This is Post #3 in the Journey to Truth Series
“When my heart shuts down, I don’t speak Cause behind the muffled beating I am weak.” --Wanderer, Song by Mogli
September 13, 2023:
Fourteen months after my husband and I moved to Montana, our shiny new life went up in flames. Literally.
January 6, 2020:
The tiny house is quiet. The crater on my upper lip throbs, threatens to erupt. Even the pharmacist is visibly moved at the sight of my cold sore.
“Stress,” she said, pointing to Mt. Vesuvius. “And from the looks of that thing, you’ve had more than your fair share lately.
I think about my broken finger, which is also presently throbbing. And my bruised tailbone, and the horrible head cold that Will Not Go Away. And my little dog’s broken back and my ancient kitty’s sprained shoulder.
And yeah, things have been a little stressful since we left California and our home of 17 years eight long months ago. And even more so since we left the cluster-fly and mouse-infested mansion on Big Mountain and into the tiny home we now live in where we sleep in bunk beds and every day feels like a week as we wait for our new home to be finished.
Yesterday was the fourth missed deadline.
And with each one, my husband’s stress rises to near epic proportions. Seeps into the crevasses of the tiny home.
Into me.
I can feel his stress as if it is my own. And it adds to mine.
Some days I feel as if I will explode. As though I Can. Not. Take. Anymore. But every day I rise, tell myself that today will be different. Better. Today we will get the news we’ve been waiting for.
A concrete move-in date.
I climb out of the bottom bunk, slam my forehead on the top bun AGAIN, and choke down the scream that begs to be set free.
I repeat my mantra as convincingly as I can muster. “Today will be a good day.”
But I am unable to convince myself.
I pack my gym bag, and we head for the door. But before it is opened, my phone rings. It is the storage facility, where all of our worldly possessions are stored.
“There’s been a fire,” she says. My knees nearly buckle. “We’re not sure which unit the fire originated in, or which units have been impacted, but I suggest you come down and take a look at your unit.”
Immediately, I make up my mind that this is no big deal. That our stuff will be fine. Because it WILL be a good day. I hang up the phone, brace myself, and tell my husband the news. He does not share my optimism.
The scene that awaits us is apocalyptic. It is like watching my life go up in flames. Piles of charred belongings stand in the parking lot like smokestacks, still smoldering. Dark clouds spit out a cold, wet, blustery snow. People are milling around aimlessly, helplessly, clearly stunned by the unexpected fate that has befallen them.
We walk like wooden soldiers to our own unit. At first glance, it appears that we will be the lucky ones. That we will be able to save most of our belongings. But as we sift and sort through our things, our fingers and souls numb from exposure, our pile of unsalvageable items begins to rival those of our neighbors, many of whom have lost everything.
When we finish, it appears that we have lost about 75% of our stuff. What we have managed to salvage is hauled to our builder’s shop, to be sifted through over the next few days.
As we drive home, my husband grieves openly. I stare out the window, unable to feel any emotion about what has happened. But that’s how I roll. I shove the big things into a pocket of my soul and stitch it shut until my brain can process it.
And my heart can feel it.
As I climb into bed that night, I think about how open my husband is with his feelings. And how distant I am from mine. And I wonder how this happened. When did I close my heart off? But I know. Deep down I know.
Because, in order to survive my childhood and all the drama that seven older sisters brought, I had to learn to desensitize myself. Learn how to suppress my feelings. Detach from my heart. Because everyone else’s feelings were more important than mine.
I send up a prayer to whoever might be listening:
Please help me find my way back to my heart. Show me how to feel what there is to feel.
Thank you.
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