Two mornings ago, Sophie asked me this: “If you had to choose one age to be for your entire life, what would it be?”
Clarifying, she said, “Nothing that came after that age that happened in real life would happen, only the things before.”
Thinking about that and coming up with an answer took some doing. I’ve always maintained that the world would not keep turning on its axis without Sophie and Hattie. So that would take me to at least 2003.
“You’d both have to be there. So I’d be…33,” I told her.
“Why 33?” she asked.
“Hannah would be just born. You’d be two and a half. It would be cold and beautiful outside, and Daddy and I would still be together, and everything would still make some sense.”
*****
Fall of 2003. It was a happy, serene time, except for the loss of my aunt. But her presence remained that fall and winter. Hattie’s birth had been uncomplicated and beautiful. My old soul dog was still alive. My marriage was still alive. All that was expected of me was to nurse our baby, care for our warm living creatures (human and canine), curl up with my husband at night, and just BE. I did not need eight different pills a day, I did not hear or see things that I could not explain. I thought I knew exactly who I was.
Looking back, 2003 seems like a dream of a dream—gauzy figments of someone else’s life? I can’t touch it. There is no going back. Who was that woman?
*****
I talked to a divorced man the other day. We hesitantly shared some stories, asked some questions, seeking perspective. Sounding suddenly worried, he asked if he came across as bitter. He did not. I told him: no, not bitter, that it was simply clear that his heart had been sliced in two, as had hers.
There are no survivors. Our previous selves die in divorce. That is what I believe now. Then we rebuild, a new self.
I don’t see how any relationship can work. I don’t. Oh, I want to again. I do. But I can’t fathom how I once believed in undying love. Let me rephrase that: I believe in undying love, but I can’t fathom how two parts remain one. This is not bitterness; this is bewilderment.
If you are one of two happy parts loving and living together as a one, I ask you to count your blessings, to reserve judgment, and to put aside speculation about those who have lost their way. You are fortunate in what you know, and in what you do not know.
*****
I was blithe in 2003. I was even more blithe in 1999, when we eloped, in the month of September. I was absolutely certain of my decision. I look back, and I still am certain. I would change nothing. I could not have changed anything. I was more than “in love.” I loved. I still do.
I wish. I still do.
Now, this time of year has taken on a heavy yoke and shifts uncomfortably under its burden.
*****
This has never been a “divorce blog.” This is not a bitter place. Certainly, I wish I could laugh more again—in life and in my writing. I read my early blog entries and I smile at the author’s light touch, her deft tales of marriage and parenting. So funny, so accessible.
I think sorrow can also be accessible. I think it’s fair to write about sorrow, about divorce, if there’s a universality there—if the words can provide shelter to others who have lost their way and have nowhere safe to go. I feel like, based on some of the disappointed and angry words that come my way, we’ve been taught to shy away from it, to shun it, to fictionalize it. To rough it up, make it unrecognizable.
We have been taught to get our hackles up when we hear too often about divorce or separation. People want “the dirt.” I choose not to offer up “the dirt,” because whom—and how—could that help? Flagellation (self- or otherwise) is futile, and there’s already been plenty of it, behind closed doors.
I write about my sorrow, because I am not over this loss, and there are days when I am convinced I will not make it through the day, that I will not see another full moon. I am astonished when people tell me they are “over it”—their own divorces. The divorce is part of who I am now, and there is no way to write here without the grief of it seeping in through the walls. I don’t mind that my daughters will read this someday. I have said nothing that I regret. They live here and with their father; they see my heart and his. They already know in their little souls that their parents struggle as they try to find new ways of living and loving. They know they are loved, and that their parents are capable of loving, and loving well, and working well together as proud parents.
Maybe this will change? I cannot say. Here is where I am. I loved him easily and powerfully and forever, and he is no longer here. I can’t imagine anything else ever feeling the same.
