Unknown Destination
By Seniye Groff
The pilot light in my over-sized stainless-steel stove has gone out. Or at least that is what the end of my marriage feels like. The fire that once fueled us has extinguished. I struggle to put one shaky sized-ten foot in front of the other because I know what havoc is coming for my children, my husband, myself. I cry in private as to not alert the authorities on my mental state. Mental state like a seesaw. One minute up and holding it together and then down and falling apart. I wonder how I got here.
I sit in my dark office, taking shot after shot of tasteless vodka, the frosted bottle hidden deep in the freezer when not in use. My soon-to-be ex-husband has no problem sleeping at night. It’s another sleepless night for me. People always comment on how precious time is, twenty years is a long time. It’s no wonder that things might have gone awry, even gone on autopilot. It’s a journey with longevity, that it seems to me, is more and more difficult to achieve.
The beginning of any journey seems to be the best, whether marriage or going somewhere new. The frenzied packing, the anticipation, the joy of the unknown alley, new foods, and general discomfort of not knowing what is around the bend. Not knowing the language but figuring out how to communicate anyway.
Yes, the beginning is where the joy is at; at least that is how it feels from this vantage point. The intensity to learn everything there is to know about a task or a person. Now that’s excitement. The late nights. The thrill of the unfamiliar. The seamless, boundless, inexhaustible energy and happiness when he is around. The new shared experiences and the willingness to involve this new influence into my life. The intoxicating, addictive process of discovery that a new relationship or destination affords me.
So, I jump both feet in. I can make this work. The doubt about marriage and children I carried my entire life doesn’t seem that heavy after all. Even though my flawed parents made a mess of their contentious marriage, I will succeed. I am determined to not repeat the past. Doesn’t the world have unlimited potential and happiness right now?
Molasses slow (really without much notice) real life sets in. Kids arrive and are all-consuming. Physical exhaustion takes over with the endless play dates and school commitments. Energy refocuses to classroom volunteering, PTA meetings and school carnivals. But all seems well; it is for the benefit of the kids, after all. Divide and conquer mentality deposits itself cleanly between the two of us. “You take that one, I’ll take this one”. It is easy to see (now) where the road diverged….strayed…crumbled.
And the years go by with thoughtless preoccupation on the daily minutiae. Minutiae so meaningless and so greedy at the same time. An infection seemingly innocuous, but a cancer on the relationship. On the connection. On what is important.
My tears flow and flow as I try to wear my game face. Years of pent up what? A longing for what as my heart aches. It is difficult to see through the fog and haze. Sustenance is of no interest. Sleep nonexistent. And yet life moves forward, even if I want to excuse myself from it (if just for one minute). Failure is a game changer. Learning to fail a necessary skill. Isn’t that what each of those all-knowing gurus tell us on their daily talk shows? Books litter the shelves telling me it is so. It’s where we grow, where we become who we were meant to be.
I cry because I know I cannot fix this one. The vodka doesn’t help. There is no one-day seminar to learn the magical phrase that will make this all go away. And I know this is going to hurt every single person I love in my life…my friends, my husband, my kids and more importantly, my innocent beliefs that everything will be all right. It is such a helpless feeling to love and hurt at the same time. The mom role demands kissing the scrapes not opening the wounds.
I hide under the veil of overwhelming work to avoid you. My 80’s music plays loudly so that I don’t have to listen to the nagging thoughts in my head. I take a gamble at the Blackjack table and lose in a true gambler’s form. Don’t I know one cannot beat the house? I wonder how I got to this place. And where it all leads? I question if I care. I so want to care.
And so, I meet this crossroad with a flurry of emotions: love, hate, fear, desire and even disgust. I am signing on to deconstruct my life like demolishing an old home. An old home that is full of comfort and flaws. The floors creak, the doors are slanted and the paint is peeling, and although comfortable, it no longer shelters me; it no longer sustains me. I no longer see myself in these four walls regardless of whether I apply new paint, rearrange the furniture or organize my shelves; it makes no difference from my vantage point.
I plan my exit. My house is for sale and so I declutter and pack my things in their respective boxes seemingly empty for a twenty-year accumulation. Perhaps it mimics my feeling of emptiness; my stark reality of what is to come—loneliness, uncertainty, empty rooms and perhaps, if I am lucky, the promise and belief that the journey ahead will be fruitful if I am persistent. My house no longer feeds me. I’m starving and need to eat food that provides the nutrition of love, hope and growth. My house is for sale. My heart doesn’t live here anymore.
This upcoming sale forces me to realize that I’ve been dead inside for far too long and yet, after twenty years, I never thought of anything but being here, as I now plot my escape. Dead from lack of affection. Dead from my solitary existence in a supposed partnership. I put myself on this island but now shoot the flares to initiate a rescue. And so, I plan my exodus but remain conflicted. Do I continue to water my beloved wild garden and try to make things grow again, or seek fresh farmland and nurture a new crop? My home and I choke with weeds.
And what if I meet someone new and bathe myself in amnesia. I will taste him and realize I can feel again. This flavor explosion in my mouth will make me realize I have been starving, not even close to being as satisfied as I had believed. My obliviousness is comforting, the blankness reassuring—and surprising. I push back. My departure did not include this distraction. A distraction so filled with angst, with fear, with terror. I do not want to crave; it only leads to more hunger, famine even. And yet I covet this toxic feeling and know it only leads to more pain, more hurt. I tell myself a diet is in order. Let me find my next shelter, first. Let me paint the new walls and hang pictures glossed with happiness. Let me be. I want home to feel like home again.
So, for now, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other. When a tear insists on snaking down my cheek, I maintain there is something in my eye. I smile because I must. I accept the kindness of a bent ear. I will learn this new language. This new mental currency. I will keep telling myself this is just like any other new journey that demands I am present and awake to relish in the discomfort as I meander into the next unknown destination.
Seniye Groff, MEd, is a lifelong learner. During the day, you will find her focused on diversity, equity and inclusion, human resources, employee development, management coaching, change management and organizational development initiatives. After hours she loves travel, writing, volunteering, cooking, eating and spending time with her two daughters.