for a month. Less than a week after those talks started, it became very clear very quickly that neither of them had a trail or separation in mind. It was over and they were done.
To top it all off, the company I worked for, which had been very supportive of letting me keep my job “no matter where I landed” post-split, closed. All signs were pointing to major life upheaval. Going with the trend and knowing that I needed some time and space to get my life back together, I accepted my sister’s gracious offer to move in with her. A finished basement had my name on it and now this Jersey
girl woman has relocated to the South.
While it’s gorgeous here, and I’m surrounded by supportive family and still in touch with loving family and friends back in the Northeast, I’ve cried a lot. Spent days in bed, feeling like there was no point to life. What’s the point to dream or hope if the things I wanted, even if I got them would be taken away? Or even worse, simply choose to walk away of their own volition. There have been many low points I’m not proud of and I’m sure there will be more.
But. I’m finally in a place where the barest glimmer of hope is starting to shine through the dark.
First, it came from my sister and aunt and father. Words of strength and humor and support and love. Then it came from friends; warm, open advice from a friend who’d been as close to my situation as is possible. This was was a godsend given ours was not the most traditional relationship. The grace of friends who made sure I had a place to stay should I need it, forced me to eat when I didn’t think I could ever eat again (at one point this wasn’t even an exaggeration), flew down here to get me when I visited my sister the first time just to drive home with me, another friend who drove with me back when I came back, and all those who busted their asses to make sure all of my stuff fit into a small SUV and U-haul trailer as I made the trek 1,000 or so miles away for a fresh start.
It then glowed in the perfect eyes of a friend’s surprise ninja baby. The family dinners near the lake (no cell phones allowed.) The immediate acceptance and love given to me even before I walked into my sister’s house. The friends who are still staying in touch, saying they love me, that they’ll be here for me no matter if I wind up staying in the South or if I move back to Jersey. The mother-in-law who said she loves me and I’m her daughter, no matter what happens.
Sometimes, the support and love has brought me to tearful gratitude. Other times, I’ve felt completely unworthy and mystified why so many awesome people are so supportive of me. And then there’s the tiny part that needles me, saying that all the support in the world can’t make up for the rejection of the two people I wanted unconditional love and support from. The ones who pledged it to me. The family I’d spent nearly 14 years building.
Many hours have been (and probably will still be) spent wondering if I’ll ever find someone. I’m polyamorous by nature, but I think I need to start with one before I can even contemplate more. Especially when, right now, one doesn’t even seem possible. Someone to love me. Who won’t think my personality is too much, yet who will help me carry my baggage, as I help him with his. A man to think I’m beautiful even if my weight fluctuates and will be supportive of my voice. Someone to cherish me whom I can cherish right back. Too much time has been spent depressed by the certainty that I’ll never find that person. What has finally helped wake me up, literally and figuratively, is that I’m beginning to see that it’s possible to have a happy and healthy life without it.
Would I rather have a spouse or spice? You betcha. It’s a goal. But it’s only one. It can’t make or break my whole life. In this day and age, I don’t even need a significant other to have a baby. I’d rather I did, but I’m beginning to realize it’s not necessary.