writing about divorce

I’ve been planning this blog for some time and, ultimately, determined to launch in the autumn of 2010. I bought myself a new laptop for my birthday, began the research and, just as I was setting up my site, Huffington Post Divorce launched — an entire section of the website devoted to the topic of failed marriages, edited by none other than Nora Ephron.

Almost immediately, there was a lot of content: some interesting and insightful, some pedestrian and amateur, some expert relationship advice, some personal experience, some research, some celebrity gossip. In any case, seems everyone is getting divorced — or at least writing about it. I believe it will be a wonderful resource for many, and I’ve found more than a few articles that have resonated with me.

I wonder if it will make everything I’m writing about moot, redundant or done before. Yet I plan to continue writing about my experience anyway. While the fact of my failed marriage is central to why I’m writing, I don’t think it’s ultimately what this blog is about.

failed at forty

I suppose it’s time I addressed the title of my blog. The truth is, it wasn’t my first choice. I had a lot of ideas…until I Googled those working titles and some explicitly naughty things came up (…seems the XXX folks can find a way to associate nearly any topic with their content). I went through an entire list, hopes dashed. I awoke the next morning with “Failed at Forty” in my head, Googled it, and then began right away. I’m calling it inspired.

A few months ago, I turned forty. At the time, I faced this milestone with more than a modicum of dread. These “big” birthdays often inspire a deeper level of self-reflection than the one-through-fours or six-through-nines, and all I could think about was how far from what I wanted my life had become.

I think that I expected, at forty, to be happily married. If pressed to elaborate, I might have come up with something like this: My husband would be handsome and successful, a lawyer or architect or something; he’d love spending time with me and our children; he would surprise me with gifts of Marc Jacobs handbags, David Yurman jewelry, books and other things I love. I would be happy and successful in my career. My husband and I would take turns shuttling our children from school to piano lessons to soccer and skiing. We would have a spacious home, support the arts, entertain often and take Caribbean and ski vacations. I was sure I’d be celebrating my fortieth with a spectacular trip to the Amalfi Coast, Paris or Thailand with my loving husband.

In fact, I spent my birthday at home in middle America, paying off my ex’s debt and setting a court date. I had contemplated a trip somewhere by myself, perhaps to visit a friend, but some unhappy financial surprises would have made such an extravagance imprudent. Sure I went out with girlfriends, but my heart was not engaged in any sort of celebration. I felt like a failure. So much of what I wanted seemed further from my grasp than ever. To be honest, I was pretty depressed about my situation.

The brilliant thing about failure is that, with time, it brings about great clarity. It is because of the experiences I’ve had — my failed relationship, my attainment of a mediocre position in my career — that I now know more clearly than ever what is truly and deeply important to me. I have a fairly well-developed grasp of my own strengths and weaknesses, and have discovered what makes me feel whole, fulfilled and alive. I am grateful for these lessons learned.

Thus, it is because I am failed at forty that I am more poised than ever to set about creating the life I truly want. And that, my friends, feels like a pretty darned blessed place to be!

my best friend

Two and a half years ago…

One of the turning points in my decision to admit the failure of my marriage was this:

I was in my OB-GYN’s office for an annual. She asked generally about my health and specifically about my stress levels, which I admitted were pretty high. I told her my spouse and I had been having marital problems and were discussing a split.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “When did he stop being your best friend?”

This simple question had blown me away. I was stupefied. Dumbfounded. I had long since forgotten that we were supposed to have been on the same team, working toward the same goals, cheering each other on. I had forgotten what it felt like to have someone there supporting me.

And then it dawned on me: he had been my best friend for the first year. Something changed after that, and he turned me into an adversary. Everything I said seemed to be filtered through a different lens, interpreted in a way so negative that anyone who knew me would surely know it couldn’t possibly have been meant that way. Was it because I had become comfortable and less careful with my words? Was it the stress of starting a family? Or moving to a larger home?

Whatever the case, I recall it being distressing at the time. I recall trying to remedy this disturbing change. And I recall hoping it was a phase that would pass. Instead, I must have just grown accustomed to it.

I wonder: is it even realistic in today’s world to believe that we can find a mate who, years later, will still be a best friend and confidante? Is it a pipe dream to think that maybe I, too, can be that elderly woman holding hands with an elderly man as they stroll companionably through the park, their love worn and comfortable, having together weathered years of adversity, triumph, joy and loss?

fairy tales

About 21 months ago…

My fantasies about Max had taken on a life of their own. Despite knowing he was engaged, I allowed my imagination to reinvent him as a single, available man — and one who was interested in me. I simply closed my eyes and let my mind play scenes of our time together talking, flirting, realizing that there was something special between us that was worth exploring.

All of this escapism only goes to show how nimble the human mind can be.

After all, the facts were:

Max and I lived several hundred miles apart,
he had not expressed any interest in me,
my ex hadn’t moved out of our home — in fact, I hadn’t even asked him to yet — and he was unlikely to bless any plan that involved his children moving across the country, and
let’s not forget that in reality, Max was engaged and would be married any day now.

These dreams were all me, indulging an imagination that wanted to run wild. Perhaps a complete escape from reality was exactly what I needed.

