Through the Smiles
I tried out for the cheerleading squad in the seventh grade. Me, the girl who can’t walk and chew gum at the same time tried to jump and twirl and clap and chant, in sync with other girls, in sync with myself. Needless to say I didn’t make the team. It was no great disappointment, just a rite of passage-doesn’t everyone try out for cheerleading at least once?
So I never had to wear the little skirt or toss the pompoms or dare to crawl to the top of a pyramid, but, in the end, I still became a cheerleader. It seems to be in my DNA. I’m a social worker, I help people. Or at least, I try. I cheer them on along life, helping them realize their destiny, their best self, or a way out of chaos and sadness. I love my work with everything I’ve got.
I’m also that way in my personal life. In intimate relationships, in friendships, in everyday encounters, I try to be the one that is a helper rather than a helpee. I’m no saint, not even a truly good person-but I try. Each day. I try.
Sometimes I think that’s my biggest mistake in life.
Today, the first day back at school for little one and I felt like I spent my day singing “two bits four bits” or some variation of rah-rah-rah. Everyone was concerned for her, everyone wanted to know how she was, how she’ll be, how this all came to pass. So I smiled, I recounted the tale, and reassured everyone, truthfully, the she is doing well, that she’s quite the trooper, that it would all be alright.
At the end of the day I noticed my jaw was killing me. I realized I’d clinched my teeth for the better part of the day, trying not to cry. I pulled it all off- walking across the playground toward her cottage, helping her make lunch selections, e-mailing her sugar levels to ex. I got through the day on autopilot. I answered all the inquiries, smiled, said thank you. I was cheerful.
It’s a defense mechanism I know. Say it often enough and it will be true.
She will be alright.
This is just a curve ball.
We can handle this.
But this is big, bigger than anything I’ve ever dealt with.
Bigger than a divorce. Bigger than failed relationships. Bigger than my health, ex’s health, the health care debate.
I’ve yet to fall apart. I’ve yet to sit down and think. I’ve yet to get quiet.
Because if I get quiet I know what I’ll hear.
I’ll hear my ex, my baby’s father, ask the doctor about
life expectancy.
She’s eight years old.
We should be talking about playgrounds, and Barbie dolls, and third grade math.
Not
life expectancy.
This is the loneliest I have ever felt in my life.
I feel like a cheerleader without a team. Without a uniform or a damn pompom.
Just me, naked out here without a clue. Yet nothing could be further from the truth.
I’ve got friends and family. I’ve got people I don’t know in any way other than their @name and avatar. I’ve got a network. I’ve got an ex.
I am so far from alone in this.
I just have to re-learn this lesson:
It’s okay to cry.
It’s okay to ask for help, or guidance, or a listening ear.
It’s okay to ask to sit on the sidelines and watch someone else cheer for a while.
And in the end, it really will be okay.
There simply is no other option.
