Everything bad that can happen has already happened

I wake up first to Sophie’s alarm clock, harping at 6:15. I wait.

Sophie does nothing.

It is 6:20.

Sophie’s alarm is still very alarmed.

“Soph!” I yell from my bed. “SOOOOOPHIE. SHUT IT OFF.”

“Oh,” I hear. “Sorry.” Silence.

I demi-wake again a little later. 6:44. My alarm. True alarm.

I sit up and brace myself for the crashing wave of morning dread.

I take deep breaths. I prepare.

The dogs are back home, which means more morning chaos, more vet bills, more concern, more potential for failure. The old dog, she is suddenly blind, confused. The big dog, he needs more than I can give him, and he and I both know it.

Someone made a fraudulent charge of $500 on my debit card last night at 11:55, at an online cell phone store. That awaits.

Abdomen’s painful this morning. I temporarily have no health insurance, so more tests are on hold.

I owe a few thousand dollars for medical tests that I thought were covered, but were not.

I fear what my mind can do. I fear what my mind cannot do.

I fear, perhaps more, what my heart can and cannot do.

And so, knees drawn to my chest, I wait for the panic to hit.

I wait.

I wait.

And then I hear my quietest gut voice say,

Everything bad that can happen has already happened.

And I relax. Slightly. 

And then, slightly more.

*****

It’s not exactly true, of course.

That everything bad that could happen has already happened.

I have not lost a child. I have not lost the use of my body or mind. I am not struggling to survive through natural disaster or genocide.

But the words are insistent, calming. Gentle.

I don’t mind this kind of white lie.

What is true is that I wake up alone, most mornings. Like this one. 

And today, that was better than waking up with anyone else.

*****

I once thought I would rather die than not wake up beside my husband every day. I did not see how life would be possible without him—the warm bulk of him, bearlike, beside me in bed.

I have said this before, yes. We are all storytellers, given the chance. We each have our handful of stories, the few moments or people or places that make sense in a lifetime, make an indelible impression, will not be forgotten.

I would go back in time, if I could. I would ask different questions. I would try to speak the truth more clearly. I would say, I am scared, this is and is not who I am, I don’t want to turn away, don’t you turn away, please, let’s be bigger, better, braver, sooner, earlier. Let’s not turn away from this, from each other.

This is what divorce means if you pull it up by its linguistic roots: not a tearing or an ending, but rather, a turning away.

*****

The divorce has been the greatest loss of my life to date. It is a collection of nesting boxes of loss:

the loss of what I believed to be most true and real;

the loss of innocence;

the loss of family and friends;

the loss of approval;

the loss of acceptance;

the loss of a hoped-for future;

the loss of a gift I wished to give to our children;

the loss of an opportunity for a different kind of growth—growth together, within the relationship, instead of outside of it, solo.

*****

There is another loss that has startled me, one I am only recently coming to terms with: the loss of my definition of myself as someone who “knew” relationships—someone who could get that right, in life, if nothing else.

I find I know nothing now. I find I am starting from scratch.

*****

I had a difficult conversation yesterday. So difficult, in fact, that I felt physical pain. My bones ached and head throbbed and my throat tightened and I began to feel like I would vomit.

At a certain point I had to say, “I don’t want to talk about this any longer. Stop. I can’t talk about this any more today. It hurts too much. I don’t know how to make you understand. I don’t know how to talk around your words. And right now, I have to be a rock for the girls. I can’t lose my foothold. At this very second I want to be a mother and a friend and belong only to myself.”

I don’t know if there is growth or retreat in this.

I do know the person with whom I was talking felt only my retreat.

But I was trying desperately to stand inside my truth. 

I have very much to learn about the place where my truth blurs into someone else’s truth, about the place where that line should be.

Right now, truth = loss. 

Right now, truth = I will lose again.

I wonder if it is possible for truth = gain. 

I wonder what is possible for me, if I will ever learn to love fully, intelligently, bravely, honestly. I wonder if I will ever be loved that way in return. For all of me. Or even, most.

First: Know thyself. Love thyself. Yes, yes. Who is there to teach this?

*****

Still, here I am this morning, in a quiet house. Alone, more comfortable with it than before.

I don’t want to hurt anyone. But I cannot bear to hurt myself any longer.

Nothing has changed and everything has changed.

Everything bad that can happen has already happened.