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Rediscovering Myself

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Kapitel 1: Depressive Meal

The sun’s beams, dancing through the leaves, struck the patio and tables with a kaleidoscope of colors. Their iridescence landed on the water then shot out in more directions as a fairyland sensation surrounded me. The hues merged and separated into distinct streams of light that commanded my attention. The yellows and pinks swirled and hypnotized me. I felt myself falling toward the mesmerizing rainbow. Blues and purples sang and blocked out all other sounds. Life would be so much easier if only the colors would pull me into their depths, never allowing me to resurface.

Abigail's loud voice, a voice that demanded my attention, caused me to cringe. Her uncaring words sliced through my thoughts and unguarded heart. I glanced around to see if anyone else at the outdoor restaurant heard her.

“I just don’t see why you are talking such foolishness. Changing careers now will only cause hardship. What good can come out of it?” Abigail snapped as she deftly sliced through the tomato in her salad.

Her crisp outfit let everyone know she was in charge. If you weren't smart enough to comprehend that, she had her methods of making you see the light. Trust me, I knew. The soft grey of her clothes complimented her neatly-cropped black hair. Everything about her was neat and tidy all the way down to her smart-looking black shoes. Abigail pulled her lips up to one side. “Besides, you need to stick with what you are doing and improve your cooking skills. The gravy last week was still too lumpy.”

She had to mention the gravy again. Abigail, my lovely mother-in-law, was perfect in every way, at least in her own eyes. But I fell short of being an acceptable daughter-in-law. Super short. As she droned on about my 'lack' of cooking and cleaning skills, the tranquil colors invited me to dive back in. I'd heard it all before. The house was never clean enough. I couldn’t boil water. I never did enough for my husband or even her. No one cared that I was working full-time as a nurse. After arriving home from my shift, hours were spent picking up after my two teenagers that were never home but somehow still managed to destroy the house. Then I got to clean up the mess my husband, a man whose destructive tendencies would make a tornado jealous, had left behind. My efforts were never enough for this woman. Why did I even attempt to do better? Why did I bother to try and please her?

As the glass of water twirled between my hands, thoughts of just how badly I dreaded these lunches raced through my mind. Abigail did it to make me feel uncomfortable, to put me in a situation where she controlled the conversation, and the temptation for me to speak up wouldn’t interrupt her diatribe. How I longed to live my life for me, just me, not for her or anyone else.

From the moment I had become involved with her son, she took it upon herself to point out my numerous flaws, and to mention repeatedly how her precious boy could have done so much better. Not once did she mince words or wait until I was out of earshot. “What about Claudia VanHurst? She was always a nice girl who had style.” Another time, “Are you really sure this is the one? You could do so much better.” Then to me, “Leigh, aren't there any other boys from your part of town that you would be more comfortable with?” Obviously, she felt that I belonged to a different caste than her son.

Today, as I walked up to the table, Abigail had to comment how lavender was not a good color for me. “Really, Leigh, you’d think by now you would have picked up some fashion sense from me. That color is hideous for your complexion. You need darker colors like black and brown.” Something also was said about my hair. “When was the last time you had your hair styled? It looks like it could use a little TLC.” When I selected the crab salad and soup from the menu, Abigail remarked, “Salad and soup might sound healthier, but Leigh, as a nurse you should realize that they are not going to help you lose that weight you gained while you sat around this winter.” I came to the conclusion years ago that even if I was Mother Theresa, in Abigail's eyes there would still be a million things wrong with me.

An expert at keeping a blank face around Abigail, I learned the hard way not to let her know when she was getting to me. If she had a clue, she’d swoop in for the kill, and I’d hit a deep depression for days. My appetite faded away as I just picked at my food and pretended to listen to what she was saying. It had all been said before. I really wanted to comment on how the food was not nearly as good as she had made it out to be. The restaurant was one she had been gushing over for months. What would her face look like if the words “Abigail, I’m rather surprised you like this quaint little café as the food seems so beneath your standards” came out of my mouth? The thought of saying that was so irresistible, unfortunately I didn't have the guts or the foolishness to do it. Oh, well. Seems as though my dreams weren’t meant to come true.

The meal was finally over. Maybe it was time to actually start listening to what Abigail was saying.

“Now that all of that is settled I am sure that you will be trying those new cooking methods I emailed you the other day. The gravy is foolproof so I am sure you’ll be able to get it done by our dinner next Friday night. You are having gravy, aren’t you? I had told Nathan that you were.” Words kept spewing out of her mouth, but she never gave me a chance to respond. It’s amazing the things you can get used to after twenty years, but I still hadn’t fully gotten used to the hurt that cut at my heart each time.

Abigail gave me an obligatory hug and a kiss on each cheek before walking off toward her car. I barely had a chance to say goodbye before finding myself alone again, as usual, and standing on the sidewalk. With a sigh, I turned around and began walking toward my car.

I had parked a few blocks away so I could have the chance to walk and clear my mind before it was all claimed by Abigail, who would be waiting for me. This way, there was no danger of carrying any negative emotions back to the house. That would disrupt everything more than it already was . Years of being told my moodiness was the reason for the chaos and bad tempers in the house had taught me to keep quiet and let all my feelings out some other way. Since there was no one I could vent my grievances to, these walks had become my time to release all of the anger.

Out of loneliness, depression had become my closest friend—an unwanted confidant where one that is made of flesh and blood would have been preferable. Just three months ago, I found myself with no friends after the excruciating pain of hearing my 'friend' side with my husband when all I had wanted to do was release frustration. Mark had been working so much, the kids were never home anymore since they had started college, and the yard had not been mowed in weeks. The job of mowing the lawn, as well as climbing up on the roof to nail down some loose shingles, was left up to me. Mark never noticed the scrapes on my arms and legs that I received from the fall off the ladder.

The need to vent before Mark or someone else suffered caused me to turn to my closest friend, Nan. Instead of sympathy and a listening ear, I found myself facing someone who was defending Mark as though he was up for sainthood. “For goodness sakes, Leigh, you act like Mark is sitting on the couch all day doing nothing. You know how hard he works. What would he think if he knew you were saying such things? You sound so ungrateful for all his hard work in making the money you use to buy groceries and clothes. You can’t expect him to do it all. I’m surprised with you. I never thought you would be so disrespectful to your husband. You’re lucky to have him.” With that, Nan walked away. She even went as far as cancelling our double date night that was scheduled for the next day. She told me I was too depressing to be around.

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