I have become wary. Wary and lonely, a difficult pairing to write around. If the only way past it is through, then I must keep writing through. Come with me if you like. I want to stay open, and gentle. Wary and lonely is tough as it is, without the loss of gentleness.
*****
I am no longer 33. I am 39, and I feel years older. I feel ancient. Innocence is gone. So I try to see my world as the new cat does: full of small but intriguing, disparate objects and warm, interesting humans. No through-line required.
Maybe years from now Sophie will ask me the same question: which age? Maybe I will say, “Thirty-nine. I learned so much. I never could have gotten here without there.”
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I think it’s fair to write about sorrow, about divorce, if there’s a universality there—if the words can provide shelter to others who have lost their way and have nowhere safe to go.
What a beautiful way to express that. I feel certain that your words give shelter to those in need who read them — even to those who didn’t know they were in need until they read what you had to say and it filled something they hadn’t known was empty.
I too have had the terrible experience of divorce. It is awful.
But I still believe in undying love. I am committed to it.
I started a blog about marriage and how men can better love their wives. I would really appreciate it if you would take a look and give me your comments and feedback.
http://whatsheneedsfromyou.wordpress.com
Thanks,
I never have the words that can express what I want to say to you when everytime I read your blog and everytime I want to comment. Every post touches me, my journey mirrors yours. Of course it’s not identical to yours, but now a single mother of two, dealing with divorce, my new & emerging self, the vast array of emotions…
Your blog is a safe place for me. I treasure it. It’s like nothing is off limits, you write it all out. Your clarify and vocalize what I wish I could. Withing myself, the whole experience is a huge tangle. Like a mess of yarn, watching you take one strand and follow it through the mess helps me do the same. I feel like I’ve said nothing, still. These words are overused but are at the core of what I’m trying to say; Thank you. You are such an inspiration and such a help to me.
Yes, it’s the difficult times that bring us wisdom, depth, empathy, compassion, understanding. And eventually peace.
What a beautiful post. I do not know about divorce and what it feels like to live through it…as and adult. I am a daughter of a divorce, however and the way you are handling it with your girls will make such an impact on their adult lives. I admire you and wish you the very best.
You are a beautiful writer and I love how you write through your soul.
Thank you
Honesty is accessible. I write about mental illness, my miscarriage, struggles in my marriage and life, and wouldn’t have it any other way. You are honest and your writing is lovely.
Beautifully written. You can share grief and divorce without being maudlin – and you just did. I enjoy all the facets of your writing…
Jenn, I love how you write about divorce. Too many people treat it like it’s just a rough break-up but it sis so much worse, even when no children are involved.
My ex-husband and his new wife have kept his first marriage a secret from their children. I don’t know to show my children who I am, at all, without telling them about my first marriage and my divorce.
I am hoping that in a few years someone will ask about the perfect age and you will be able to say, “Right now. This age.”
Honest and brave, Jenn. Harder than being blithe, for sure. You’re tuning in to the human and animal energy around you, and that’s enough for some optimism.
I think that, when going through, it mostly looks the same until you’ve very near the edge on the way out. That’s why it’s hard.
When going around, you see how far you are away from the end, but you go much further, you take longer, and next time you go in, you won’t know any of the paths, shortcuts, directions you discover on your way through.
You said it right, Jenn, but the “right” for you at this time will be a different “right” for you later on. I don’t think people are too blithe about their divorces, but it sure is easier to hate them and try to feel indifferent. I like how you remember that there was love. You’ll always remember and be tender about that.
You do create a safe space here, as Rebekah (#3) above stated…I’m going through my own stuff, not the same as yours, but it still feels safe to come here and be around others who may also be struggling, each in his/her own way.
It’s also OK to always really loathe 39, even if you know it’s the *there* that allowed you to get *here*. To be thankful for 39, but never want to see it again or think of it too much! The fact that you can even contemplate that idea shows me that even though there is grief and sorrow, you haven’t lost the ability to find the silver lining. What a remarkable manifestation of the ever powerful will to live, that ‘finding the silver lining’ thing is. I guess in a word, it’s hope.
