It is what it is.... and that's the way it is.

I think the time has come to bring this blog to a close- not because I am fully recovered (oh how I wish!) but because I am not sure I have more to say.  My tales of woe are becoming repetitive and I am at risk of one of you anonymously asking me if I want cheese with my whine.  My story is commonplace. Boy meets girl. Boy chases girl.  Boy convinces girl to love him.  Girl loves boy. Boy changes his mind.  Girl has broken heart.  Boy meets new girl and so on....

My marriage is over.  I survived but I am no stronger for it.  I haven’t learned anything that I didn’t already know.  I haven’t gained any wisdom.  I haven’t sharpened my skills of observation or honed my character assessment ability. I have gained nothing to take forward into the rest of my life.  I’m just older, rounder, more weary, more disillusioned and more convinced than ever that due to some fatal flaw or intergenerational curse I was not ever meant to experience growing old with a lifetime partner.

My daughter asked me a while back if I would consider reuniting with her father now that I am alone again.  Even though she is heading off to university in the fall and striking out on her own, she couldn’t resist the pull of that childhood wish to have her parents together.... to have an intact family.  Old dreams die hard.  Perhaps we’ll go that route some day, for her sake.  We’ll get a double room in a nursing home so that she can visit her two aging parents at the same time in the same place; so that she won’t have to schlep her little ones to two different doorsteps on Christmases and Easters and Halloweens. Surely her father and I could get along at the end of our lives.  Surely we could resurrect some tenderness. He is the only man with whom I’ve had a child.  I am the only woman who has given him a child.  That must count for something. When you’re old and alone, any company is good company.  It would be the closest I’ll ever come to having someone to look through old photo albums with- someone who recognizes the same faces in the pictures, someone who knows my family and loves them, someone who has memories that overlap with mine.

Thank you to my readers for your support and encouragement.  You have been a blessing to me.

I’m signing off now.

We won’t Always have Paris

I’ve been away from my blogging for a few days now, 2 of which were because I was having too  much fun to find time (Bless you SP and CC for your friendship).  The other missed days were because of being snowed under with work and/or snowed under by sadness.

So on with the show....

When their profound love affair came to an end, by the unexpected resurrection of Victor Laszlow, Rick and Ilsa (Bogart and Bergman) take comfort in knowing they will always have their time in Paris as a memory of their love before things became complicated.  Regrettably, I don’t have that source of comfort.

My husband and I were in Paris over Easter many years ago, when our relationship was still relatively new.   We held hands walking on the Champs Élysées; we stood on the Eiffel Tower and gasped at the stunning view of the city; we toured the Louvre and bought prints to bring home to frame for the house we knew we’d have together some day.  We took the Metro to the Place de la Bastille, and went to Notre Dame Cathedral on Good Friday.  We made love during the few hours per day we spent in our miniscule auberge room which was not much bigger than the size of our double bed.

Now, those memories of a couple who loved each other with fierce tenderness... those memories of a relationship that was so solidly full of promise... must be filtered through what I know now about my husband’s feelings for me.  Our marriage did not end because a wife, whom he believed to be dead, turned out to be alive and well and in hiding from the Nazis.  Our time together was not abruptly ended by him being taken away to prison, or stricken by a terminal illness. Our marriage ended because he decided he’d been wrong about me.  It seems, I was not, after all, of the same ilk as the women in his mother’s family.*  I was not Ilsa Lund, June Cleaver or Mary Hatch (in Casablanca, Leave it to Beaver and It’s a Wonderful Life, respectively).  I was not the good, solid, devoted homemaker who took care of her family’s needs and had no needs of her own. I suppose that means that our marriage was a casualty of the feminist revolution.

So what am I to do with Paris (and all those other wonderful memories of days spent wrapped in each other’s ‘love’)?  If I am not whom he thought I was, then he was loving someone else in Paris.  He was loving an ideal he imagined me to be. If he wasn’t loving ME, then my memories of basking in his affection become meaningless.  If he’d died before having the ‘epiphany’ that I was flawed, or if he’d disappeared in the night -like a dissident in a fascist regime- before realizing I was not his perfect woman after all- then my memories would be intact and secure.  But he did something worse than dying or disappearing. He repudiated his love for me and declared that he’d been wrong about me for 13 years.  He didn’t say “I don’t love you anymore” in which case at least Paris would still be real.  He said he’d believed in error for all those years that I was a good woman.

