Tag: divorce

baggage my ex left

I learned a lot in a decade of marriage to my ex. I developed several positive habits, and I loved the feelings I would get early in our relationship when I realized some wonderful change my husband had brought about in me. Love transforms. And that’s beautiful.

But relationships can also wreak great damage and destruction.

We all come with baggage, expectations or perspectives imposed or imprinted upon us through our upbringing, life experiences and major relationships.

Following are examples of the emotional baggage from my marriage that I need to shed:

I’ve let myself go and am undesirable.

I’ve come clean about the fact that I’ve put on a few pounds (like nearly 30) since having a second child or turning 35 or whatever reason / excuse I give myself. My ex used to tell others (I learned after I ended our marriage) that I “had let myself go.” He constantly judged others based on their weight. He made a joke of taking photos of me only when I was eating (as if to show that was all I did). And his lagging libido didn’t exactly make me feel desirable, either. One way he could feel good about himself was his body — he was sexy and fit and attractive, even at more than a decade my senior.

Truth is, I am well-proportioned and attractive — I come from good stock, and my DNA allows me the blessing of being able to wear a few extra pounds better than most people can. I’ve had more than a few guys (and a few gals) indicate that they find me sexy or attractive. Sure, I’d like to release some extra poundage, but I don’t let that stand in the way of living to the fullest. I accept myself for the sexy, curvy woman that I am, while working to create positive, healthy change from here.

I’m materialistic because I want things.

Another of the ways my ex made up for his own insecurities (he was not a good earner) was to scorn me for having wants and desires. Anyone who knows me is aware that I’m not a bigger- or more-is-better kind of gal. I live lean and green. I like having things around me that are nice, that function, that are beautiful and give me feelings of comfort, peace and security. I want a new car not because my old one is not good enough, but because it’s falling apart and I don’t feel safe. I’d like to take some road trips, and I’m not comfortable venturing outside of the city in the current state of my jalopy. I like receiving gifts because I feel considered. I like wearing nice sunglasses because I’m more likely to keep track of and take care of them than I am a drugstore pair, which ultimately saves money in the long run. I like to travel internationally and consider the experience an investment.

My ex never cared to understand or accept these things and tried to make me feel small for my innate tendencies. And now I have to learn to let go of his judgment and allow myself to want things, and to know that it’s okay to have wants, and to share my wants and desires. Because I feel pretty sure there are others out there who will help me in my path, rather than stand in the way.

I suspect there are more ugly bags that I’ll find and release over the next months, and probably some that I won’t locate until I’m in another relationship. I hope, by then, that I’ve developed the wisdom and insight and tools to manage to clean them up in a way that’s mature and respectful. But in the mean time, I think I’ll use a sledgehammer on these old, worn-out beliefs…if I can only figure out how to do it!

love is tragic

I grew up in a houseful of books, and I’m certain I’d read just about everything on the shelves at least once by the time I was 13. By this I mean Anna Karenina, Jane Eyre, books by Wharton, Austen, Dickens, etc. — all before achieving a level of emotional maturity or ability to discuss and interpret the themes found in several of these novels.

Combine this with my parents’ off-and-on tumultuous relationship, and it’s no wonder I’ve grown up believing that tragic love is the norm. In fact, I think I’ve always expected that love would be romantic, passionate, dramatic, heart-wrenching and that there would be obstacles to be overcome.

The early part of my relationship with my husband was full of these things. My love for him was ferocious, we pined for one another when we were apart, and I was certain we could overcome anything.

And then our life together became routine and steady. Ultimately, it was the boring, staid comfort of sharing daily life that I loved the most. For many years, I loved going home to him, the warmth of his body next to mine in bed each night, communicating in the shorthand we developed over time, his scent each morning when we hugged in the kitchen.

I’d like to believe that I’ve learned and matured enough to turn around and run if love comes with drama, tragedy and the kind of obstacles with lingering effects. Sure, I’m still hoping for a little romance, chemistry and excitement in my future, but I’ll be holding out for loving behaviors tempered by steadiness, companionship and responsibility.

what to do with the ring?

About six month ago…

While traveling together, a co-worker asked, “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure,” I said, “but I may decline to answer…”

“What will you do with your ring?”

Without hesitation (I’ve thought about this before), I replied, “I’m going to have the stones re-set into a new, ‘Let Freedom Ring’ for my right hand.”

“That is so awesome!” she exclaimed. “And unexpected. The second I blurted it out, I regretted asking in the first place. And your answer makes me so glad I did. Good for you!”

