The other night I was in my basement waiting for the last few minutes of my bedding to dry. My dog, Rosie, had thrown up all over my sheets, so I was forced to run a load and wait for it to finish at 12:30AM.
Leaned up against the washing machine, I stared up at the unfinished wooden boards that lined the ceiling of my basement. For some reason it brought me back to the house I grew up in. My siblings, friends, cousins, and pretty much anyone of similar age used to go into the basement of my old house and sign the ceiling with a sharpie. We’d write laughable things like, “T.G. wuz here!!!!” and “10.02.06 best day evahhh”. Ya know, the wacko things little kids come up with.
The basement ceiling in my dad’s workshop was lined with time stamps from when we decided we were gonna make our mark on that room. In the moment, it was fun and invigorating, and in some way, it felt defiant, even though we were allowed to imprint on the beams. I’m pretty sure my parents’ signatures were on there somewhere, too. Regardless though, it felt like we were living on the edge a bit. Testing the waters, if you will.
But standing in the basement of my now-home, things felt a lot different. I’m no longer a kid. I’m no longer looking for an ounce of free space to scribble a word or two into the ceiling. These boards are graffiti free. I have never even slightly thought of taking a sharpie to them. They’re just here. Holding up the house. Doing what they’re supposed to.
And perhaps this train of thought is not linear (then again, which of my thoughts are?), but the beams triggered me to think about which of my life’s moments have been my favorite so far. Simultaneously, I also thought, which of mine have been the worst?
~
One random weekday when I was in second grade, my parents called my siblings and I into the living room. When we were all gathered together, sitting on our green plaid couch, they broke the news to us.
“We’re getting a divorce.”
I couldn’t tell you what happened afterward. It was instantaneous, this overwhelming, all-consuming despair, and it churned me over and over until I had no idea who I was or where I was. It was the first time I had experienced heartbreak, and something in me knew it was going to shape me forever.
All I could think about was how my dad would move out and how I’d miss him coming into my room to tuck me into bed every night. He would end each “sleep tight” by tickling me until I couldn’t breathe and had to literally tap out. It was that aggressive, fear-for-your-life type of tickle, and I hated it so much I loved it.
With him living elsewhere, how would I fall asleep without looking forward to the dreaded tickle attack? I also couldn’t wrap my head around a lot of other things, one being having to schedule time to see him like he was one of my friends.
“I have a play date with Rachel on Tuesday, and I have to see my dad on Thursday”?
It did not make sense to me.
My dad had a home. WE had a home. It was ours. What do you mean he’s going to live somewhere else without us? How do you pack up 17 years of your life and just start again without your family? How?
I may have been seven years old, but I was clinically depressed. All I would do was cry. I cried at my friends’ houses (that is, if I even was stable enough to get there in the first place). I cried at home. I cried at my relatives’ houses. I was the saddest seven year old there ever was, and I didn’t see a way out of it. I thought I would be sad for the rest of my life.
But the story goes that my parents never ended up fully following through with the divorce. Somewhere down the line, somehow, they ended up back together. My dad moved back in. My family was whole again. My prayers were answered.
All was well in my world. Better than well.
For almost ten years my parents stuck it out. Ten years. And then one random weekday night when I was a sophomore in high school, my parents called my siblings and I into the living room once again. To the same living room. We no longer had a green plaid couch, but the walls were the same walls. And in that moment, while I was sitting before them, I knew what they were about to say before they even said it.
And suddenly, my world came crumbling down all over again right before my eyes.
~
When I was 16 years old, my parents officially filed for and followed through with their divorce. It was harder the second time around than it was the first. The hardest thing I have ever done in my life, to be frank.
Aside from the heartbreak that time period entailed, one very specific lesson came from all of that hurt. One that I am positive I was meant to learn despite everything that happened, and it had nothing to do with love.
It had everything to do with gratitude.
The ten years between my parents first filing for divorce and the second, I had the opportunity to relish in the present with my whole family. All five of us. Every single day I had the chance to appreciate all of us living under one roof. Having everyone within an arm’s distance from me. And I didn’t. I just simply didn’t.
So that night, when I heard for the second time, “we are getting a divorce,” my heart shattered into a million pieces. Worse though, it also felt like it disintegrated right after it broke because, I realized in the moment it shattered, that I had the chance to be grateful for the time that I had with them, but instead, I took every day for granted.
How, in the world, could I live with knowing that I had never been grateful for the wholeness of my family until it was too late?
~
My parents’ divorce rocked my world for more reasons than I myself probably know. I could sit here forever and tell you what I’ve learned from it and how it’s shaped me, but the one thing it taught me the most was that having gratitude will take you places you never thought possible. To be grateful for what you have while you have it is, in my opinion, the only way forward. I learned that lesson in the worst of ways, but I actively promised myself I would spend the rest of my days cultivating an unshakeable gratitude that sustained me during both my hardest moments and happiest ones.
~
For some reason, standing in my basement looking up at the clean wooden beams while I waited for my bedding to dry the other night, reminded me of how much I have to be grateful for right now.
I almost wanted to grab a sharpie and write, “T.G. is here,” to show that I am conscious of where my two feet are at this moment, but I figured I’d leave that tradition where it belongs. Back in the house that built me. Under the beams that supported me. And with a family that I am forever grateful for.
So beautifully written Tay. I love that you have audio now too!