About six weeks ago, I attend a women’s yoga retreat in Wimberly. It was awesome, amazing, life altering. I have never described it here (and may not ever) but the hubby and I experienced what I call “the great trauma” last fall. Our lives fell apart. My universe was shattered because of a single sentence that a complete stranger said to me over the phone. I felt like I was in a Lifetime movie. I felt like I was caught up in a very, very cruel joke. But I wasn’t and I wanted to fall apart. To pieces. To lay in bed and cry and sob and feel sorry for myself and get really, really fucking drunk. For better or worse, however, there is no room in mother’s life to fall apart like that. We must keep calm and carry on.But our collective drinking got much worse. The hubby and I started getting waisted every night. Tequila shots, wicked strong cocktails, bottles and bottles of wine. Anything to drown out the pain. There were moments when it was too much. Moments that I fell to my knees sobbing. Lashing out in my lonely desperation. You see, the great trauma is so shameful that we aren’t allowed to talk about it. I mean, I told my therapist and my yoga teacher and a couple of friends but…I don’t know. I guess I realize now that I am missing that soul friend to talk to about it. That’s the community that I am missing and now trying to cultivate.Months went by and the hubby and I both began to disassociate with the great trauma pretty much without even realizing it. Until about four months later, when I find myself at this women’s retreat and we are all sitting in a circle…checking in. I had woken up than morning with the line from a Hole song repeating over and over in my head,” I fake it so real I am beyond fake.” I didn’t really even register why until one of the leaders reminded us of how important it it to let go of our stories. That’s what the line was about. I am so busy trying to convince myself and others that things are great that I can’ t even admit to myself when they’re not. I was so proud of my epiphany and couldn’t wait to share it in the circle. But when I oped my mouth, all that came out were sobs. Incoherent statements about the traumatic event that we had suffered. How angry the hubby was almost all the time and I how I was constantly channeling his anger for him because was so disassociated from his own feelings he didn’t even realize when he was being a dick to me and to our kids.The retreat leaders talked a great deal about how – as women – we are all healers. We are empaths, which is something I have known about myself for a couple of decades, but it felt great to hear that belief legitimized. I knew it! They said that the real trick is decipher when the feelings you are having about your own or someone else’s and, when they are someone else’s, there is a reason why you are channeling them. In this case, I think that I was channeling the hubby’s anger because I was so out of touch with my own. He shouldn’t get to be angry…I should be the one who’s fucking pissed off but I can’t be because I have to the god dam understanding wife! I’ve had too much fucking therapy and understand the human psyche enough to know understand it rationally and so it’s too hard for me to be angry with him. I know it’s not his fault. I know that with all my heart. But he shouldn’t get to be angry – it’s NOT FUCKING FAIR!But life isn’t fair. Life is hard. At least as long as we hang on to stories that it is hard. That we are victims. I don’t want to feel sorry for myself. I want to us match up our wounds, heal them together and move on. I think, maybe, I also knew that the fall out from dealing with the great trauma was going to lead us down a path that, WHILE IT WOULD BE TOTALLY AWESOME, would mean that I would have to quit drinking and, god dammit, I was not ready to do that yet. The pain was too great. It still sneaks back up on in some quiet moments as just a very, dark and sweet sadness. I try to savor those moments…to breathe them in…realizing that it is in those moments that we heal.
