Closing Windows

It has always been difficult for me to close the door on the past. I never seem to be able to shut it tightly.

Then someone (thank you, Jerry!) said:

Don’t close a door, close a window. You can still look at the past through it, but it cannot affect your “new” life.  You can see it, but it can’t come back in.

What a gem. It was perfect.

This is where I’ve always had trouble: I want to move forward, but I’ve got a death grip on the past. You have to let go of one to grab onto the other. Seems simple enough, right?

Well, on paper, anyway.

After 13 years of marriage, I finally divorced a man who left and returned 8 times. Usually on or around Mother’s Day or Thanksgiving. I came to hate those holidays.

The first time he left, (Mother’s Day, of course) I had no clue he was unhappy. But he’d been plotting his escape for a while. When I went to bed that night – he’d said he had to work late – I found a brightly colored yellow envelope under my pillow. How sweet! I thought.

Until I opened it.

He was gone 2 weeks that time.

The shortest time he was gone was 10 hours. As he drove down the darkened highway, a fox ran across the road ahead of him. It reminded him of a time we traveled that road and the same thing had happened. It made him sad.

I’m coming back.

I told him to keep going and then went to my son’s for Mother’s Day. (See?) I hadn’t gotten far when I realized I’d forgotten something and returned to the house. And what to my wondering eyes should appear? A U-Haul truck in the driveway.

I’m baaaaacccckkk!

The longest time was 10 months. He said he wanted “to live by myself in a cave.” I told him I was done and filed for divorce. He moved 1800 miles away. Then the phone calls started: How are you doing?

How am I DOING??? How do you THINK I’m doing? I’m trying to put my life back together.

I’m sorry.

This from a man whose lips refuse to utter those two very important words. Ever.

So, back he came. Was it supposed to turn out that way? No. He had another living arrangement prepared. Except for one thing: when he arrived with all his stuff, he discovered the place had no plumbing.

You might as well stay here until you can find another place.

Well, not surprisingly, no affordable living arrangements turned up and for 10 months, he was the model ex husband. He was cheerful. Seemed content, if not deliriously happy. Then, just like clockwork, ten months later (what IS it about 10 months??)  I awoke to the usual “I love you but I’m leaving” note on the kitchen stove. “You were great this time; it’s me. Remember to get cash to pay the lawnmower guy on Tuesday.”

At least it’s not Mother’s Day.

You would think that after all this time, I would be used to the final final final chapter. But I never am. Because each time he leaves, I feel sorry for him. I think I can “help” him. Help him WHAT? Regain his sanity? Appreciate what he had and has given up? Love me more?

You can’t “help” people with those issues.

The person I really NEED to help is me. Why won’t I do that? Why do I keep allowing these things to happen?

Insanity. 

As I write this, he has been gone two days. And still, I keep expecting him to show up at the door.  Or to come home from work and find him comfortably resting in his old chair.

Once he reaches his destination, I will relax a bit. Until the inevitable text messages start to arrive: How r u doing?

That will be the signal that it’s about to start all over again.

My family and friends have threatened to move and change phone numbers so I can’t reach them. Can you blame them? They are all very familiar with how this scenario plays out; they’ve had years of practice. Bless them. They’ve always welcomed him back as if nothing had happened.

I hope he’ll finally find a way to be happy alone.

Maybe this time I will find a way to let go of the past so I can grab hold of the future.

After I close the window. Maybe I should lock it, too.

NOTE: This was written after he left last year, right after Thanksgiving...of course.

How r you doing?

Despite my insistence that I really meant it this time....he's back...again....5 months later. 

So far, we've made it past Mother's Day.