Thank Gawd There’s Coffee…
Sometimes doing the work means drinking it all in.
“ None of this matters if you are alone,” the voice whispers.
I’m sitting on the kitchen floor.
I worked so hard to find my new home post break up, during Covid.
I moved in with a friend whose using bothered me, got kicked out by another friend for not paying attention well, and yesterday I woke up with swollen eyes from my new housemates cleaning everything with bleach.
Covid, it does weird things to the soul.
I finally released my first Blog. It wasn’t one I thought I’d publish. It took me so long to let it finally out. Ironic, since it's what I help others do.
The first person I wanted to share it with was my ex. I sent it to him. He still hasn’t responded to it. I wonder if he is doing that slow version of ghosting as a colleague once advised.
“ You keep it civil, don’t respond so quickly, slowly pull away. Make it known you are less available,” the advice pours in.
A break up with our souls.
Like letting a balloon slowly drift up into the sky.
It occurred to me that maybe I will be exactly what my worse fear thought, “Going through a break-up, alone in a room. “
I woke up yesterday and hurried off to make a coffee, when a large Tupperware dish with no lid, slid off the shelf and onto my face. I have a goose egg on my forehead and a split upper lip. I managed to spend my time scurrying to sweep up the tiny bits of glass all over the counter and sink. The ones that broke off my face. I keep sweeping and ignore the pain on my face.
It reminded me of my mother, her selflessness at serving others, how she’d always be the last to eat her supper.
“Sit down and enjoy,” her guests would say, as she would scurry to get the next condiment or serving spoon. She struck me as the consummate waitress. Always seeing what was needed and unable to relax.
But I kept sweeping the broken glass, the blood dripping into my mouth. No one came to help me. I could taste that too.
Or was I just like my Dad, making himself a coffee, marching haphazardly through the jungle of his life, with glazed red eyes on top of his blue, and cut knuckles for throwing them accidentally into some wall?
He was a happy drunk. She a dutiful waitress. And I, the bi-product of their love, the miracle that erupted from two young kids in the back seat of a car. It was the seventies.
And here I stand sweeping up the broken pieces.
Recovery can look like healing.
Recovery can look like growth.
Recovery can look like cleaning it all up.
…or the first time you’ve been on your own.
Mostly recovery looks like it all.
Some part of me, much like my Mother, had learned to sweep the broken pieces under the rug or pretend the pain didn’t hurt much, like my dad.
And at the ripe age of almost fifty, I’m being asked to feel it all.
Free of blame. Free of guilt, to just let it in.
Feels like I’ve been cleaning up these pieces for so many years.
So I drop the broom and sit on the floor to feel the thing I don’t want to feel.
It’s Covid. I’m feeling alone.
I don’t fight it. I breathe.
And let the blood mixed with tears run down my face and mouth.
“Thank Gawd there is Coffee!” I hear the voice of love say.
And I sit laughing on the kitchen floor.
“ Sometimes doing the work looks like drinking it all in,” I thought, as I reach for an ice pack from the freezer.
“Thank Gawd there is Coffee…”
I taste the finest brew of life as I sip my foam with blood.
