Reflections on Last Christmas

I’m a big “journaler”. I’ve been this way all my life. Ever since I could put together a sentence I’ve been writing about my feelings. So it’s no surprise that I journaled all the way though my separation and divorce. It’s how I process things. It’s how I cope. It’s a huge part of who I am.

I wanted to share with you a journal entry that I made exactly a year ago. Yeah, I’m literally letting y’all take a peak at my diary. I’m doing this because I want to let you in on my story. I fully believe connection is made through vulnerability. And quite frankly I’m so deep-down proud of myself reading over it this year that I just wanted to share.

I’ve come a long way since this day last year. But past Lacy was a fighter, man. I’ve come a long way because she trudged through the shit life was handing her without taking ANY shortcuts. I wish I could go back and give her a hug. I am so sad for her and I am so proud of her.

For some context: A couple of of my dear friends throw a big fancy Christmas party every year. I went. And so did he. Only 3 people knew what was going on with us – I was too embarrassed to come out with it at this point. It was excruciating. And this is what I wrote:

December 17, 2019

“I don’t know if I can do this” I think to myself as I sit at the edge of my bed in my towel staring into my closet. I’m dreading this. I want to lay back, go to sleep and avoid this entire experience. I want to curl up in a ball and disappear.

But I can’t. I can’t keep hiding away. I need to be brave tonight. I can be brave tonight. I nervously fidget with the edge of my towel while I try to decide what to wear.

I suppose I’ll be experiencing a lot of firsts now. This will be my first event in almost 10 years to arrive at alone. Feeling alone. And to add extra salt in my fresh and festering wound – he’s going to be there. He’ll be there not as my husband but merely as a fellow party goer.

I look down and I realize I’ve nervously picked a hole through my towel. I close my eyes and massage my temples. I lift my chin. I know it’s time. I think I can do this.

In a zombie state, I steam out the wrinkles in my satin dress. I slip it on. One foot at a time, I slide my feet into my heels. I brush my hair and I tie it back. I slowly draw my eyeliner with shaking hands. I wipe on a vivid shade of red lipstick and I take a deep breath. I run my hands down the front of my silky dress – steeling myself for what’s to come. My nerves start to falter. My chin starts to quiver. But I clench my jaw and I tell myself no. Tonight I will be strong. Tonight I will be brave.

I fortify myself with grit and conviction and take another deep breath. I look up at the ceiling and let one lonely tear fall. I make an agreement with myself that it will be my only tear tonight. I gently pat my cheek dry, take one more look at myself in the mirror and this time the woman I see looking back is a fighter. I’m staring at her. I can see that she’s tough. She knows she can do this. She believes in her strength. She believes in herself.

So with that, I grab my keys and I walk out the door saying, “Yes I can.”

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