Vulnerable

It has been over a year and a half since I asked for a divorce.
It has been almost a year since I landed at my current job.
It has been seven months since my ex moved out.
It has been one month since my divorce.

I'm feeling restless, and I'm not sure why.

Maybe it's because I live in a perpetual state of exhaustion. 

Maybe it's because I wish I had more figured out.

But I'm restless.

Really restless.

There's something missing.  What is it?  Is it wanting to move to the next level at work?  Am I mothering to the best of my ability?  Is it because I'm not writing? 

Am I lonely?

Damnit, I've worked too hard to be lonely.

And I sureashell don't believe that I need rescuing.  (Just for the record, I believe that hell is what we create when we don't live up to our own expectations.  Ironic, no?)

Except (anddont'youdarebreathawordofthistoanyone), I do feel lonely.  And I wonder if the 'something missing' is the smell of a man's neck.

I can't remember the last time I felt a strong chest under my cheek.

And you know what?  After a day of getting up at 4:30am and doing my damndest to be the best person-mother-employee-homeowner-friend I know how to be, and trying to squeeze in a bit of reading and pretend to Katherine that I don't just wish I could crawl into bed and nap for six days.... I just wish that I had someone at the end of the day to say, "You amaze me.  Come here..." and draw me into his arms.

Don't give me the feminist argument about how my opinion of myself matters more than finding a mate.  I believe that, I live that, I am that.

But today, I'm lonely, and I just wish I had someone to share all this with.

A time to weep

To everything there is a season, and today it is my time to mourn, weep, and rend.

We're finalizing all of the paperwork, making sure we haven't missed anything, and Bryan has been so sharp and rude to me (and if I'm honest, I'm also feeling particularly vulnerable and susceptible so his usual barbs hurt more than usual) that this morning before work I shed a few tears.  I'm trying so hard to be gracious and compassionate, and it looks sometimes as if he's not trying at all, and it still hurts.

After all this time, it still hurts.

The child in me wants to say, "But aren't I being good?" even though the woman in me knows that such pleading will get me nowhere, and that my own sense of self is the only reassurance I should be seeking.

Today, I am allowing myself to feel the sting.  Today, it hurts.  Yes, I'm crafting a brilliant life, filled with love, joy, peace, integrity, friendship, nature, health....but today, I'm facing down the failure of my marriage.

Today is the last full day of my married life.  Today is the last full day that I carry this name.

Today is not a day to remind myself that the marriage wasn't a failure if it brought forth my glorious daughter.  Today is a day to mourn.

*****

Tomorrow I'm going running (yes, I've kept it up since November, and I'm getting stronger daily - I work out a minimum of four times per week now, often six times per week, once with a trainer and the rest mixing up running, yoga, small weights, etc.) and I intend to go faster, farther, harder than I've gone yet.  Usually I run and chat with my friends, but tomorrow I'm going to run ahead of them with my headset on and pound the pavement and listen to loud girl-power anthems.  I'll finish the run with "I will survive," an anthem of break-ups and cancer survivorship.

Then, I'm putting on my new outfit and getting it done.  I bought some fabulous, fabulous shoes and a knockout dress - one that makes me look like my body is nearly flawless (!) with curves in all the right places, but is still ladylike.  I will work a few hours in the morning, and then walk a few blocks to the courthouse to meet my friends, and complete the deal.  Tomorrow, I intend to be strong, powerful, feminine, and optimistic.  Tomorrow, I will be born again.

But today, I mourn.

*****

To everything there is a season,
a time for every purpose under the sun.
A time to be born and a time to die;
a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
a time to kill and a time to heal ...
a time to weep and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn and a time to dance ...
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to lose and a time to seek;
a time to rend and a time to sew;
a time to keep silent and a time to speak;
a time to love and a time to hate;
a time for war and a time for peace.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

 

Thank you for your kind thoughts, prayers, light, and support.  It's a hard day.  I didn't want it to be hard any more, but there is no way around it.  Can't go over it, can't go under it, have to go through it.  Deep breaths...

Stages of Grief

This week I started separating out the kitchen items.

I went back into my spreadsheets of finances to update them.

I started making lists of home repairs that I was just going to have to deal with, whether I wanted to or not.

I contacted my friends with a list of items I need for post-split: like most households, we have one blender, one toaster, one vacuum, etc. and we're going to have to figure out how to double these items in the next three weeks.

Work is busier than ever.

Katherine is struggling to accept these new changes.  Except for the one giant fit - transference of every anxiety she has into something small and petty, but perhaps it was good for her to let it all out, even if it hit me where it hurts - she is doing well, but I see the small shadows around her eyes.  She's worried.

And I'm in a new stage of grief: depression.  I think I like this stage least of all.  Denial has its advantages, after all, because I'm pretty good at pretending all is well.  Anger is at least energizing.  I spent most of my marriage in the bargaining stage, so it worked for at least a decade.  I thought I was in acceptance - ah, blissful acceptance - of where I am: I have been thinking it through, planning, imagining a better future....

But right now, I'm just sad.  My family doesn't work.  Our finances are broken.  I'm exhausted.  My daughter hurts.  The word "overwhelmed" feels like it is tattooed on my forehead.

This is to be expected.  How could I divorce without deep sadness?  And now that things are put into piles, his and mine, how could I not grieve the life that might have been? 

I'm trying to live with this sadness.  I grieve for the death of the fantasy of the happy family; I grieve for the hopes that I thought we shared; I grieve for the life I've lost.  I grieve for our daughter.  I grieve for myself.




Readers, how do you manage your grief, sadness, depression over a divorce?  Any suggestions as to how I can both accept that sadness is a part of the process....and move out of sadness?  I learn a great deal from your stories and suggestions, and I welcome both.