Yesterday was the memorial for my soon-to-be-ex-husband’s mom, who died on Christmas eve. All day yesterday and the evening prior, I was surrounded by him, my kids, his large extended family. There were stories and slide shows of the years passed. It was a lovely tribute to a woman who was larger than life, outspoken, colorful, brash, and, yet, nurturing. Her four children are all beautiful, successful people with careers, families and friends of their own. The mood was light and the tributes were littered with funny stories and perspectives. Her second son, my husband, shared his that he has always been his mom’s favorite and now that she’s gone no one can confirm or deny it. He meant it teasingly, in jest, but the thing is, it’s truly how he feels. And everyone in the room knows how special he is. He has always been the darling of the family, held in extremely high regard and anointed. And his grandmother was the same way with him. As his wife of 25 years, I have always known this.

Now that our marriage is ending, I am the pariah in the room. How could *I* be such a fool/bitch/idiot/disrespectful/critical/stupid woman to let this prince go?

And, I confess that I fall prey to that notion. How could I? How is it that after 25 years together I couldn’t feel how much he loved me when he would sleep while I drove, rather than speak to me? Or, converse with the kids before bed, but slip back down the stairs to his basement office without looking in on me, also going to bed? Or, never hold me in the kitchen, or the shower, or the bedroom? How could I walk away from this golden man? How dare I want more.

As I sit here now, tears stream down my face. Rather than feeling empowered by this truth of the loneliness of living with him, of always feeling 3rd, 4th, 5th down the line to everyone else he encountered, family, friends, football games, customer service reps on the phone, I do not feel comforted. I feel like there must be something wrong with me. Why was this man, this life, not enough for me?

I loved him. I still do. And I am breaking my own heart by leaving this marriage. But my heart also knows how abandoned it has felt these past years. How disconnected, unheard, unfelt. But I am not a bottomless pit incapable of receiving love. I am a woman who deserves to be loved in a way that feels like love to me. More than a nice house, good insurance. More than words of commitment, followed by acts of abandonment.

Somehow, I have to gather the strength to continue. To take care of my heart. Even thought that means leaving this prince behind.

When my kids were little, I used to tell them that the two most important lessons I could teach them were, 1) how to go to sleep on their own, and 2) that life isn’t fair. Here, in the 6th month of my marital separation, I am finding those two lessons incredibly vital.

My husband and I only overlapped in our bed for about 5 or 6 hours a night, due to our dissonant schedules. So, for the past 25 years, falling asleep has been a time of sadness and loneliness. To combat it, I will turn one of my extra pillows long-wise, so at least I can hug it while I fall asleep. 

Even though I believe that somehow, someday, karma will come around to those who’ve wronged me, that knowledge doesn’t ease the sting of the injustice of being on the inequitable distribution side of the table. Sure as shit, life isn’t fair. But, if I can keep my head held high and keep on walking through the drama, the muck, the unfairness, I know that on the opposite side there is–at the very least–growth and acceptance.

I have a safe and quiet place to live. My girls are happy. I am happy. We all can breathe. I can write. I can work. I can set up my massage table and offer healing. It will be ok.

When it feels like life’s tidal waves are crashing against me, I can remember: I am not the boat at the mercy of the current. I am the ocean. I can ebb and flow; withdraw or swell. I am mighty and powerful and peaceful. And tomorrow, after the storms pass, I may be an entirely different environment than I am today. But I will still be here. I will still be here. 

And the ones that can know you so well are the ones that can swallow you whole. I have a good and I have an evil, I thought the ocean, the ocean thought nothing. You are the welcoming back from the ocean. “The Ocean” by Dar Williams.

(Blog post title and lyrics used without permission from Dar, but I think she’d say it’s ok.) 

It’s been said that the decision to have a child is to agree to having your heart walk go walking around outside your body.

And you want them to leave you. You do. Isn’t that the ultimate goal of parenting? To teach them to fly?

But that doesn’t quell the ache that settles deep in your heart, behind your eyes, at the base of your throat, as they pack up their bags and pillows, backpacks and guitars,

Until the next time they descend upon you.

Four days here, three days there, and in-between, the shared and the missed laughter, stories, songs. How I love those two independent pieces of my heart!

But, standing in the parking lot, watching them, the pieces still left in my chest tear and pull and break, as the yellow car and the red tail lights disappear through the snow.

“Making the decision to have a child – it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body. ”
― Elizabeth Stone

It’s Wednesday morning, 8am. The shoes that have lined the hallway for the past 4 days are making their way back home. To their father’s house. Since last July, they’ve been with me Sundays thru Wednesdays, and the alternating Saturday night.

Over Christmas, my eldest hosted her annual Hanukkah party for her friends. A diverse group of American kids whose parents were born in China, India, Pakistan, Maryland, Afghanistan, Poland, Iran. When they arrive, for latkes and matzo ball soup, they bring with them Biryani, Curries, Pierogies. What I enjoy, nearly as much as the delicious food, is the giant pile of shoes by the front door. Dozens of shoes from these kids, who’ve brought so many colors and flavors from their home into ours. The pile means they’re here for awhile, to get comfortable, to feel at home.

Back at the apartment, when the girls stay with me, my quiet, solo existence gets turned on its head. The uncluttered coffee table becomes covered in papers, pens, dishes, puzzles, cds, laptops. There’s music and song and hot chocolate and “Party of Five” on Netflix. I look up, along the entry way wall, and see them: Granny boots, black suede booties, running shoes, Uggs. Confirmation that the girls live here, too.

After 5 months, we’ve got the routine down. Everyone is feeling their own space, breath. It’s good. It’s just those damned shoes that get to me. Or, rather, the absence of them. On Wednesdays.