I love your writing. I rarely post, but always come back to see what’s new. Our lives seemed so parallel for so long. My girls, similar in age and temperament to each of yours. My marriage, threatened by alcoholism (his). But we came through, I think stronger for the challenges, and I go to bed tonight thanking my lucky stars for what I have and for your heartfelt reminder to be grateful. And to hope.
I found so much of what you wrote here to be true. Most people do not understand how devastating a divorce can be. I have been remarried to a wonderful man for a dozen years but still the grief of my divorce 20 years ago, from the father of my children, “seeps through the walls.” It is normal to feel deep sorrow after such loss. Divorce ravishes the soul and I, for one, am glad if you can express your sorrow through this blog.
Thanks, Jenn, for inviting us along to accompany you on this journey. That in itself is an incredibly brave thing to do.
You rock.
Beautiful! My eyes are full of tears and I wish George was here so I could hug him and let him know how grateful I am that our love has endured 40+ years. You speak from and to the heart. Your words are like silk wafting over a hurt soul.
I wish I was in the Berkshires too, so I could hug you and tell you your world WILL get better. You are too awesome to live in pain forever.
Thank you again Jenn.
I can only imagne how you make it through the day. I think when overwhelming sadness like this comes, from a death, which I tihnk this definitely counts as, it stays until suddenly, it doesn’t. I know this sounds ridiculous and obvious, but really it’s not; when you’re in the thick of it, even things that should be obvious, such as that this will not go on forever, are impossible to see. They’re only obvious in retrospect. Having people tell you is useless, not only because normal seems like a lifetime ago, but because the normal you will achieve will be a new and different thing from what you’ve had before, which makes it even harder to envision. It will get here, your new normal. But we will be here and hold your hand, even if only in cyberspace, until it does.
My wish for you is that you never worry again about whether or not you should be writing about your honest experience.
I’m not sure if you actually are worried about this– but when you hold up your early work and talk about how accessible it is, how funny, how light,
i worry that you don’t realize how beautiful your writing has become.
It takes guts to confront your sorrow. And it takes something more to turn a dark passage in your life into art.
I admire you.
please, please keep writing what you do. Whenever I visit here, I leave with a little something more than I came with. I may be a little softer, or little wiser, or go with a smile, but always, I leave with the feeling that I am not so alone in my daily struggles… and that is all your doing.
I haven’t read your blog in far too long and I had no idea. I am so sorry.
I was almost there. We got to the edge of separation but pulled back. It’s a weird, eery feeling knowing that it might not last forever but that we both want it to. I do feel very lucky.
I sincerely hope you feel lucky again soon.
That you’re aware of your words, your pain written out, helping anyone else and you’re still willing to share them, that’s very unselfish and not at all bitter and hard. Sometimes I think the certainty we feel on our wedding days is much like the certainty of a teenager in their own invincibility. That you’re still sharing and hoping to help others is a testament to your bravery and generosity. I come here every time you post and leave with something special, some little insight, some little piece of wisdom or feeling or appreciation for life in some manner or other. You matter.
As for your parting line of this post, that you couldn’t get there without going through what’s here, that’s what I hope for you, one day. That you’ll look back on this painful time and know that you’re wise because of it. That you’ll see some value in this hardness, that there’s a purpose to this pain you feel. I hope that for you. A purpose to all this that hurts so much.
This post was breathtaking.
Thank you.
“This is not bitterness; this is bewilderment.”
I’m right there with you, babe. Although the pain of my divorce has added a sprinkling of true bitterness, as well. But I am deeply bewildered by relationships- any relationships- that endure. I look at couples in the park and wonder, “HOW THE HELL ARE YOU MAKING IT WORK?” and also “HOW THE HELL DID YOU FIND EACH OTHER IN THE FIRST PLACE?” and then the bitterness rises up and I think, “TAKE YOUR STUPID LOVE AND CHOKE ON IT.”
