“I’m making Verdene’s cabbage, Husband,” I hear myself say out loud as I stir a steaming pot of goodness. A second later the tears come, and not from the copious amount of onion chopping. He’s gone and no one else in the world (except for Verdene) knows what Verdene’s cabbage is. It’s been five years since he died and only about six months since I could make his favorite dishes. I’ve never been much of a chef-for-one so not cooking isn’t all that noticeable. But even so, there are some foods that I’ve actively avoided since he died as their emotional power is just too much. I was tickled the first time I made something that his mother used to make and actually enjoyed the process and results. It felt like gaining part of my life and joy back. Recently life has become very very hard. It’s come as a surprise and in the form of harassment from a neighbor. I am frightened and anxious in my own home and it hurts beyond reason that I know for a fact that this would not be happening if he was still here. This neighbor wouldn’t have dared to launch an attack against me if my solid, sturdy and old-school husband was still here.

I stir the cabbage and cry and hear myself plead; “Come back. Please come back.” My heart breaks for me. I cried that same cry five years ago. It’s a faint but real memory. Faint, because for the last five years I have worked fiercely to move forward. I’ve dipped my shark head down into the foreign waters and moved forward like my life depended on it. Because it did. As I lunged forward those waters sloughed off protective layers. I became more porous, more open. There is a lightness and darkness to this change. I became open to new experiences and people. I tried so many new things; projects, jobs, volunteer opportunities. I let people into my life and my home. I confided and let go of long -held secrets. I stopped touching up my lipstick, hell, I stopped wearing lipstick. I became a little less mired in perfection. But with the openness came porousness. I lost my protective layer. Things hurt and feel personal in a new exponentially deep way. I’ve lost the capacity to brush off callousness and insensitivity. I never much subscribed to missives of; “that’s just the way they are” or “they’re doing the best they can.” First off, to say “that’s just the way they are” is all the information you’ll ever need to justify staying the hell away from that person. Secondly, “they’re doing the best they can” cannot be verified. I suppose a person can say; “I’m trying” but how do you know you’re doing the best you can? And how would anyone else be able to gauge that?

I am not a competitive person, except in one arena: I will go head-to-head, toe-to-toe with anyone wanting to play the misery game. Why? Because I know my odds are good. I’m no Augustus Boroughs (damn you Augustus!) having not lived in a home where dog food was considered a family dinner. But I feel pretty confident that I can hold my own in the poverty/chaos childhood home category and I know I can kick ass in the neglect category. I would go so far as to say that my life has never been easy but that wouldn’t be entirely true. My life was mostly glorious for the 17 years I was married. But those other 35 years and counting? Not easy. There are far worse stories. And I’ve stuck by that party line for my entire life. “People have it much worse.” Hell, even in the moments after the detectives told me my husband had been killed, I thought: “thank G-d I don’t have children.” In other words; in the worst minutes of my life I was thinking of how it could be worse.

The stories I told myself and the world about my childhood…the tremendous perks of growing up around creative and off-beat people are true. But I left out the other 90%. I was never parented and left to my own defenses at a very early age. My feelings, desires and opinions never mattered and I thought that was normal. I was dirty and unkempt and commuting on public transit at aged 10. It wasn’t until I was well into my 20s that I learned that some parents actually help their kids. I watched friends’ parents help them move into their apartments and even help to decorate and (gulp!) finance such endeavors. One day, I was in a dressing room in a lovely shop. I could hear a woman about my age in the only other dressing room. She was with her mother who was helping her select her first interview suit. I broke down in tears (there’s no crying while shopping!). I’m not sure my mother even knew when I was interviewing let alone offered any help (Reader, I had to buy her a dress to wear to my wedding, that’s how disinterested she is). There have been dozens of these sad little realizations throughout my life. Maybe more. But I brushed it all aside. After all, all that hands-off parenting made me the fiercely independent and strong woman I am today! And that was probably true for many years. But you see, my protective layer is gone now. I am no longer feeling strong and I’ve run out of resiliency. Maybe that happens with age, you lose your elasticity. Perhaps my husband’s death and my age are too potent a formula.

The other day I struck up a conversation with a woman about my age. She told me about her neighbors who pitched in and helped her with her dog on a regular basis. When she added that her brother lives in her building and helps all the time I think I audibly yelped. I cannot imagine that life. I cannot imagine that level of caring and generosity. I’ve never known it and up until now, I’m not sure I needed it. But the most important person in the world to me is gone and with him the only time in my life I was ever truly happy. I consider myself fortunate (see? there I go again!) to have about 7 very good friends. I’ve dubbed them; The Magnificent Seven. But none of them are able to “help me” in any real and regular way. I also am deeply grateful to have an uncle who regularly and consistently demonstrates care and love. But in the end, it’s not enough. I want what everyone wants; I want to feel not so alone in the world. I did once, for 17 mostly glorious years.

Come Back

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