It may be awhile before the “Let Freedom Ring” becomes a priority (or a financial possibility). But my ring meant a lot to me when I wore it. It was difficult to make the decision to take it off. I invested a lot of love and tears into the commitment those diamonds symbolized, and I intend to continue wearing them — but, going forward, they will symbolize my commitment to myself.

flirting in 160 characters or less

About 17 months ago…

If you’ve been following and reading about my attraction to Max, you’ve read that we’ve shared some powerful words via text. And so began our flirtation, in 160 characters or less.

Who knew this genre could be so complicated? I soon learned to edit my thoughts into a single, 160-character message, as well as how many ways I could possibly communicate in this abbreviated form:

  • start an exchange,
  • keep the conversation going,
  • end a conversation,
  • have the last word (and realized this was not entirely desirable)
  • and more.

We texted almost daily. Nothing inappropriate, just flirtatious. It became such a lifeline for me that I began checking my phone in the middle of the night to see if Max had texted me. After all, we were in different time zones and he often texted after I had gone to sleep. It was nice to wake and get a sweet message like, “I have a hard time believing that the man in your home doesn’t appreciate you” or “How did it take this long for us to find each other?”

There was never a time when I took any of these things to mean more than the sweet thoughts that they were. A flirtation blossomed.

Were we crossing the lines of what was appropriate, given that Max was married? I suppose a few times we did. But one of us always brought the conversation back into the realm of what was safe and appropriate.

dedicated to my ex

I’m in a crabby funk of a mood today. And so I’m going to share a poem I wrote for my ex:

you are lying next to me
near, yet far away
I lie here sleepless, thinking
that even your snoring
is shallow.

 

I long dreamt of becoming a writer. Even while I studied Communications and Business in college, I audited creative writing and poetry courses to feed my passion.

You could call me a late bloomer. I wrote short stories in my twenties, struggling with characters I felt were incomplete and immature. It took me until after I had my second child to grow up in many ways. That’s when I began to find my voice, so to speak…er, write.

It’s also when my ex began to come across my writing (on his laptop) and criticize it. So this is the last poem I’ve written, probably four or five years ago now. But I have a feeling I may soon be churning out a whole lot more!

bungling the big stuff

It’s taken me remarkably little self-reflection to grasp that I haven’t approached relationships with the habits or behaviors that will allow me (and the relationship) to be successful. After all, where on Earth would I have learned healthy and appropriate behaviors or seen such examples?!

Let’s digress for a moment to my childhood within the environs of my parents’ spectacularly unhappy situation:  I recall being a small girl, playing with a Little People toy set, moving the characters around on the living room floor. I was an avid Sunday school student, and I suddenly had the thought that God must maneuver humans (and all living creatures) in the same way I was manipulating these small toys in play. What a thought! It was a big job, but God was all-powerful and everywhere… Still, I remember with absolute clarity thinking that, when creating my family, God had put two wrong people in this house together. At age four or five, this was my first conscious thought about my parents’ relationship.

Fast forward about 35 years. My own marriage failed spectacularly — due in large part, I’m realizing, to my utter cluelessness about how to be a woman in a relationship. I expect a man to behave like a man — he should provide, have good manners, be handy about the house and with the car (or at least earn enough to pay others to take care of them), among other things. My husband did not do these things. But were his failings caused, in part, by my own inability to provide the feminine energy in our relationship?

What if all the behaviors that allow me to be effective in professional and / or general life situations are jeopardizing my domestic happiness? In the absence of having a truly masculine presence at home, I’d taken charge…and became “the man.” And then I resented my husband for not being the man.

Let’s look at another hypothetical example:

Let’s say I’ve been flirting around with a fellow I’ve known for some time, and I’ve come to rather like him. I mean, I like him such that I’d definitely like to explore the energy between us, as I think we may have potential.

Imagine this fellow has said to me things like, “I like you” and “I think I’m falling for you.”

What would I have done in this situation? I’d have let him know directly, in no uncertain terms, that I’m interested. And in so doing, I’d most likely have ceased to be even remotely intriguing. I’d have taken away the chase, the feminine mystery, and circumvented any avenue or opportunity that might have allowed him to feel masculine.

This is how I’m bungling the “big stuff,” failing at relationships that could well be a big part of my equation for long-term satisfaction and contentment. Stay tuned for what I’m learning about how to stop messing it up!

miss you already

About 17 months ago…

Two girlfriends and I were having a few cocktails after work, one of whom has been married for more than a decade — really married, and the other successful, single and not dating. In other words, I was clearly providing the conversation / drama / entertainment.