He didn’t leave me Paris. He wrenched it away from my pleading hands.

I am going back to Paris this summer on a work-related trip.  I am taking my daughter and I am going to hit the over-write button on my metaphorical keyboard.  I will create a whole new set of memories of the streets of that beautiful city that can’t be taken away from me.  THEN, when life gets hard or complicated or uneventful- I WILL always have Paris.

* Incidentally, I believe his mother (who I am certain felt affection for me), if she could speak from heaven, would challenge him on his revised estimation of my character.

The Great Depression

The stats on my blog site indicate that the entry which has been the most widely read is the one I wrote on February 18th entitled Depression: The Refiner’s Fire? I can only assume that the title must attract readers because there are so many of us out there who struggle with the problem of depression. So, that being the case, I’ve named tonight’s blog entry accordingly, since it also deals with a recent bit of blackness that consumed me.

 On Monday April 4^th I announced that it was “Day One of a New Year”, and on that day I committed to vigorous forward movement on the path to healing.  And I maintained that commitment unwaveringly right up until Thursday April 21^st.  Seventeen and one half days of forward steps only.  I really thought I had turned a corner once and for all.  In the early afternoon of the 21^st, I felt a strange sensation descending upon my head and settling on my chest.  It felt a lot like the slow onset of a headache in the couple of hours before it turns into a full-blown migraine.  After my father had his second heart attack, I asked him if he felt it coming on, and his answer was that he did not have pain but rather he had a strong feeling of ‘impending doom’.  So to borrow from my father I will say there was a strong sense of impending doom enveloping me. I had a lovely dinner with two dear friends and was distracted from it for a while, but by the time I returned home at 9:00 p.m., I was completely at its mercy.  I called my mother and cancelled my 4-day trip home for Easter, and surrendered to the ‘black dog’ which had been snapping at my heels for hours.

I spent the next three days either crying or sleeping, and wondering, yet again, why my husband could not see past my flaws and shortcomings and recognize me for the good woman I am.  It began to matter all over again that he’d deemed me unfit to be his partner.  My newly acquired “it’s his loss” armour slipped off my shoulders and was replaced with the “why am I not good enough?” straight jacket.  I fell back into thinking that I had to find a way to make him want me, and when that led nowhere I fell back into letting my mind explore the potential implications of giving up the good fight once and for all-  by inviting an aneurism to escort me into the big sleep, (or a cardiac arrest or a run-away blood clot... whatever God saw fit to strike me with).

So I reneged on my deal with my creator.  Earlier this month, on my little altar in the forest, I had placed a stone to mark the surrendering of my belief that I could only be happy if my marriage was restored.  I also placed there some tree bark to represent peeling from my body, the dead skin which had, on occasion, made death seem like a viable pain management option.  Yet here I was on Easter weekend voluntarily picking up those 2 cumbersome weights again after discarding them a couple of weeks earlier. 

It took a lot of crying (and I don’t mean snivelling and dabbing at my nose with a tissue... I mean sobs that were jet-propelled from my chest) and a lot of sleeping, but by Sunday evening I could feel the cloud lifting.

I don’t know why I needed to be re-routed on my path to recovery.  I don’t know what prompted that wave of grief to return and settle in for 3 days, and I don’t know how to prevent it from happening again.  I decided, however, that I ought best to re-release those twin fetters rather than declaring my mission a failure (much like after cheating a little on a diet, there’s no point in feeling so deflated that you eat the entire cake). So here’s what I did.  I went back to my altar Monday evening before sunset and searched the forest floor for two suitable symbols to represent my second surrendering of my marriage and my death wish.

Not far from where I stood, I saw two snails side by side.  I picked them up and relocated them to my altar, knowing that they will have moved on before my next visit to the woods... and thinking that their disappearance would be entirely fitting!



