Chapter 8: My First Thanksgiving

 

Well, first Thanksgiving post-divorce, without the kids. Actually, I think this is the first holiday I have EVER spent without my children.

I wasn’t totally sure what my plans were going to be or how I would feel about this. As the day approached, I experienced a full spectrum of emotions.

I figured I had a few options for how to feel about this. 

• Option 1 – feel sad, miserable. Whine like a child over something I cannot control or change. 
• Option 2 – plow forward, with a grateful heart and smile on my face. 

Option 2 please. It’s not unreasonable for me to think I can be grateful this season. I have a lot to be thankful for. 

I have always been a glass-half-full girl. I can find a silver lining in just about the darkest places. 

But seriously, isn’t there always something to be grateful for? 

For me, Thanksgiving (the holiday) is a specific meal. Exactly the way my mom used to make it. Roasted turkey, homemade stuffing, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, cheesy hashbrown casserole, cranberry sauce, Parker House rolls. Mom always has deviled eggs too, but for obvious reasons, I omit them from my table.

I keep forgetting the fruit salad. My grandma’s fruit salad is always a staple at our holiday meals. My cousin posted a pic on Facebook of her Thanksgiving plate, and that’s when I noticed it. I think it escaped my memory because the base is custard… which makes it a no-go at my house. 

But – it is SO delicious!

My mouth is literally watering thinking about it. 

Therefore, if Thanksgiving is about a specific menu and sharing it with people I love, does the calendar date matter? No, I don’t think it does. 

I made the big meal for us – that’s me and the kids – last week. We chowed down. It was so delicious. Next up was a Thanksgiving lunch at church and finally a Friendsgiving. 

If you’re counting, that was 3 Thanksgiving’s for me to spend with my kids. 4 for Remy actually, since he had a feast at school. 

So sure, I could be sad that my babies were going to be away for a few days… but I chose to be happy. I chose to appreciate the time I had with them and appreciate the time I had without them. 

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I have always been the maker of holiday magic in our house. I love holidays – decorating, festive foods, gifts, laughs, family – everything about them. But I also realize that the actual calendar date does not make the holiday special.

Will they remember missing a Thanksgiving with Mom? Unlikely, since we had 3 together (4 in Remy’s case).

Divorce has changed the landscape of our lives. Not to put too fine a point on it, but holidays should change over the course of the kids’ lives. Once they grow up and get married, they will have created a new family… a new family unit that deserves to create its own way of handling the holidays (and everything else).

If I have done my job well, all three kids will grow up, move off, get married, and create their own families and traditions.

Chapter 7: Alone

 

This one feels a little personal for me. And I realize how nuts that sounds, since all of these chapters are personal. It’s like tearing open an old wound in order to fix it. But in this open, exposed state, I feel extremely unprotected and uncovered.

Trauma survivors learn quickly how to hide feelings because we learned that it is not always safe to let others see it. I’ve always considered not being believed and supported as the worst case. However, as I go through this process, I realize that wasn’t the worst possible scenario. The worst is when you do share with someone and that person betrays you. That hurts more than the original pain. And that betrayal has solidified the need to keep things private.

One of my favorite Taylor Swift songs is called “You’re On Your Own Kid”. The end of the song goes,

From sprinkler splashes to fireplace ashes

I gave my blood, sweat, and tears for this

I hosted parties and starved my body

Like I’d be saved by a perfect kiss

 

The jokes weren’t funny, I took the money

My friends from home don’t know what to say

I looked around in a blood-soaked gown

And I saw something they can’t take away

 

‘Cause there were pages turned with the bridges burned

Everything you lose is a step you take

So make the friendship bracelets

Take the moment and taste it

You’ve got no reason to be afraid

 

You’re on your own, kid

Yeah, you can face this 

You’re on your own, kid

You always have been

So, I will “make the friendship bracelets” by purposefully reaching out. I gave my blood, sweat, and tears to get here… And I am proud to have made it this far.

Chapter 6: Processing by Repressing

 

Stress will begin to affect your body if it is unprocessed and held onto for too long. Trauma must be processed in order to move forward. I am a living testament to these.

As a 16 year old, I really did not know how to handle all of those big things… Heck, as a 42-year-old, I still don’t know how. I have been talking things through with my therapist, a few close confidants, and myself. I think the most difficult part has been forgiving myself for not understanding… and extending myself some level of grace for dealing with it the only way I knew how.

Avoidance.

All of that: the relationship, the rape[s], the car incident, testifying in court. It was so huge. And it was never spoken about. I didn’t even try to wrap my head around it. I simply wished it would go away.

I don’t remember making a conscious decision to drink in order to forget… I just drank hoping it would go away.

My relationship with alcohol was clearly centered around those events. I felt (idiotically I know) that if I was drunk, there was some level of protection around the real, raw me. I could handle disappointment and disapproval because in my messed up mind, it wasn’t the real me receiving that… it was drunk-me.

I had this reputation as a “lush, spiraling dangerously out of control” for a while. But what that public perception did not see was the private me. I only drank if I was in social settings. I did not drink if I was alone. And around people (albeit there were only a few) that I trusted and felt safe with, I did not feel the need to put that drunk, fake armor on. I was able to be authentically me. Sober me.

The problem was that I struggle so badly with my self-worth. Does [insert anyone] like me? Am I good enough to be friends with [insert anyone]? Can I trust [insert anyone]? Am I worthy of love? Am I worthy of your time? 

I so often felt like the answers were a resounding no. My ‘romantic’ relationships had basically taught me the answer is no.

Unfortunately, this translated also into platonic friendships as well. I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the truth to be revealed… that the friendship meant more to me than to you.

I am oddly grateful for hitting my bottom. I have thanked the Lord so often that nothing irreversible happened on my way home that night. I will be eternally grateful to my parents for stepping in and making me clean up. And I will forever love the friend who took me to the meetings, held my hand, and wouldn’t let me go through it alone. That meant more to me than just about anything else in the world.

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