Christmas Memories
Before I even dive into this weekend, the emotions start rolling Thursday night. The 6th of December. No... wait, they began on the 5th.
Fifteen years ago I dressed in a red turtleneck under a smart dark jean jacket and matching pants, and nervously walked into the courtroom in Corunna with my mother. Tucked under my arm was my copy of the police reports, medical diagnostics, and little notes to remind myself of any answers I might need to give in case I froze during during my hearing. I watched as four couples went before me, petitioning for divorce. Each time the judge ordered them to go to court mandated couples therapy before he would grant any legal separation. I began to feel numb. J wasn’t here, for all his promises to show up and make this hard, he and his faction were blissfully ex parte.
He called my name and I went to stand at the podium beneath soaring murals of blindfolded Justice and stern looking judges from this room’s century long history. I felt tiny, dwarfed, and scared. I’d never been to a principal’s office in my life and this felt like I imagined that would have. Would he make me go back?
I set my little folder on the scarred wood, waiting. He studied me for a moment while the docket was read aloud and then finally spoke. He asked me why I wanted a divorce. I froze and had to clear my throat, and in a small voice I almost didn’t recognize as my own I said “Irreconcilable differences”. I was trying to be civil, to not name this horrible thing publicly where, five benches back, a co-worker of mine was also there to petition her own divorce. How fast could things spread?
“That’s not a reason for divorce. That’s just a labeling.” But he was opening the file and I saw his eyes scan the reports. One after the other, his face unreadable. And then, much more softly, he just said “Oh.” When he looked at me again, there was sympathy in the stern face. I didn’t know it then but he was one of the judges known for locking up and being harsh with perpatrators of domestic violence. He suddenly understood me very well.
He asked if we had any joint accounts, anything needing splitting or mediation. There was nothing, that had already been handled. He asked me if I wanted my name back. That’s when it hit me, he was going to grant it. He was going to give me my freedom. It took all of my strength to say “Yes please, sir.” Then he banged the gavel and declared me divorced, and all the feeling left in me drained out into the floor. I thanked him, took my mom’s hand and walked out fo that courthouse into a cold December day. I went straight to the DMV and got my new license. I didn’t look very happy.
It’s been a decade and a half since that morning. I have gone through so many changes, so many rebirths, so many moments of reclamation. But I still remember that cold courtroom, the loss of feeling in my fingers, and how very scared I was. It took weeks after for me to begin to let myself feel ok. To feel like that whole ordeal was finally over.
Now here I am, beloved of two men who are not like that. From whom I will not have to stand in a court with a third party looming over me to declare my freedom. I am safe and loved, and those dark days are over. Even the ripples they have caused are struggling now to reach me way out here. Just memories now, without the strong feelings attached.
***
It’s Thursday, the sixth. I’m running about, getting things checked off my life list in Myrtle Beach, Life has caught up to my NRE dream and now demands that I get back on track. The truck needs maintenance, the yard needs work and there are several projects I need to finish. I’m pulling into the lot to pick my truck up from her oil change when my phone rings. It’s Z. I want him to feel like I’ll always pick up, so I take a moment and answer.
He just wants to let me know he’s home from school and safe. We talk for a few minutes, I ask him how his day went and if his room is messy. And then I have to get back to work, but before he hangs up, he says “I love you”. Just like that. I say it back to him and then turn to look at Matt who’s grinning at me. He knows what that meant to me. He lets me have the moment pure and to myself.
15 years ago I stepped out into an overcast December day with no future, no hope and only the feeling that I had done this huge thing to save myself. But for what? To what could I look forward? My horizon was as foggy as the skies overhead. No, here, all these years later I found my answer. This. When I made that huge leap I never could have known I’d find this down the road, that any of this was possible. Only that the mere whisper of a promise of something like it was better than the confirmed torture I had been living in which I had been living. The gratitude in my heart is unspeakable.
***
And then, as it does, time marched on and I was here in my second home. Hanahome. Christmas has overtaken most of the Halloween decorations and presents are starting to pile up. I begin imagining the first of many holidays together. The gifts, the warmth, the laughs that come so easily. The polycule intends to take pajama photos, and I imagine them hung up on walls and of us recalling them for years to come.
This is a big moment in the relationship with T. Meeting his extended family. His aunt, his cousins, all these people who have watched him grow up, and his life with S. We take my truck to Folly Island, to his Aunt S. I’ve met some his family before by virtue of how much time I’ve spent down here. They’ve all been kind to me, befriending me, and being warm, but this is the first real test. We’re no longer in the neutral ground of “What happens under the B’s roof is the B’s business”, we’re taking it out to them, beneath their roof and into their safe spaces.
It’s intimidating, but I’m ready. I’ve been explaining my contrary position since I was 16 years old and first decided to call myself a Witch. I’ve been disarming and civil and learned how to diffuse tension by virtue of long years straying off the beaten path. Barring physical altercations, I can handle almost anything.
