Merry Ex-Mas

by Courtney Walsh

But women like me tend to operate our lives like we’ve got a browser running with twenty-seven tabs open. There’s a lot of processing going on in the background.

I read somewhere that the feeling you get when you get “butterflies in your stomach” is actually similar to your fight or flight response kicking in because you see a potential mate. Your emotions go into overdrive, almost like panic mode, and it mimics the same brain activity and physical response as craving water when you’re dehydrating in a desert.

And it’s not lost on me that my mom put me in a room where things go to be stitched back up.

My reasons for leaving haven’t changed. It was never about a lack of feelings for her—quite the opposite. The fact was, I loved Marin too much. And I’m afraid that hasn’t changed.

My mom was a big believer in giving things a chance, a second chance, even a third and a fourth. She said grace was like that, and we should always give grace in abundance. Even to ourselves.

don’t know how she did that, how she took things that other people would walk right past and turn them into things that deserved to be seen. She did it with people, too. Always seeing the good in everyone.

I had a therapist tell me once that pain you don’t deal with always finds a way to come back. It will demand attention.

“Job skills can be taught,” I say. “I believe in hiring the right personality.”

Max is a good person. I hate that he is, but he is. But that doesn’t make him good for me.

Memories, certain ones, have a way of zipping together the past and the present. What was once completely separate is now entangled. What you felt then, you feel now, and you’re unable to pull them apart.

“You can’t force someone to deal with their grief the way you want them to, Marin,” Mom says.

Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Time gives you distance and perspective. The time we had wasn’t enough, but it wasn’t nothing. I lived twenty-two amazing years as their son. And that was a gift.

“But I do think there’s something special in remembering people who loved us so much. It’s a way to, maybe, let ourselves grieve.”

“Look, everyone’s got history. Everyone has baggage. If you’re lucky enough to find someone willing to lug it around for you, you should let them.

Sometimes grief looks like fear.

It’s hard when the one place on the planet with the most pain is the same place that feels the most like home.