We aren’t pretending any more.
It ain’t pretty.
I am dealing with the shitshow that my life has become.
I don’t like using that word, but it feels like the most fitting word for the time.
Is It Really a Shitshow, Omer?
You tell me…
For context, I’ve already experienced the basement flood and threaten our home’s foundation. Had to squeegee it every couple hours. Learned how important adequate drainage is for a home and for relationships. I’ve written about the basement of relationships. That was in April.
A month later, the tension belt broke in our car, not once, but twice. Broke and fixed in May. Broke and fixed again in June. I’ll write more about that in a future post.
In between the two tension belts breaking, our transmission went out in our Suburban. I’ll write about that in a future post too. May and June, I spent a lot of time dealing with tow trucks, garages, insurance, and a warranty company.
After all the vehicle troubles were resolved, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, it got worse. Our septic alarm went off.
That alarm is code for “shit has hit the fan!”
Figuratively. Literally. Your septic is not working properly.
Turn off all the water. Don’t use the facilities. Get a septic repair crew out here asap!
When I took the cover off, the smell was unbearable.
But down in the tank, amidst the whirlpool of wastewater, I could see the problem.
The Problem
The 90-elbow pipe was broken in our septic tank.
The 90-elbow pipe of my life was also broken.
The difference was that the septic could be repaired in a couple hours by professionals.
The life repairs would take much longer.
I could get some help from professionals, and I am. But I also have to do a whole lot more of the work myself.
Taking off the lid, facing the stench that my life had become, facing the repair that lay ahead… Not easy.
My soul was broken like that 90-elbow pipe. I couldn’t function. I was a broken man. I am a broken man.
Shattered in pieces. It’s a mess. I am tearing down the facades.
What’s the Mess? What’s the Facade?
The mess that I made by not dealing with my mess.
But Omer, you’ve already told us about a basement flooding, a broken transmission, two tensioner belts breaking, and the 90-elbow in your septic tank breaking. That’s it, right? No, there’s more.
(Quick disclaimer: 3 of my kids are old enough to know, and they already know. Their friends that they’re closest with know. Our innermost circle of friends know. So what I’m about to share is becoming common knowledge here and now.)
The mess / the facade is this:
Family life is not as healthy as it looks. Marriage is in shambles.
A divorce is not off the table. In fact, its certainly on the table. It may happen, it may not.
What is happening, what is clear?
The separation is clear.
Has been for months.
9 months in fact.
6 months of living in separate spaces.
It’s been a mess. A wreck. There’s nothing easy about it.
It takes two to tango as they say, but this mess is my mess.
Hannah owned much of her mess a long time ago. And sure she still has stuff to work through. We all have stuff to work through at any given time. But she’s done a lot of the very heavy work, the inner soul work, the excavating and the foundation work. She’s done that work.
I have not.
But I am now.
I started with a shovel four years ago. But a shovel was inadequate for the level of work required. Now, I am hopping in the excavator. I am tearing down the facade and getting to the bottom of this. A rebuild of a man, from the ground up.
Lucky you, you get to come along for the ride.
If you want.