They are charming and welcoming, careful to try and talk with me when they can without crowding. His cousin R knows I struggle with anxiety, and she offers to chat a bit and then just to walk with me and enjoy the views with her daughters. The appreciation I feel soars. They are trying to do for me as I do for others. Give them encouragement and let them know I’m around, but we’ll go at their pace.
I watch his Aunt S in a Mrs Clause dress she’s proudly worn through so many Christmases before pose with the two new infant additions to the family. I can see the mothers of these babies taking photos while my hand rests on the table supporting the frames of all the past children posed with her the same way. The adults in this room are little more that green and red blobs in some of these glossy snowman frames. I watch this new memory form, the poses, the slightly different angles of the faces from what the final photo will show. How some day I might run my fingers over yet another silver frame with a reindeer on it and smile for having been there in that instant.
At one point as I’m walking over the bridge from the condo to the island, I’m struck by a moment of pure empowerment. I’m between ‘packs’ of this group, trudging in the cold and I have a beautiful thought prompted by this week. I am here, walking along this very bridge on this very day because I made my own choices. No one gave me this, no one is hurt for my being here, and I’m under no obligation. This was a journey I began all those years ago, and here I am now, in control. Life isn’t what’s happening to me, it’s what I’m making of it. After so long feeling so powerless, it was a revelation.
When we watch the parade, I cannot help but feel so much love for T and S and this family they let me be a part of. Little R comes to me and holds his arms up, willing me to lift him up and hold him. I do, because it pleases me. We share a moment, and he places his hands on the sides of my face. Almost six months now and we’re really starting to feel comfort and familiarity. Affection comes easier each time. I have let them come to me at their own paces, and they’ve ultimately been drawn as I have been. We all find something in each other that resonates inside our own selves.
The night progresses and we play White Elephant. Champagne becomes margaritas. Strong margaritas. I ultimately win a FedEx NASCAR hat. T tries to apologize but it’s going to live in my truck and I’ll use it some random bad hair day and smile for the memory of this day. You just never know when you need a good little memory tucked away into the cubby hole of a truck.
By the end I’m happy, mildly drunk, and Z is curled up against me in the front seat where we fall asleep on the drive home. His Aunt S has called the truck his and I don’t bother to correct it. I don’t need to. It’s as much his as I am, and the truck holds us all. That was the better gift. The best gift. Time with them.
***
I woke this morning to his cousin P reaching out. She’s kind, and wants to get to know me more. I’m unreasonably happy.
Merry Christmas indeed.
Fifteen years ago I dressed in a red turtleneck under a smart dark jean jacket and matching pants, and nervously walked into the courtroom in Corunna with my mother. Tucked under my arm was my copy of the police reports, medical diagnostics, and little notes to remind myself of any answers I might need to give in case I froze during during my hearing. I watched as four couples went before me, petitioning for divorce. Each time the judge ordered them to go to court mandated couples therapy before he would grant any legal separation. I began to feel numb. J wasn’t here, for all his promises to show up and make this hard, he and his faction were blissfully ex parte.
He called my name and I went to stand at the podium beneath soaring murals of blindfolded Justice and stern looking judges from this room’s century long history. I felt tiny, dwarfed, and scared. I’d never been to a principal’s office in my life and this felt like I imagined that would have. Would he make me go back?
I set my little folder on the scarred wood, waiting. He studied me for a moment while the docket was read aloud and then finally spoke. He asked me why I wanted a divorce. I froze and had to clear my throat, and in a small voice I almost didn’t recognize as my own I said “Irreconcilable differences”. I was trying to be civil, to not name this horrible thing publicly where, five benches back, a co-worker of mine was also there to petition her own divorce. How fast could things spread?
“That’s not a reason for divorce. That’s just a labeling.” But he was opening the file and I saw his eyes scan the reports. One after the other, his face unreadable. And then, much more softly, he just said “Oh.” When he looked at me again, there was sympathy in the stern face. I didn’t know it then but he was one of the judges known for locking up and being harsh with perpatrators of domestic violence. He suddenly understood me very well.
He asked if we had any joint accounts, anything needing splitting or mediation. There was nothing, that had already been handled. He asked me if I wanted my name back. That’s when it hit me, he was going to grant it. He was going to give me my freedom. It took all of my strength to say “Yes please, sir.” Then he banged the gavel and declared me divorced, and all the feeling left in me drained out into the floor. I thanked him, took my mom’s hand and walked out fo that courthouse into a cold December day. I went straight to the DMV and got my new license. I didn’t look very happy.
It’s been a decade and a half since that morning. I have gone through so many changes, so many rebirths, so many moments of reclamation. But I still remember that cold courtroom, the loss of feeling in my fingers, and how very scared I was. It took weeks after for me to begin to let myself feel ok. To feel like that whole ordeal was finally over.