The Fat Lady hasn’t Sung Yet

I’ve been thinking a fair amount lately about when I should wrap up this blog.  I’ve been doing so well lately in the ‘recovery’ process, and it seems a bit narcissistic to ramble on forever about minor daily ups and downs.  What will be the sign that enough is enough?  I considered singing my ‘swan song’ when I reached 10,000 hits on my site, which leaves me about one thousand left to go.  It seems like a nice round number... sort of like Oprah shutting down after “25” years.  Alternatively I thought I should set a reasonable benchmark- like 30 days without an emotional setback- as an indicator that I am over the hump and could no longer accurately claim to be in recovery.  Or is it like being an alcoholic?  Once a reject, always a reject?  Once dumped, always woe-begotten?  I should know, that being my life story and all!  Another option would be to end my blog when my divorce becomes final in about 3 months or so- that sounds like a good time to fade out.

I mean it can’t go on forever right?  I can’t maintain it forever.  I can’t have my divorce recovery blog transition into a blog on “Learning to Love your Grey Hair” or “Sensational Sex in Your Sixties” or “Being a Single, Sexy Senior”.

One thing I do know for certain is that this blog will not conclude with a fairy tale ending.  It will not slowly morph into a blog about dating again, or trusting again or finding love again.  Not because I am ruling those things out entirely (unlikely and unwelcome as they are), but because I refuse to accept being in a new relationship as an indication of having successfully moved on.  In fact I think a new relationship, undertaken too soon, is the antithesis of recovery. It is a distraction from reflecting on one’s part in the breakdown of the marriage.  It creates a false sense of well-being and a false perception of what was wrong in the relationship.  Everything smells like roses in a new relationship, and when compared with one’s marriage, it is all too easy to conclude that the marriage had become too much work, or had lost its magic, or had never felt this good.  It’s all too easy to conclude that the problem was that the previous partner was deficient.  How can I compete with a woman who doesn’t have to raise his children, clean his house and organize his life? I think I actually understand now that statement that some men just can’t be alone, so when one relationship ends (or before it ends) they have another one in place to move on to. (Sorry to end the previous sentence with grammatical awkwardness,  but it sounds too pedantic to say “they have another one in place to which to move on”.)  As my friend SP said “Men need a soft place to land”, and I was that soft place when his previous marriage ended.  Now he’s got another soft place where he can keep warm without me.

Oops a bit of bitterness creeping into my words there!  Perhaps that should be my benchmark- when I can genuinely wish my husband well in his new relationship, then I’ll know that I’ve fully recovered... then I’ll believe that our breakup was a good thing because I’ll be so fulfilled in my new life... as a nun, as a bespectacled, round-shouldered old professor or as the wacky neighbourhood lady who takes in all the stray animals.

So just as I was thinking that I was doing too well to continue writing a blog on divorce recovery, I had a major setback this weekend.  Three days of tears, endless sleeping, and the return of the death wish (hence my two day hiatus from blogging).  I’ve sorted that out now with my creator  and I think I understand what was going on (more on this tomorrow), but it made me realize that perhaps I am not quite as recovered as I thought I was. Perhaps I was being a tad hasty in my self-diagnosis.

 On a happier note, I should add that I am getting tremendously affirming feedback from readers (in 30 countries!), and apparently my experiences are resonating with women and providing comfort as they see themselves in my descriptions of grief, pain, depression and occasional triumphs on this road back to being whole.  That alone is reason enough to keep writing.

Easter: more than just Bunnies!

Since it’s Easter, I thought it was a good time to reflect on what my Christian faith means to me, so here’s the top ten lessons I’ve learned as a Christian, and which have shaped my worldview substantially especially in the past year:

1.       God can make good come of anything- even the crappiest of life circumstances.

2.       Forgiveness is a discipline not a feeling that you have to wait for before taking action.

3.       When we weep, God weeps with us.

4.       It is entirely possible to be completely and utterly redeemed of all your screw-ups.

5.       God wants only the very best for us.

6.       God wants us to be happy in a lasting way, in a way that is not dependent on circumstances or relationships.

7.       Grace is a gift that you never get tired of receiving.

8.       Only God can fill those cracks and crevices in our souls that long to be loved, healed, and acknowledged.

9.       No human partner (or canine J) can offer a love that you can entirely depend upon.  Only God’s love is accessible to you always.

10.   When God chooses not to answer a prayer, He has a really really good reason.  Trust that He knows what He is doing.

