Been up since 3:30 am and just finally sat down at home at 5:16 pm.  After I slather some Nice ‘n Easy on my hair, scarf some food, and jump in the shower, I should be asleep by 8pm.  Welcome to the world of single mother adulthood!

These past two weeks have been brutal.  With my dad in and out of CCU and only three of the kids local, we’ve been trading off dad-duty.  Don’t get me wrong:  the man has given and given and given his whole life so I certainly don’t begrudge him a little TLC at this point; it’s just difficult to do while working and taking care of my own little family (teenagers need to eat food EVERY day!).  I’ve been savagely grumpy with everyone in my life outside of my dad and girls (and my girls might even debate me on that point).

As I drove the hour home today after dropping the girls with their dad, I was listening to the music on my iPhone.  Before falling away from the Church (Catholic) during/throughout my divorce, I actually listened to Christian music fairly regularly.  On my drive today, quite a bit of Amy Grant and Michael W. Smith seemed to be in the “shuffle” rotation.  I’m glad.  It’s wrapped me into a contemplative and somewhat solemn mood.  That might sound dreary, but it’s quite welcome.  I need this time to reflect and recharge.

Throughout high school and college (and really up until the divorce in 2008/2009), I was a helluva Catholic.  AT LEAST weekly Mass, confession, Eucharistic adoration, the works.  I was rabidly Catholic, really.  At times judgmental and unyielding.  My faith was my stronghold during my Mom’s death, my sister’s death, and the tragic shooting and death of my brother.  During those difficult times, I clung desperately to the Church and her sacraments.

And then came the divorce.  And it rocked me to my core.  I thought I had done everything “right”.  My ex and I prayed together, went to church, had our girls baptized, were active in our parish …. And, in the end, it made no difference.  Regardless of the months and months of counseling, there was no saving that marriage.  That was difficult enough.  Then, post-divorce, when my ex wanted to be remarried, he applied for an annulment.  During the time when the paperwork was delivered, I had a 6 year old and an 8 year old, I was working as a server at a busy restaurant, and I was going to nursing school.  I had ZERO time to devote to the extensive paperwork that the diocese sent to me.  Jake got his annulment without my help (I knew my help was not essential to the process) and I was dumbfounded when I got the finalized decree.  We had been granted an annulment due to MY psychological inability to fully enter into the sacrament.  Good God, even this many years later that levels me.  While I understand that my response to the questionnaire could have possibly swayed the outcome, the fact that the end of my marriage was somehow solely MY fault still enrages me.  Somewhere, in the Church’s bowels, I’m officially psychologically unfit for marriage.  It felt/feels like a slap in the face and an abject betrayal to my years of loyalty.  It, in conjunction with the divorce, sidelined my faith because it caused me to question everything I thought I knew.

As I drove today and listened to Amy sing about her faith and love of the Lord, I cried.  I miss that faith.  I miss that ability to believe that things always work out.  I miss truly thinking that good wins in the end.  I miss the comfort of the Mass.  I miss believing that Jesus has my back.  And as much as I would really, really, really, really like to believe those things again, I’m not sure if I ever can.  That’s kind of a crappy place to exist, honestly.  But at least it’s truthful.  At least I’m being honest and true with myself.

I have many friends who have outstanding faith (and aren’t those Jesus-hypocrite-types that are infuriating).  I know they pray for me.  I know that, if they read this, they’ll tell me, “Jen!  You can have that faith, again!  Come back!  We miss you!  Jesus misses you!  We love you!” and they would embrace me fully, without hesitation, without judgment.  I’m just not quite there, yet.  But, damnit, I envy that faith of theirs.  The scars from that marriage run deep.

I’m not sure why I’m sharing all of this.  It’s intensely personal.  I haven’t talked about these things with ANYONE.  It’s a deep wound.  Maybe a little sunlight and air will be good for it.

At the ripe old age of 43, I have precious little figured out about this life.  It’s terrifying and strangely comforting … I suppose because one things being a psych nurse has taught me is that very, very few of us have life figured out.  I feel at home with my fellow humans.  That’s a comfort.

Time to begin the tasks at hand.  Maybe, just maybe, the evening will wrap up with a prayer.  It won’t be much, but it could be a start.  This old broad could use a fresh start.  Then again, couldn’t we all?