Finally, in my foolish fairy tales, Max asked me to visit him. And then I was stuck: I found myself, even in my fantasies, having to confess that I was not truly available. Even if my marriage had crumbled and was long since over, I had not yet communicated clearly to my ex that I was truly finished trying to overcome our differences nor asked him to move on.

Yet somehow, creating my very own fairy tales was giving me the strength to take those next steps.

why?

As it relates to divorce, “why” is not a question worth asking. There will simply never be a satisfactory answer.

There are those who ask what they contributed to the failure of their relationship, which is truly something we should all explore. But if you’re asking why your partner wanted to leave, you’re never going to truly, fully understand in a meaningful, satisfying way. As far as you’re concerned, there couldn’t possibly be a reason that’s good enough.

the inquiry

About 21 months ago…

I was back in my cubicle at the offul, sticking out late winter in middle America, thinking about Max. I had noticed he was not wearing a ring. How was this possible? Was he a playboy unable to commit? Recently divorced? How old was he, anyway? And why was I suddenly obsessed?

To comprehend the relative importance of this crush, one must understand that it had been months since I had felt wanted or loved, since someone of the opposite sex had shown genuine interest in me, since I’d been touched. Frankly, Max had done none of these things…yet the hope that had sprung up so suddenly inside me reminded me of how badly I needed these things.

So I sent a note to another work friend in Max’s region. I told her how nice it had been to see her, how much I enjoyed meeting her family, asked what the story was with that cute guy Max, and promised to make time for cocktails during my next trip. In journalistic parlance, I buried the lead. And then I waited.

A few days later, I got a reply: The usual pleasantries — and the news that Max was to be married in a few weeks.

You’d think someone with whom I’d spent only a few hours would be easy to forget, but I found myself nursing a powerful work crush — and pondering what type of woman Max was about to marry. I imagined she was twenty-nine, a bottle blond, and had a beach body complete with fake breasts. Surely he deserved someone with more depth and experience, someone real and, well, more like me!

hmm…

Am contemplating that I may one day be online dating again….

After all, where else am I going to meet that special someone who wants to join, create with and contribute to an already existing family of three. Sure I know many who’ve done it — I mean both online dated and joined two families together. It’s just difficult for me to conceptualize at the moment.

that feeling again

21 months ago…

In the midst of what must have been the most miserable few months of my life — I had just come to the agonizing realization that I had to end my marriage, but hadn’t yet communicated it, things were not going well at work, and I was certainly suffering from situational depression or Seasonal Affective Disorder — I went on a work trip to a warmer clime.

My project partner lived in the city I traveled to. I had spoken to him on the phone and emailed with him. I enjoyed his cooperation, responsiveness and playfulness. But I thought nothing more of this fellow, who I shall refer to as Max. (I simply wasn’t emotionally available to think or feel more of this fellow — or anyone else, for that matter.)

While working with Max, I slowly began to notice the following qualities: he was tall, muscular, tan, and had a charming personality. He was helpful, friendly, communicative, willing and calm. He had a nice smile. And here’s the thing that I loved most about Max: he woke me up.

For a long time, I hadn’t felt anything but depression, resentment, anger, betrayal or hurt. I could barely remember feeling any other way. But there was something about Max. Was it possible that he was flirting with me? Now something inside me, that elusive feeling we refer to as chemistry or magnetism, was slowly blooming. I felt as if I were waking from a deep, long slumber. And for the first time in probably six months, I felt hope.

date ready?

My marriage had failed. While still in the midst of slogging through the legal stuff of divorce*, I’m sure it seems strange for me to express a desire to be married again. So many of the folks I know who’ve survived divorce assure me they are perfectly content to never marry again. Some even swear they won’t. Perhaps having yet to experience true partnership, a companionship that I have to believe and hope is possible, it remains my deepest yearning.

Of course, this dream is likely to be in the somewhat distant future. First, my ex has to move out. And then we will both, I hope, focus on the well-being of our children and ensuring that they feel as safe and stable as possible, despite everything.

Still, thinking ahead, it struck me that I will have to learn to date again. More immediately, I must learn to pick men up. And that activities such as these are going to require a level of grooming I must confess to having allowed to taper off some time ago. I am not entirely without vanity; my ex simply never cared.

The fabulous au natural me of more than a decade ago was fit, taut, sexy. The current reality is that I’ve birthed two children, I’m carrying around a bit of extra weight, hair grows in places that it once did not, and I’m going to need to exert a bit more effort than simply shaving my legs and painting my toenails to achieve a condition one single girlfriend refers to as “date ready.”

Is it normal to feel overwhelmed by what I suppose ought to be simple maintenance and upkeep? Add it to the list along with yard work, gardening, housekeeping, earning, parenting — it’s just one more chore. And I’m already exhausted!

*all the final paperwork was sent in by the first week in January, 2011!

the truth: I failed

I ended my marriage. I failed at the single most important relationship in my life. And I failed at the most important thing in my children’s lives: giving them a stable and loving nuclear family.

That’s no small thing.

And even though I know I tried very hard to make it work, and that I’m not solely responsible, that I had to draw the line somewhere as non-negotiables went unmet year after year, and that there were / are truly good and valid reasons it had to end, it was a decision over which I agonized for some months.

So I broke it. It’s done. Finished. And I plan to recall, muse, document the relationship experiences and observations I’ve had through this period of upheaval, transition and adjustment in this blog. It will get much funnier from here — I promise!