My grave of memories

It’s June 26th.  7 years ago I swore my love to a man I thought I knew, I thought would be there forever.
I remember going on a women’s retreat about 5 years ago with women of all ages.  I remember them commenting on how positive we were (my group of mid 20 to early 30 year olds).  And I remember thinking how sad that was- that time seems to steal your optimism- your hope.  And I have found in the past 7 years that it has done just that.  No matter what good, glorious, amazing things happen, there is still heartache in the midst of it all.  There cannot be good without bad.  The bad times make you appreciate the good times.  I’ve heard it all, I know it all.

I am often amazed that at 31 I have experienced so much crap in my life.  Been abandoned by my sister.  Had a father who was a control freak and never could understand how to care about us.  Married a man who ended up cheating on me and leaving me and my 1 year old, got remarried and had 2 step children with some pretty serious mental health issues that tormented me and my whole family for 2+ years.  It never seems to end.

I wonder what happened to hope- to optimism.  Sure, I know it isn’t all terrible.  I know I have tons of positive, amazing, miraculous even things that have happened in all of this.  But today it reminds me.

I wish I could be innocent again.  I wish I could believe that love lasts forever.  I wish I could believe in the dream of the white picket fence and the perfect family.  I wish that I could reclaim the hope and the heart that I had at that time.  I wish I could reclaim time and take make what should have been, what is.  I wish I could claim my life and have it turn out as I dreamed.  But it seems all dreams die.  They never end like I imagined.  Becoming a wife, a mother, a nurse, a lover…whatever it is.  It cannot be what fulfills me, what propels me and pushes me toward my future.  It never will be enough.  I can never be enough, because I know I cannot make it on my own.

My conscience knew this was coming.  I dreamed last night that I saw pastor Patrick and had to tell him we had divorced.  I was embarrassed at the fact, but he seemed to understand.

I feel like I am writing the same words in the journal over and over again through the years.

It’s the eternal disappointment in myself.  In others.  The falling through the cracks, falling down and then struggling to get back up just to do it all over again.

Both the greatest and saddest advice I have ever been given “everything comes to an end sometime.”


And this today is the anniversary of the beginning of the biggest and loudest end in my life.  Or maybe it is just the beginning of one of many.  But I wish I could go back, wear that white dress in innocence.  Eat the cake, laugh at the jokes, feel beautiful and wanted and surrounded by love and support in a way that creates a forever memory.

Not have names that are ghosts seared into my memory, memories that I stumble on and try to rinse out of my mind as if it were a disease.  Memories that seem to eat at my soul and my joy.

I never counted on this.  On life being like this.  Not sure exactly what I thought, but I always pictured something a bit more magical, more ethereal.

I wonder if people realize the footprints they have left in my life.  There are so many- yet so many hurt, many are bittersweet.  I miss the sweet.  I want to wish for innocence again, but at the same time I hate it.

ug, I can’t express it right.  I can’t understand my own mind.  I can’t feel it right.  Instead I become a basket of emotions that doesn’t make sense to anyone, even myself.  I can’t know how to feel.  Sad, mad, vindictive, apathetic.

I guess I just need to lay some flowers on this grave.  Remember.  And move on.