Eventually, I am sure, my belief in lasting love will return. But for now, in this painful, tender place, I am just very, very confused. I wish more than anything for a real-life friend like you to talk to about this sort of thing. But reading your words helps tremendously, and I thank all of my lucky stars in heaven to know that I am not alone in these feelings. My life is less lonely knowing you are out there. I don’t know if that means anything to you, but it sure means a lot to me.
What Asarte said.
I was in a similar place to you at at 33 and then again at 39. But you write about it far more eloquently than I could have.
I am now 52 and couldn’t be happier. Alone. Not even sure I WANT another partner at this point. But never say never.
I’ve read it takes about 5 years to work your way through the emotions of divorce (and that’s if you ex doesn’t drag it out for four years – not that I’d know anything about THAT.), so give yourself time. As Asarte said, the new normal will be different, but it will feel normal, I guarantee it.
I wrote a rather long comment, but got the anti-spam word wrong, and don’t think I can recreate what I wrote. I found you via Google Reader; someone shared this post of yours. Just know it touched me.
The one thing I know is true is that when you have been through something heartbreaking, your heart remembers – and that is a double-edged sword. You never forget to be grateful for what you do have, and you never forget the pain of loss.
I just counted, and it is more then a dozen years since I was dismissed from my husband’s life. God, that was – is – how it feels. Just….turned away. And I think in the end, though I would give anything to have avoided the heartbreak, my life will be all the better for it. I am saying those words and cringing….but it’s true, I think. I will never allow myself to doubt or second guess decisions made in the past. All decisions, all paths, all lead to my children, my home, my relationships today.
You are saying all the things I needed to say then, but didn’t have the words to express. Thank you for sharing your feelings, it is helping me to process mine as well. Another kind of closure for me. I think it is going to be a lifelong process.
I’ve been away for awhile, I’ve just read the last ten or so posts and loved every one of them.
I love that you told them to F Off in Need to Say and Love. I like that aggressiveness in you.
I love what you said to “Dave Smith” at the end your meeting, well done!
As for Reading Pablo Neruda to Carlita and the others relating to the dog and cat. I say keep the cat, its just being a kitten right now and enjoying life. The dog and cat will straighten things out. All animals have to establish a pecking order, the kitten is just to young to realize this yet. My bet is that the cat will learn to avoid putting itself in a position that the dog can take advantage of. She will also learn how to tell the dog when enough is enough and to get out her space. The dog will figure out when he/she can push the cats buttons or when its best to leave well enough alone.
I enjoyed the picture at the end of the ABC’s, your very pretty, I wish you would post more pictures of yourself to go along with the posts.
And One, Two, One – I think some people are bitter because they read how much you love(d) David and just can’t imagine being that much in love. I know I never have been, but I find it fascinating to read what it’s like to be.
You sound much better than last time I had a chance to read your blog. Perhaps I’m jumping the gun, but when I read your posts today, I felt an awakening or emergence of your Self coming back.
One day at a time,
Anon
my god…this is gorgeous
thank you for sharing
thank you from my open heart
> Maybe years from now Sophie will ask me the same question: which age? Maybe I will say, “Thirty-nine. I learned so much. I never could have gotten here without there.”
A turning point for me, 8 years after my divorce, was when a friend asked me how I was doing, and I said that I was ok, that I didn’t regret any of it, and that the things I’d learned since the divorce were worthwhile. I was glad for them. Not glad for the split nor the pain, but glad for the forward progress afterward.
So it *is* possible to get there. I won’t say everyone does, nor can I say if you will, but it is possible.
“over it?” nah, I don’t think one gets over it, but one can integrate that aspect of themselves with other aspects and become someone new, someone for which that’s a part but not the defining part.
Hang in there.
What an incredibly poignant post. You expressed, so eloquently, so much of what I have struggled with since my divorce and the loss of my previous life. I will tell you, one day you will feel better. The divorce will always be a part of you and may color your interactions, but the sorrow will subside.