I have not been a wife for eleven years, but that did not stop me from acting like a Real Housewife (of Anywhere) this Saturday. I “snapped” and I damn near could have flipped the table like good ole Teresa. I feel pretty confident that you don’t have to watch the show; you can catch one of the teasers for the next episode or maybe a reel on social media to know what I’m capturing perfectly with this reference. What often sounds like me being proud or taking something lightly is quite the opposite. It is me taking full ownership of something I am ashamed of, but my sense of humor is about the only thing I credit to surviving any of the things in life that are difficult and painful. Let me be clear, there was nothing funny about this night. Chevelle screams it to me as “seeing red again,” and to be honest, it was something similar to this idiom, but it was a first, and it was gold because gold was the color I chose for my birthday this year. I saw gold, my past, and not much else. 

I cut my losses with people who treat me poorly. At least those are the words I use to describe what I believe I do. I own my shit, my part, my behavior, my lack of effort, where I tried too hard, where I fell/fall short, I do the same concerning them, collect all the good that came from it, and then I am done. I feel like by the time I walk away, I intend to wish them the best without forgetting where we differ, and to highlight for myself who I am working on becoming. I have spent my whole life trying to do this with a select handful of people without success. As a believer in God, something after this, a purpose, and karma, these people fall into a category for me that I like to think of as something I struggle with. This category is heavy, in moments of feeling brutally shredded emotionally do I abandon my faith and say there is no fucking way I am meant to endure this for some higher purpose? Well, I have never. I listen, I pray, I write, I read, and I openly discuss. I process with and without conscious effort. Losing sleep while creating holes in my mattress where the toxic emotions absorb after having escaped my body in a uniform escape plan where it all lines up at each of my pores from head to toe, waits for me to toss and turn, and rushes through onto my sheets with each toss of my body. I swear, if I were fully awake, I would likely hear the bubbling of the negativity and be able to assign a scientific level of danger to it. Instead, “fully” awake comes too late in the day after my sheets have dried, and I can only gauge how bad I am doing inside by how curly my hair is when I look in the mirror. My sleep holds all the pain my body wants to rid itself of. 

There are times when I am cognizant of being eaten alive inside, cognizant of the parts that were eaten away many years ago, and that is what Saturday looked like for me. I sat at the end of a long, high table and stared down it, fixated on an emotion irrelevant to the present. Considering the dimensions of this table, the environment we were in, my brain puts together in retrospect that there must have been more than a handful of wine glasses. I saw none at the moment. I see none looking back at the vision that I had. I only know they must have been there. Sitting here now, I imagine those wine glasses to represent the handful of people aforementioned. The people I have not successfully dealt with. The ones who I sweat out. The ones who take my blow-dried hair and make it curly, leaving me to fix it and make it how I like it again. A constant pattern with tangible damage. I did not see them on the table, I saw what was at the end. I saw two people. I looked right over the wine glasses, right over my annoying gold clutch, right at their lips moving, and noticed every inch of their body language. I had people sitting next to me, I saw concern in their eyes, I saw the way they noticed what was changing in me, in my words, in my seriousness, and what was certainly going to be explosive. I was locked in. 

Talking to me tenderly can usually calm me down. Putting your hand on me and speaking to me in our uniquely individual personal way usually puts things in perspective. That was not this moment. Those wine glasses both metaphorically and physically were on the table and had been lining up the whole week and I wanted to fucking take my man hand, guttural cry, and run down this long table sending them flying across the room. And then line them up and do it again all night. Instead, my vision was a tunnel, and at the end of the tunnel I saw my ex, someone I never really knew, talking to my real other half in a way I trusted and never questioned in the most vulnerable of situations. I did not question it until she found herself being physically cornered in her new apartment while he told her she was the salt and I was the pepper, and he needed some salt. Meanwhile, I was at home with the four kiddos, sending text messages of encouragement to help ensure he made sure her apartment was ready, furniture was built, and she was settled and safe. It was not, she was not, and it was because of him, and I fucking missed it. I broke down with her when she confided in me, and we cried together and likely laughed at his failed attempt. I called home for support and guidance. I tried again to listen to him and stand by his side. I wrote the email he told me I needed to clear his name with my family. I was handed divorce papers shortly after, and the truth months later while standing in my bikini poolside with all four of the kiddos reuniting as he finally came clean about what I already knew. I thought I had accepted it and dealt with it already. I fought every word that opposed my knowing, I took blow after blow to my mental health and smiled the whole fucking time while holding it together to raise our sons alone. And then I stood in my colorful bikini (looking fine as hell) and did the same all over again so he could move on with his life without us, mainly without any meaningful responsibility for his own. I still harbor emotions about trust issues, and I am just not sure how much more my mattress or hair can handle. 

Jokes aside-ish, truth hits on different levels as it presents itself in different ways. What I already knew can read like an entirely different chapter eleven years later. You would think my hair would never go curly again with that kind of unquestionable validation, plus you know damn well I didn’t get it wet in the pool that day or maybe any day since. But it still goes curly, I still sweat that pain out, and now we can say I saw gold and missed the wine glasses that need to be handled. There is no better time than a birthday to reflect on where you are, where you want to go, and how you are going to get there. Most importantly to note who is by your side.  Who is surrounding you even when you cannot see or hear them? Whose voices start to faintly come in until the resounding sounds of pain settle inside? Who is watching for you, not at you, and judging? Whose hands are touching you, smiles are waiting for you to see them, and who is already saying this is how it works, this is the process, I am proud of you, I love you, do not be ashamed, God made sure it happened when everyone who loves you the most was with you, and we will have a really good laugh about this in a few weeks? And I know it is all true. I know my friendships and chosen family are true. I know we have cried about this together, and I know we will laugh about it too. I know I have a lot of work and healing to do. I know I am imperfect, and I know I can be brutal beyond measure. I also know I am kind. I know I love hard. I know I am lucky. I know I am loved. I know I have God always rooting for me. And I know if they ever tried to put together a cast for Real Housewives of San Antonio, I could be the shining star if there was footage from this night. Ahem, Gold star.