The Sounds of Silence

Why has no one ever told me to get a dog?  How have I lived almost a half century without realizing that dogs improve your quality of life exponentially?  How did I not know what a sedentary life I’d been leading.  I thought I’d hate having a dog- he was my daughter’s consolation prize when we had to move out of our home a year ago ... “Sorry you have only 72 hours to pack up your whole life in these boxes...but hey... look at the bright side. You can have the dog you’ve been asking for since you came out of the womb”.  He was the single biggest sacrifice I’ve ever made in the line of maternal duty.  Who’d have believed I’d fall so deeply in love with this creature... currently the only male in my life, currently the only male who wants to jump my bones, currently the only male who loves me unconditionally, enthusiastically and whole-heartedly.  Not only is he good for my self-esteem (who can resist being adored?),  and my waistline (how could I not run with him daily when he is such an extraordinary athlete and my house is so small?), but spending time outdoors with him is good for my head as well.... sooo good!  My thoughts become more precise and clear.  My senses become activated.  My inner hard drive deletes temporary files that have been slowing my thinking processes down.  Today on our walk, I decided to pay attention to all the sounds of nature going on  around me.  In what world would I ever have done something like that before?  So I walked for an hour, like the bionic woman*- with my super-hearing tuned to every oscillating sound wave.

The twittering of tiny little birds that could fit entirely in the palm of my hand sounded remarkably  like the alarm on my daughter’s ten dollar alarm clock . The rush of the Don River sounded very much like the rush of the cars speeding overhead on the 401 which from where I stood looked like a highway on stilts. The tall dry grasses being trampled under my dog’s feet made the snapping sound of damp logs in a fireplace, and the sound of his absurdly long nails on the paved parts of the trail made the sound mosquitoes make as they fly into those electrical zapping machines.    The tall young trees stretched by the force of the wind were making squeaky aching sounds from their trunks while their branches clicked together like chopsticks in a dim sum restaurant. 

At one point on the trail, for about 10 feet, someone had hung little Easter egg ornaments at toddler height on the branches of bushes.  'Whatever for?' I wondered.  Was it a child who’d left this pleasant surprise?  A parent gearing up for an Easter Egg hunt on the weekend?  

Who knows?  But I may look for them tomorrow if I go back that way again.



 * a cultural reference appreciated only by TV watchers in the late 1970's



Tall dry grasses



My Dog's ridiculously long Nails





















 



The little bird's nest

 

Aching trees

Highway 401 on stilts















  































A Dime Waiting on a Dollar

This is not my expression- I read it once in a Deborah Tannen book.  It means that when there is waiting to be done, the person of lower status must wait for the person of higher status rather than the other way around.  That’s why the boss has his assistant place a call for him, and then notify him when the telephone conversation can begin.  His time is too important to waste dialling a phone number and waiting for the ringing to cease when the recipient of the call picks up the receiver.

People who are bosses do it all the time in the workplace and then occasionally they bring that superiority complex home, forgetting that their partners are their equals not their subordinates.  And their partners, eager to show  good naturedness are slow to call them on it, and after a few lapses, it becomes the norm for one partner to take on the role of the dime, allowing the other to be the dollar.  We, silly subordinated partners, facilitate it even.  We are good natured about waiting on street corners, about sitting alone in restaurants, about standing on porch steps (early in the relationship before house keys are exchanged), about sitting in hot parked cars.  Why?  Because the other person is “so busy”. His... (or her- but who are we kidding here? It’s the women who do the waiting!)... his time is “so valuable”.  We are grateful for any shred of time that has been allotted to us.

It’s only when it has completely infiltrated the home front that it sinks in... when you hear that tone that is used with assistants: “You’ll need to call the lawn guy today” or “I’ll need to have this ready by tomorrow”... that’s when you realize that he thinks you’re on his payroll.  But you’re not.  You have a job too.  A busy one, a prestigious one, a demanding one, a well-paying one.  So why do we do that contortionist trick of seeing how far we can stretch and bend and twist to help someone else juggle their career and home life demands? Why do we rearrange our schedules to accommodate theirs?  When has that arrangement ever been reversed?

It's really remarkable how we settle into these patterns of behaviour without realizing what is happening. Both parties are guilty- one for taking too much and one for giving too much.  If I could do it over again, there's a lot I'd do differently.