I’m in Temecula.  It’s the night before my cousins special day.  She’s getting married to an awesome, hilarious, friendly man.  I’ve known since February that I would come down but I might not make it to the wedding.  The idea of watching two people make vows to one another, when mine meant nothing, hurts my chest and tightens my throat.  I promise myself I will not look sad in front of others and I will not cry in front of anyone else.

We get to the winery where a party of about 30 people have all come together to share in the celebration of these two wonderful people wanting to share their lives together forever.  My mom has already tossed some back and is dancing to the music and waving us (my close cousins and their significant others) in to join the party.

We reach her, the live music blaring out into the serene courtyard of happy people.  The bride to be spots us, yells a name and comes running up for hugs.  There is pure joy and glee in her action and in her face.  I smile, barely holding in a crash of sadness so intense I have to look at a spot on the building.  I can’t look at her brilliant smile or those on my cousin’s faces.

All I can think of is this: I was her.  I was that deliriously happy.  I was the center of love, affection, and well wishes.  Family came in to celebrate with me, too.  I was so happy.  I’m smiling and looking at a post in the courtyard trying to push away the dreadful comparison of then and now.  A flood of memories hits me like a barrage of bombs and I can’t run fast enough to dodge the blows.

I look back at my cousins and give my hugs, trying to keep the big classic Haley smile on my face.  I enjoy the hug and try to pull up the feeling that’s hidden among the pain.  I am so happy for them.  I wish nothing but the best for them and I certainly hope that their time together is deep and lasting.  I wish for them the best of what I had and for them to never experience the worst of what I am still going through.  They are wonderful people and they deserve lasting love.

We get introductions to people they know that we’ve never met.  Some have already had drinks, some are dying for the food to finally arrive but all of them are lovely and excited to be a part of the celebration.  The closer family members come up to me and ask with a serious voice, “How are you doing?”  I hate this question- I still don’t know how to answer it.  “Um, right now is really hard, but sometimes it’s really easy and everything is great….?”  Instead, I give the standard ho-hum answer, “I’m doing okay.”  Then comes The Hug.  This ins’t just a normal, Hey Family I Love You kind of hug.  It’s the I’m Going to Fully Face You, Embrace You, Give an Extra Hard Squeeze Toward the End to Show My Support, and then Whisper Something to You as You Pull Away kind of pity hug.  I just can’t take it.

I go to the restroom and cry (quietly- lest someone hear me) in a stall.  I mourn that happiness and elation I once felt when I was to marry the Boy.  I can’t even partake in the amazing wine that everyone else can enjoy because I’m going through chemotherapy treatment.  I could easily join the revelry and throw my sorrows to the wind if I could kick back some wine and embrace the “F-it, I just want to have fun” mentality.

I finally let the last tear spill.  I’m not going to cry and feel bad for myself for the rest of the night.  I have decided that I will only allow time for that while I am alone later at night or early the next morning. I walk out of the stall at the same time as the Bride to Be. Of course, right?  Isn’t that how these things always seem to go?

“Hi!” Her voice carries a hint of cloud nine and I immediately paste on a smile.  We’re at the sinks by the mirrors and I can easily see the evidence of my crying in my reflection but Bride to Be doesn’t see me regularly so she might not have any clue.  If my smile is convincing enough, she’ll have no reason to look twice.  She bounds off on her cloud to enjoy more of the celebration.  While my smile fades, I’m still happy for her somewhere deep down.

The night continues, and as is standard by now in my life, mini drama ensues and inebriated people get too emotional or cause unnecessary drama.  It triggers the landmines I’ve buried from childhood, threatening to open old wounds.  I’m resigned to this because it’s what I’ve always known.  On the plus side, I was not alone this time and was able to share in the ridiculousness that accompanies drunk people being watched out for by sober people.

After touring the most gorgeous house I’ve ever been in (we’re talking Daddy Warbucks style mansion but with more mosaics, statues, and worldly taste) we head back to the beautiful home my mom rented for use while we’re here.  It’s hard for me to be around her when she reaches a certain level of inebriation but I stick through it.  We sit around a table with my two cousins and their significant others.  They start playing a game that is really fun but I don’t want a turn.  Three of the five people around me want me to want a turn.  They don’t understand why I don’t want to play.  I’m just not in the mood.  It bothers me that I almost feel like I have to defend why I don’t want a turn.  Two of them are okay with it, one saying that because I’m still playing they’ll allow me to not  have a turn.  Great.  My choices are to sit here and play to the extent I’m willing to play while I deal with half of them trying to get me to do more than I’ve said I want to- or I can go upstairs and not play at all.  I stick around because I do love them and I do like the game.  We play a few rounds, have some laughs, and I go up to change into my pajamas.

I come down to my mother saying, “She’s just not Haley right now.”  Fwoosh.  Arrow to the heart.  Especially coming from my mother who damn well knows what it’s like to be hurt by a man and go through divorce.  I sit down and she keeps talking about it.  Inside I think, I AM ME RIGHT NOW, GODDAMNIT!  Just because I am sad and struggling does NOT mean I am not Haley right now.  I want to rebel against this assessment she’s made.  It’s not fair.  But then I remember The Four Agreements: Don’t Take Things Personally.  One, she’s drunk and says silly things when she’s drunk.  Two, it has nothing to do with me.  She’s making this statement based off of what she feels and what she perceives about the situation which is not my truth, it’s hers.  I let it go and hope not to discover later that I’ve just buried another landmine.

So here I am, the morning before the wedding.  I will go and I’m guessing, since it’s way more appropriate to do so at this venue, that I will cry.  I will remember exactly the look on the Boys face when he first saw me in my beautiful dress, I will remember exactly how beautiful his eyes were when he looked at me so deeply saying his vows, I will remember the racing heart, the nervousness, and the elation at the act of partnering myself to this man for the rest of my life.  I will also remember the look of pure hatred on his face as he told me through the glass of our back door (that he had changed the locks to again) “Fuck you” and the middle finger he used to punctuate his words.  That was on my birthday.

I can’t escape these memories- the good, the bad, and the ugly.  Particularly since I have a very good and vivid memory recall.  I don’t know how long I will have to navigate the intense emotions that persistently cling to these memories but I hope that soon I will be able to move beyond these dreadful chains and just live in the moment.  Until then, I just put on the smile (for myself as much as anyone else) and enjoy what I can.

-Pre-wedding guest self