Now here I am, beloved of two men who are not like that. From whom I will not have to stand in a court with a third party looming over me to declare my freedom. I am safe and loved, and those dark days are over. Even the ripples they have caused are struggling now to reach me way out here. Just memories now, without the strong feelings attached.
***
It’s Thursday, the sixth. I’m running about, getting things checked off my life list in Myrtle Beach, Life has caught up to my NRE dream and now demands that I get back on track. The truck needs maintenance, the yard needs work and there are several projects I need to finish. I’m pulling into the lot to pick my truck up from her oil change when my phone rings. It’s Z. I want him to feel like I’ll always pick up, so I take a moment and answer.
He just wants to let me know he’s home from school and safe. We talk for a few minutes, I ask him how his day went and if his room is messy. And then I have to get back to work, but before he hangs up, he says “I love you”. Just like that. I say it back to him and then turn to look at Matt who’s grinning at me. He knows what that meant to me. He lets me have the moment pure and to myself.
15 years ago I stepped out into an overcast December day with no future, no hope and only the feeling that I had done this huge thing to save myself. But for what? To what could I look forward? My horizon was as foggy as the skies overhead. No, here, all these years later I found my answer. This. When I made that huge leap I never could have known I’d find this down the road, that any of this was possible. Only that the mere whisper of a promise of something like it was better than the confirmed torture I had been living in which I had been living. The gratitude in my heart is unspeakable.
***
And then, as it does, time marched on and I was here in my second home. Hanahome. Christmas has overtaken most of the Halloween decorations and presents are starting to pile up. I begin imagining the first of many holidays together. The gifts, the warmth, the laughs that come so easily. The polycule intends to take pajama photos, and I imagine them hung up on walls and of us recalling them for years to come.
This is a big moment in the relationship with T. Meeting his extended family. His aunt, his cousins, all these people who have watched him grow up, and his life with S. We take my truck to Folly Island, to his Aunt S. I’ve met some his family before by virtue of how much time I’ve spent down here. They’ve all been kind to me, befriending me, and being warm, but this is the first real test. We’re no longer in the neutral ground of “What happens under the B’s roof is the B’s business”, we’re taking it out to them, beneath their roof and into their safe spaces.
It’s intimidating, but I’m ready. I’ve been explaining my contrary position since I was 16 years old and first decided to call myself a Witch. I’ve been disarming and civil and learned how to diffuse tension by virtue of long years straying off the beaten path. Barring physical altercations, I can handle almost anything.
They are charming and welcoming, careful to try and talk with me when they can without crowding. His cousin R knows I struggle with anxiety, and she offers to chat a bit and then just to walk with me and enjoy the views with her daughters. The appreciation I feel soars. They are trying to do for me as I do for others. Give them encouragement and let them know I’m around, but we’ll go at their pace.
I watch his Aunt S in a Mrs Clause dress she’s proudly worn through so many Christmases before pose with the two new infant additions to the family. I can see the mothers of these babies taking photos while my hand rests on the table supporting the frames of all the past children posed with her the same way. The adults in this room are little more that green and red blobs in some of these glossy snowman frames. I watch this new memory form, the poses, the slightly different angles of the faces from what the final photo will show. How some day I might run my fingers over yet another silver frame with a reindeer on it and smile for having been there in that instant.
At one point as I’m walking over the bridge from the condo to the island, I’m struck by a moment of pure empowerment. I’m between ‘packs’ of this group, trudging in the cold and I have a beautiful thought prompted by this week. I am here, walking along this very bridge on this very day because I made my own choices. No one gave me this, no one is hurt for my being here, and I’m under no obligation. This was a journey I began all those years ago, and here I am now, in control. Life isn’t what’s happening to me, it’s what I’m making of it. After so long feeling so powerless, it was a revelation.
When we watch the parade, I cannot help but feel so much love for T and S and this family they let me be a part of. Little R comes to me and holds his arms up, willing me to lift him up and hold him. I do, because it pleases me. We share a moment, and he places his hands on the sides of my face. Almost six months now and we’re really starting to feel comfort and familiarity. Affection comes easier each time. I have let them come to me at their own paces, and they’ve ultimately been drawn as I have been. We all find something in each other that resonates inside our own selves.
The night progresses and we play White Elephant. Champagne becomes margaritas. Strong margaritas. I ultimately win a FedEx NASCAR hat. T tries to apologize but it’s going to live in my truck and I’ll use it some random bad hair day and smile for the memory of this day. You just never know when you need a good little memory tucked away into the cubby hole of a truck.
By the end I’m happy, mildly drunk, and Z is curled up against me in the front seat where we fall asleep on the drive home. His Aunt S has called the truck his and I don’t bother to correct it. I don’t need to. It’s as much his as I am, and the truck holds us all. That was the better gift. The best gift. Time with them.
***
I woke this morning to his cousin P reaching out. She’s kind, and wants to get to know me more. I’m unreasonably happy.
Merry Christmas indeed.
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