No one really ever wants to talk about divorce in public. The heartbreak, the pain — it’s all better swept under the rug lest the weepies rear their ugly heads. And so I told them about Max and what happened since I’d last seen him.

“You texted WHAT?,” Cynthia asked. “How could you?!”

“What?,” I asked innocently, “‘Miss you already’ is perfectly innocent. I would say the same thing to a girlfriend or a niece or my own children.”

“He’s not your girlfriend or niece,” Cynthia pressed. “It was suggestive. And he’s a married man!”

“Seriously, it’s not as though I told him I wanted to get naked and rub my body up against him,” I argued.

Cynthia:  “No, that would have been being direct.”

Kristine, meanwhile, was doubled over with laughter and merely kept repeating, “Miss you already. Miss you already. That is priceless!”

They asked what happened next, they made me show them photos and then I told them about Max’s wife:

“You told her you had a crush on her husband?!,” they asked incredulously. I generally gravitate toward honesty. I may not always be appropriate or have the best boundaries, but I have my ethics.

“Yes,” I confirmed. “And she was cool, she was fun, and she was as inappropriate as any of us. And she would fit in perfectly sitting right here with us in this empty chair. We would have a grand time!”

Even as we put on our wraps, paid the tab and walked out of the bar, the girls were still laughing and giggling over what would become our inside joke:  “miss you already!”

how I became a text maniac

About 18 months ago…

As I boarded my flight home after my trip to Max’s region, I texted him a quick note: “Miss you already!”

I didn’t think much of the casual salutation — it was something I would have said to my children or a girlfriend — just a fun, breezy farewell. By the time I landed, there was a message on my data phone. It was from Max:

“You have no idea. We have a special relationship.”

Wha…? I reeled. Max had feelings for me. Here, in the palm of my hand, was actual confirmation that this gorgeous man reciprocated, in some form, the feelings I had for him. My heart was pounding; butterflies were fluttering in my stomach. I didn’t know what to think. I could barely resist the urge to board a flight back to Max. Of course in reality Max would be home with his wife and daughters…but he felt something for me!

There was so much I wanted to say. I tried to capture what I was feeling, and then edited and edited it down until it fit into the 160 characters of a single text message:

“I do have an idea…several, in fact. I will content myself with the quantum possibility that in some parallel universe we are free to explore them.”

Several hours later, Max texted back. “LOVE the way you put that. Talk soon.”

descend the vultures

People are vultures — drawn, circling, to the wreckage. Sometimes without even realizing it.

At cocktail parties, public gatherings, all kinds of social occasions, people want to ask me, press me about my divorce.

“Are you okay?” one of them will ask meaningfully, leaning in close to suggest a safe haven in which for me to confide, despite the fact I’ve neither seen nor heard from said personage for at least the past year.

“Yes,” I reply. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“No, really…?” one will surely persist, as if he is my very best friend, and has endured relationship challenges of comparable magnitude, and this public place is an appropriate venue for this type of intimate discussion.

“Yes. It’s a transition, of course, but we’re adjusting,” I’ll say, offering up what I hope will be enough information so that I can change the subject directly. Blah, blah, blah…I have talked with genuine confidants until my face is blue and have no further interest in this topic. Truly.

Others around us are laughing, sipping, glasses clinking. This “friend” will continue to push with various probing questions or statements, e.g. “It must be really hard, what you’re going through,” until eventually, a glassy tear pools in the corner of my eye and my face begins to crumple into what I can only imagine is the same contorted, pained expression I’ve seen countless times as I’ve looked, weeping uncontrollably, into the bathroom mirror, wondering to whom that miserable reflection could possibly belong. I am fighting to stem the tears, fighting a losing game.

And then this well-intentioned fool will pull out the comforting words and pat my arm or embrace me, full of the triumph of finally getting through to me. “I’ve never seen you cry,” he will say, as if my tears are a trophy. He’s won.

Jesus, I’ve spent half of the past fucking decade in tears! Breaking down in public places, among strangers, in a conference room with my boss, when a co-worker makes a generous gesture. And I’d really like to be done crying, thank you. Or at least to spare myself some embarrassment by limiting breakdowns to the privacy of my home. If that’s okay.

People are vultures. They’ll circle the wreckage looking, waiting, watching, craning their necks to see what they can of the wreck, hoping for a glimpse of blood or severed limb.