Home Repairs....Misery Be Thy Name

So, my toilet broke two nights ago....

As I stood there, staring down at the "guts" of my toilet, I realized I had no fucking clue what to do.   

Every single male member of my family was unavailable

I'm on a very tight budget so I didn't want to call a plumber.  So after a FaceTime with my brother, who had a vague idea of the problem but was not able to make the trip to fix it, I kind of shut down.  I never thought my downfall, emotionally anyway, would come at the hands of a freaking toilet.

This time last year, my husband would take care of these types of problems.  Before I married, boyfriends.  Before boyfriends, my father.  I have always had someone else take care of repairs, yard care, vehicle maintenance, etc.  I handled the bills, family schedule, housework, daughter, etc.  How very 1950's of us right?  It worked for us, my husband and I, and until recently, it worked well.

After absently staring at my stupid piece of shit toilet, I left the bathroom and watched television...resolved to deal with the issue tomorrow.

The next day my step-mother came up to the office and normal conversation ensued.  I mentioned my toilet predicament and, surprisingly, she knew how to fix it.  After a quick trip to the local hardware store, I watched my step-mother, huddled around its base, fix my toilet, all the while instructing me on how to do this myself if it were to happen again or to the other toilet in the house.  As I watched her replace the broken part, I realized that Once Upon A Time...


She was me.


My step-mother, as well as my own mother, were also single moms.  They struggled with children, jobs, homes, money, and a dozen other issues.  I didn't ask at the time, but I imagine that my step-mother and mother had someone show them how to fix a toilet, or garbage disposal, or lawn mower because what once a non-issue, was now a necessity befitting their attention.  They either stepped up and educated themselves or reached out for instruction.

I know some of you out there might be sarcastically thinking:

Oh poor you...you've had such a rough time of it...making your own repairs, mowing your own grass, etc...you are so mistreated.  

Well...fuck you.  Just, fuck you...you judgmental asshole.

I know that I have been afforded many blessings.  I've been lucky enough to have someone(s) help shoulder responsibilities.  I have never out-right refused manual labor, I just have never had to do them. Now that my life has changed course, so to speak, I have no "in-house support" to rely on.  It now falls to me.  I alone have to fix shit if it breaks, cut the grass if I want to avoid being fined by the city and/or losing my daughter in tall grass while she plays in the backyard, and not only schedule car maintenance but get the car to the service station...among other things.

At the end of the day, it is solely my responsibility now, and as scary as that is for me, I am finding that I am discovering underlying happiness.

I had a ceiling fan in my living room spend the better part of a year with only three of the four lights working.  The light bulb broke off when I was removing a burnt-out bulb and subsequently became stuck.  I asked my husband to get the metal-thingie out so I could put in a replacement bulb.  Well, he never did.  Then he left.  The fan stayed that way for months....still able to function, but not complete, not as it was meant to be.  It bothered me, but I had no idea how to get that damn metal-thingie out.  I had no clue if a specific tool was needed.  Was I going to have replace the entire fan?  Did I need to cut power to the house?  Such a seemingly small, easy-to-fix job and I had no idea how to go about it.  I asked my step-brother about it one day at work.  He gave his opinion on what my options were and that night I went home and got that mother-fucking metal thingie out!  As I looked up at my, now in complete working order, ceiling fan, a sense of empowerment came over me.  It didn't matter that I had spent months looking at the pitiful, handicapped fan; at a complete loss as to fix it.  It didn't matter that I had to ask how to repair it.  It didn't matter that I had to MacGyver a pair of scissors to unscrew the left-over light bulb part.  

All that mattered was that I did it...I fixed it.


So seeing the toilet broken brought me back to standing underneath my broken ceiling fan.  My sense of accomplishment and empowerment evaporated...replaced by hopelessness and pain.  You see, in these rare moments, I am reminded that my husband is gone.  He will never return.  I can no longer turn to him to make things whole again.  I can no longer turn to him for support when I've had a hard day.  I can no longer sit side-by-side on the couch in comfortable silence.  The wound I have been painstakingly repairing is ripped open, once again raw and bleeding.

I compartmentalize and/or reach out to friends and family.  I have hope that, one day, I will not need to lean so heavily on others.  I will have no need to look to others...I will look within and find all that I need.  I have hope that my wound will become nothing more than a scar that might ache from time to time, but will not incapacitate.

I know that I will gain knowledge along the way.  I know that I will gain experience, probably from failing more than succeeding.

I will gain strength

I might not have all the answers, I might not have a vast reserve of experience to draw from, and I do not have someone at home to share my burdens, but I do have a little girl who's hugs have the power to halt tears and who's laughter can help mend broken hearts.