The Beginning, AKA: The End
The most accurate recollection, with HSP perception, of what is otherwise a total tragedy-induced blur. Ch.1.
The sound of silence was truly deafening.
“How is it that it can be so quiet in here, yet it is SO loud?”
My mind raced, in that instant, with derby-like intensity, cycling through a myriad of processes, none of which showed even a hint of slowing down long enough for me to put my finger on it to identify it, let alone grab ahold of, and cling to.
“Had the refrigerator ALWAYS sounded like such an angry lawn mower? How was it possible, that the emptiness seemed to echo off of the walls, creating this hauntingly vacant sensation in my soul?” Somehow, though, the loudest sound managed to be the ringing in my ears. That fine, barely noticeable ring, that steadily whistled in my mind, much like the hum I was picking up from that poor ‘refrigerator that could’ that I’d found myself observing, as the rest of my senses struggled to come back to life, following the monumental collapse that began merely a half hour before.
That thin line of sound, which occupied the entirety of my sensory processes in that moment, managed to unknowingly draw attention to how quiet everything else was around me. It tore through the veil of audio darkness, ripping open the floodgates, for other types of input to force their way through, as well. The light was on in the kitchen, and the only thing that catches my notice is how there’s a lot of dust under the cabinet, in that corner against the baseboard, for how much I sweep in here. I am then reminded how I don’t guess I’ve swept up much in here the past few days.
It’s kinda been a nightmare in here the last week or so.
Everything is in upheaval, as I’ve been focusing on getting the kids ready to go, when their dad gets here from the other side of America. That, mixed with trying to pack up everything we own, all five of us, so I can move it out.
Because I have to move out. I can’t afford to stay here anymore. I haven’t been able to for a few months, but I was so focused on trying to figure out a way to balance saving my kids and saving my home, I managed to only succeed in having to say goodbye to both.
I don’t even know where I’m moving it to, at this point, not for sure. I have a good idea, but that’s just a last resort. I really want to be able to make this work on my own. I’ll show them I’m not a screw up.
But, I’m on the floor. In what could easily have been a cats pose if I was yoga-ing, but I’d been bawling. So it was more of a fallen, face flat on the floor, completely leaking the last of my humanity, in the form of tears, on the faux hardwood laminate that was barely still holding together, after I gorilla glued the separated slats together following the water incident, a couple summers back.
I pulled myself upright, still sitting on my feet, tucked beneath me, and slowly took a look around. Everywhere my eye touched, I saw the evidence of who was missing. The three that just rode off in their dad’s car, they are missing. Their things are everywhere I look. I was specifically instructed to not send their things along, that he and she had everything they needed.
They filled every molecule of space in this room, in this home. After living a very loud and colorful life for four years within these walls, just the five of us, there quite possibly wasn’t a speck of paint anywhere in this house that those amazing humans had not brought to life with their energy, at least once.
Now, they were gone. Even though the agreement specifically stated that this arrangement is only temporary, I could feel it in my soul, even then, that there was always going to be something that he uses to keep them away from me. I knew, from the start, I was never going to get them back.
He’d claim that he had nothing to do with it, and his explanation will sound very convincing to most who hear it, seeing him as a very amicable ex, being as helpful and supportive to his ex as one could ever wish for, but through the ears of the woman who spent over a decade on the receiving end of his gaslighting and manipulation, I became very fluent in his ‘behind closed doors’ and his ‘what I mean, not what I say’ language, and I knew exactly what he was saying between the lines.
I didn’t tell anyone that I felt this way. I would only be accused of being in my feels, overly sensitive, reminded there’s paperwork, and reminding me that “He himself assured you that in 18-24 months, they would be back, He’s not trying to keep them away from you”. Yeah right. “If I hear one more person telling me they think I’m mentally unstable...” I’d think to myself...it was downright ridiculous how much that kept happening. But that’s a story for another chapter.
All I could do was look around that hauntingly silent house, and think to myself ‘Now what?!?’
To which, I imploded.