Out of the Ashes

My lack of eye contact had improved over the months of seeing her, but I was still uncomfortable as I sat in the lone gray chair.  I had unintentionally avoided talking about him today, but when she asked about the latest update with my husband, I realized why my subconscious had sheltered me from thinking about him.  Without thought, I immediately started to rock in the chair, toes tapping and fingers fidgeting with my mothers ring that served as the temporary replacement to where my wedding band once rested.  I couldn’t sit still.  It took only hearing his name for the thoughts to flood in, causing me to lose my shit.  The anxiety consumed me like the smoke just outside the windows being blown threw the city from the fires in the Gorge.  I stared out the window and asked her if she believed in symbolism.  Part of my childhood was being burnt to the ground, consumed in flames and leaving only ash that settled comfortably on everything around me.  The air was thick with smoke and the sun blazed a glowing red behind the smog.  My mind wandered as I thought of my current situation and the aftermath of my relationship being just like the mayhem happening outside.  Something beautiful was being destroyed because of carelessness and no thought to the outcome of the destructive decisions we make.  Leaving only the ashes of what was once my beautiful life.  And out of the ashes, was it possible for me to even find myself again? 

I turned and looked at my therapist, sitting across from me, her eyes questioning what was going through my mind.  She gave me the space of silence before asking again how I felt about the divorce.  

"I don’t know", I told her.  

Because I didn’t know how to describe the anxiety and anger that burned inside of me.  

I raised my hands on either side of my head, palms almost touching my ears and began to wave them quickly back and forth, like the ripples from a stone skipped across calm water.  

“Like this”, I told her.  “When I think about it, I feel like this.”  

She remained silent, softly nodding her head in understanding.  I dropped my hands back into my lap and continued to fidget.  

“And ashamed,” I added quieter.  

Because now that I’ve had time to reflect on how scared I had become and how small I had let him make me, I was ashamed for allowing it to happen.  I had allowed him to change me, and now that all was said and done, the strong and confident woman that I once believed myself to be, was lost in the flames, leaving only the ashes of what was, and the presumption that once my life was filled with a lot more happiness. 

I left my appointment feeling on edge and drove home looking only straight ahead, finding myself overwhelmed with the dizzying sensation of rage.  On the outside I appeared calm, but inside I was screaming with an anger that boiled deep in my gut.  I felt like the character Issa at the end of the latest episode of Insecure.  Kelela’s voice sang the lyrics to Frontline in the background as she stood motionless looking around her lonely apartment taking in the aftermath of the recent events in her life.  As the beat of the music picked up and the words to the chorus began, something inside of Issa snapped.  She flipped the kitchen table and slid her hands across the nearby shelf, breaking everything it held.  She screamed with an emotion I knew all to well, as she destroyed everything around her before my tv went black and the credits rolled across the screen.