Melting Down at the Ice Cream Social

In the midst of a high conflict divorce, we switched schools yet again. It was my ongoing attempt to find something — anything — that might work better for the kids, because nothing felt right or even ok.

Better was a big word during those days.

Trying to feel better. Trying to make things better. Demolishing in order to build our lives anew. Turning to goo so we could assemble our shiny fresh butterfly wings.

I had so many metaphors. So many wishes and worries flip-flopping around in my heart. Like fish out of water, trying to figure out how to breathe.

The new school threw an ice cream social at the end of August. It was a chance, they said, in their emailed invitation, for old and new families to come together as a community, enjoy some ice cream at the end of summer and foster connections for the kids before another new school year began.

It sounded great except for the fact that I was extremely emotionally raw; out of body, and fully disassociated during this time in my life and a group activity with strangers was about as enticing to me as eating glass. But I told myself it was important for the kids. I told myself it was only a short evening event. I told myself it would be a good opportunity to limp out of my comfort zone, do something expansive.