Move It Along

Our little story left off with stiff necks and everybody needing to lick a Xanax. Well, ok, I may have needed to actually CHEW the Xanax, but whatever. That wreck wreaked havoc. But, it also gave a little clearer perspective. It was time to move.

I guess I was the only one in the family who was somewhat happy to be in Tallahassee. My business was doing well and we lived in the same quadrant of town where our son’s school and activities were, shopping, family close-by. It was easy. No one else was really content, though, so very long story short, in the summer of 2015 we moved to Orlando.

I had never lived anywhere else, never really traveled far, never went off to college, never lived on my own. This was probably the biggest life step I would ever take. Scared, unsure, but excited, I sold most everything but the furniture, I packed all our belongings, found us a place down there, and off we went.

My parents were vehemently opposed to this move, mostly because I was taking their precious grandson away from them. Chopped liver, I am – he’s golden. But, in true form, they supported us none-the-less, and helped us load the truck, unload the truck, and haul it all up to the third floor. (The movers my husband hired were a no-show. Hands down, I have never been more sore or in more pain in my entire life than the days that followed that unload.)

We lived in a lovely apartment in a lovely area of town and quickly learned our way around. My step-son and his wife were already established in Orlando, and baby number one was on the way. The excitement was palpable. My son was starting a new school and football team and ready to start a new life.

“What about the adults?” you ask. Well, that’s where this story really begins. Please humor me and allow me to remind you that this is solely my story, my perspective, and as it goes, I’m still going to leave out so much. The frustrations, the anger, the disappointments. The slow death.

The way this worked – the only way this was going to work – was for me to maintain my business in Tallahassee. To do so meant I would commute each week. I would leave Orlando for Tallahassee on Sunday afternoon, work Monday and Tuesday for about twelve or thirteen hours, work Wednesday until about 3- or 4 o’clock, then drive back to Orlando for a long weekend. Before it was over with I was leaving earlier on Sunday so I could work Sunday evening, and often worked late Wednesday and drove back before daybreak Thursday morning. For quite some time, mine was the only household income, save my husband’s small pension from an early retirement. The need to increase my work hours became evident, thus the earlier Sunday departure and later-in-the-week return. Sometimes you just barrel through. I had many a naysayer who said I wouldn’t make it a year. I did this for about 28 months. I may be a bit stubborn.

My son was loving his new school. His football team was fantastic and so fun to watch. My parents and sister would come to Orlando most weekends to see him play. I call them My Band Of Gypsies, and often hashtag them with “havecarwilltravel.” I suppose we all like a little adventure. My sister also came down a few other times to play tourist with me and celebrate whatever needed celebrating. Those times were all so fun and make my heart happy.

Those times were also wretchedly stressful.

I’m in relatively “good shape” and healthy. I can push through with the best of them, and I did. Thursday became what I called “recovery day,” and I often ended up with a migraine from exhaustion . But by Friday I was fine, in the gym, running a few miles, enjoying my new city. Finding new restaurants, things to do, school activities, new church; Orlando is a great place to live. I miss it now.

The job didn’t come for my husband and we were beginning to sink. I make a nice living, but cannot float the entire ship on my own. The stress was mounting even in the midst of the adventure and fun. I was beginning to not do well, but doing my best to cover it all. More miles were being run, more migraines on Thursdays, more tears that no one saw. It behooved me to not stress anyone else in the house – easier for me to just tote it with me. Some people just don’t handle stress at all. It was wretchedly stressful.

I have come to learn that it is not good for a woman, a wife, to be the provider/do-er/play-maker/harder worker/commuter/whatever else I was. Remember that “slow death” I mentioned? It had begun. I ignored it as best I could, but it reared its ugly head on occasion. I’d suck it up, shove it back down, start over again. There were times when I could feel the mental image of the inside of my chest, shredded as if with razors, bleeding, oozing, barely alive. That image is seared into my psyche; I can still see it, feel it, smell it. Only now it is a memory and not a current event, and I am forever grateful.

One of the most gut-wrenching, heart hurting sentiments I heard over and over and over again during the twenty-eight months I commuted was this: “No wife of mine would ever be up and down the highway like you are,” or, “I would never let my wife do what you’re doing,” or, “my husband said he’d never let me be away from home like that,” or, the one that hurts the worst, “what kind of husband lets his wife do what you’re doing?” Everyone wanted to say this to me, but no one would say it to him. It was exhausting constantly defending our way of life, especially while I was feeling so un-defended, un-protected, exposed.

We struggled along, living a dichotomy of stress and happiness, frustrations and smiles, old ways and new experiences. It was a lot. It was taxing. But I loved Orlando and loved watching my son thrive. Holding on to the raveling threads of good, watching the raveling threads of bad go up in flames. Hoping those flames would not be all-consuming. The entire situation was the embodiment of bitter-sweet.

I think this is enough therapy for me today. And I’m really glad this is free therapy, because I spent a small load of money on therapy over the years this all was happening. And that stresses me, too.