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.
{ 27 comments… read them below or add one }
that is a great title. i think you should reuse it for a poem and for a novel. i know a novel may not be possible right now, but in a weird way, could be easier to sell than a nonfic book. it could be nonfic and you just tell everyone it’s a novel. lovely writing
Ah, this is beautiful, of course.
I’m glad you are feeling the strength in your Self.
everything you say here resonates with my experience over the past two years. thank you for articulating what I do not always find myself capable of getting out.
Ditto what Tina said. I totally get what you wrote about loss engendering the fear of more loss. My ex had an affair with someone I thought was my friend. The revelation taught me not to trust women period. It took many years to work through this and again be able to accept women as friends. You will get over your divorce, but it will take time …
Nesting boxes of loss. So true.
And yet I feel just through your commitment to writing, to showing up here in this space, a small trickle of optimism melting out under the ice.
“I fear what my mind cannot do.”
Jenn – your writing is so clear, so powerful, so beautiful – I don’t think you have anything to fear on the creative side of your mind. What I read into your posts of the past month is that there is a new “lease” on life chez vous. That lease may have high interest rates or maybe terms that are unclear – but the fact that there seems to be a new lease makes me so very happy for you. As always, thank you for writing.
*sighs and stares at the screen with love and admiration*
Gut wrenching, heartbreaking, real and raw. Thank you so much for your honesty.
I feel the optimism too. Keep holding on.
Just trying to comment. Because you asked us to. And I like to please people. Even people I only know through the internet.
I’m testing your comments. And sending you much love meanwhile.
First of all, someone suggested I read your blog to give me perspective. In short, IT HAS. Secondly, while I’m sure you aren’t looking for advice or reassurance, here it is for what its worth. I’m a firm believer in everything happens for a reason. Now I know that is rationalization during the good times and painful guidance during the bad. However, it not only seems to work for me but also seems to fit. You will endure and ultimately florish. And why? As I stated at the outset, you have great perspective.
*testing* *hugs*
Hang in there. Breathe.
((hugs))
I feel it, feel you, feel pain, feel hope.
You are working toward again -however,whatever that looks like for you now. A + gain = again. You’ve come so far on your journey. Congratulations.
Good God, woman: you can write.
Oh thank you. Thank you for your unwavering, raw and emotional view into your life. THank you for sharing. I am going through a rough spot in my marriage and I really , really needed to read this right now.
You write so beautifully. I hope that is of some help to you. I know my writing is sometimes the Only Thing.
After all of that, I could only smile when I read:
But I cannot bear to hurt myself any longer.
I think you are the strongest woman I know, Jenn. And I think there are many who are more convinced of that than you.
Or, perhaps, many who were? Until now. And that’s what made me smile.
Thank you for your kind comment. I have been reading you since the beginning–you were more inspirational than you know. I’m honored. And you are the real deal yourself, you know.
“I find I know nothing now” – which is a wonderfully open place to begin to discover new things, new perspectives, a fresh start!
Smiling as I read this. You are so wise and in a very healthy place. In my life, I went through a divorce that I did not seek. I remarried, to a man who truly was my “better half”. After 6 1/2 years of marriage, he died from cancer. He was 36.
Having been divorced and widowed, I will tell you the divorce was harder in this regard; dealing with rejection. When my husband, Bill, passed away, we were very much in love – our love having never been compromised.
I applaud your wisdom in honoring yourself. You are giving yourself a wonderful gift by following the truth as you see it. It doesn’t get any better than that.
Jenn,
I only know you from here – I already commented once on this post, but I just read it again and it is so beautiful and true that I can only echo what others have said and say thank you so much for letting us in. My life is richer because you write.
Jen, I gave you a little head nod/award-but-without-the-award on my blog today.
From a fan…
Firstly, I rather agree that your phrase of the morning makes a perfect title. Secondly, I also rather agree with Simon. Thirdly, the blog looks great!
I’m reminded of a short story by Italo Calvino in which a cosmic entity traverses the universe alone and sets out sign posts along his way to say I WAS HERE. And so he would know if he ever passed that point again.
Your sign posts are signals, Jenn — beacons that illuminate your way. And what’s more, they are art. Don’t underestimate the power of this.
More and more godspeed as you traverse this difficult arc.
Sometimes I can only come here once in a while.
I’m a writer too, and easily could, and sometimes do, dredge out the keyboard for the catharsis that is serving the grief with the painting of pixels and semi-colons. Sometimes, like the past seven days, after the churning out of another 19,967 words in service to litigation I never wanted in the first place, ever, there is only left a void in the place from whence might could flow the poetic prose you wax so eloquent. So when I can’t serve the grief myself with my own words, spent they be, (and Lori, I’m not surprised, what you say) I surely do appreciate being able to visit here, to nod yet again, yes, that, exactly.
Sometimes I can only come here once in a while because the one thing I’ve learned for sure in my last 15 months is that sometimes I’ve cried enough for now. And it ain’t often I come here and don’t weep. So you’ll understand, sometimes I can only come here once in a while.
I’ve said it too: I can’t talk about this any longer. I’ve shut people right down in the middle of a sentence. And stared into middle distance with the awkward silence brooding between us, and me, doing nothing at all to quell its ringing. So not like me.
I’ve done it too: felt the boil of the grief threaten to spill over, and pretended, with an iron fist of will, that I am in a meadow, on a hill top, with a warm breeze wafting the lowing of cattle on past me, rustling the daisies, and yarrow. And nothing here with the blue above and the fill of the nostrils needs to be wept over. And I’ve stopped the boil. Knowing full well I am lying suspended in a figment of my imagination, and nothing about anything is real anymore.
At the very least, my three babies still have me here. And they need to know that. I am. At the least.
Thank you.
That’s all I can say.
Thank you.