*note: there are references in here to the works of Brene Brown. Brene’s work greatly resonates with me, and I consider myself a student of her teachings.
Being odd man out is a frequent occurrence when you are a
single mom. Especially when you are a
single mom living in nuclear-family suburbia. And some days, it just sucks. Yesterday was one of those days.
I wish I could be all cool or zen or whatever and say that being a singleton surrounded by couples
doesn’t bother me, but it does. I try
really hard to hide it, and I rarely let it stop me from going somewhere or
doing something, especially when it is important for my daughter that I be
present. But I also do it because I want to have a tribe, to belong, and I know that it is important that I put myself out there, even when it is hard and uncomfortable.
So it is with this intention that I made plans to go to the
local amusement park with the family of one of my daughter’s friends. The parents are really nice people and we had
gone to the same park earlier in the season and had a great time, so I didn’t
have much trepidation about going again.
It helps that they will ride the crazy rides that I cannot (will not –
but that’s another post), so it feels like a good situation for all.
And for the most part, it was. One of my favorite rides in the park is the
Jack Rabbit – an old-style wooden coaster with a wicked double-dip hill that
leaves everyone flying out of their seats.
We talked and laughed in line, and I knew ahead of time how it would go
down – the parents would ride together, the girls would also share a seat, and
I would ride on my own, which was OK.
Until it wasn’t. As
we were released to the platform to board, I had to go to the far end to leave
our refillable park cups.
This trip, the other family had forgotten theirs, and therefore, just
selected their seats. By the time I was
done stowing our cups, the cars were mostly filled and I was left to sit alone
in the back.
And it just felt crappy.
Maybe it didn’t help that I accidentally separated a man from his wife
and small son, the latter of whom was experience his first ride on a “grown-up”
coaster. I suddenly felt small and
pathetic and left out. Maybe it was
inflated when I could overhear my friend ask my daughter, “Where’s your mom?”
and I could see them all turning around searching for me, as I tried to pretend
I was unfazed by sitting alone surrounded by strangers.
But the truth is, I was dying inside. I felt ashamed and humiliated. In the very darkest depths of my soul, I
still hear the voices of my past, telling me the ways in which I am not
likeable or loveable, because of the “way” I am. Voices that come from those I should be able
to depend on the most, that should hold me up when I am at my weakest. Voices that “mean well”, but believe that tough-love
is more effective than empathy and compassion.
Voices that believe it is their job to fix, rather than understand. Voices that confuse teaching with
criticism. Voices that have become
indistinguishable from my own.
Voices that fuel my shitty first draft – a common SFD that I
fight to overcome regularly.
I was humiliated feeling like my friends had completely
forgotten I was there. That I was part
of the group. I felt that I didn’t
belong.
This particular ride takes a photo of riders and the
notorious double-dip. I know the camera
is there, and I did what I always do, pretend it doesn’t bother me. So I look like I am having a great time. No one would guess that I am crying inside.
 |
That's me in the pink. Adding insult to injury, my flying hair completely
blocked the boy behind me, whose mother was obviously disappointed
to miss a photo of her son's first ride on the Jack Rabbit |
When the ride ends, I gather our cups and make my way down
the exit ramp. The others are waiting
for me. My way too intuitive daughter grabs
my hand. I try to head off what I know
is coming, and suggest they head to the next coaster (which I can also ride
solo, and know I cannot bear it again), while I get our photos added to my
account.
It doesn’t work. My
beautiful girl with her big heart wraps her arms around me and tells me how sad
she is that I am a “5th wheel”.
I hold it together as I hug her, kiss her head, and say, “it’s just the
way it is sometimes when you are a single mom.”
We all go to the photo booth to claim our photos and I send
the four of them off to the next ride and take some time to collect myself and
hustle for my worthiness.
A long ride line and the fall parade provide me with enough
time to pack away all of those tough feelings, and by the time they returned, I
was able to move through the rest of the evening, which was blessedly near the
end.
This is my reckoning, and I know it will take some time for
me to rumble with it - to fully explore my feelings from last night, and even
more to conquer those voices, and I will keep moving forward in my quest
towards whole-hearted living.
