I made myself abagel sandwich for breakfast this morning. There was a moment of nostalgia as I sat down to eat it.
It is the most bizarre feeling to think that a day will come when I never see my ex-husband ever again. He will have fully moved out of this complex and I hopefully will have moved on to a brand new city. Two people whose lives were fully intertwined down to the smallest daily routines for over two decades may never even cross paths again as they move on to new chapters.
There is a grief in that which is incredibly complicated with distortions, gaslighting, ego, insecurities, a loss of self, and an abrupt, cruel ending. It's not that I want to go back to any of that again. I don't think I could even if I wanted to. Maybe that is what makes all this feel even more bizarre.
So as I ate my bagel sandwich this morning, I reflected on one of our simplest routines, one that used to be so beloved to me - the mornings we took the time to make bagel sandwiches together.
One of the hardest parts of my healing has been making sense of my memories in the context of reality vs distortion. Although the events actually did happen (and journal entries helped me feel confident in the way they happened), my perceptions and feelings about the events are being questioned, destroyed, reconstructed, etc. and that process has been painful.
Some memories are easier than others like the trip to the Galapagos. I disassociated so much that the enjoyment of that travel and nature experience is wholly separate from any part he played in it. I found a way to separate my grounded reality from his distortions about that event. This simpler routine of making bagel sandwiches is a lot more complicated.
As I sat down to eat my sandwich this morning, I reflected on how flawlessly we seemed to work together and how loved I felt when he made my eggs. But then I replayed the scene in my head.
I saw myself getting out and toasting the bagels and pulling out two plates. Often I would even pull out the pan and set it on the stove. Next I would get out the bacon and put the right number of slices on a plate between paper towels and put them in the microwave. Then I would rinse and cut open the avocado before slicing it and beautifully arranging the slices on the toasted bagel (there was an art to how I did this). I would salt and pepper my avocado because I knew he wouldn't salt and pepper my egg in the pan like I liked.
While I was doing all that, he would cook the eggs and finish the sandwiches by added them on top of all the work I had done. Sometimes he would grumble if I reminded him I liked my yolk a bit runnier than he did.
And then after I bit into my sandwich, I would admire how well he had cooked the eggs and often comment about how I can never seem to get them right when I cook them myself. (Note to self - my eggs this morning were perfectly cooked.)
What felt like a loving routine where we worked together so well, in hindsight looks like a routine that went so flawlessly because of all the moving parts I handled behind the scenes while I tiptoed around his ego. The love from him I imagined in that scene seems to be missing now that I have more clarity.
Did we used to routinely make egg sandwiches together? Absolutely, the event was real. But as my perspectives and feelings shift with a more grounded reality, the nostalgic element to it feels really tainted.
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