Two years ago on Valentine’s Day I spent the night alone in a hotel room. I’d been having an emotional affair with a man I met online and in the course of my marriage-that-I-was-trying-to-save couple’s counseling, we were advised, and I agreed, even signed a commitment, that I would cease any contact with any man outside my marriage. The penalty of breaking that commitment would be two nights sent away from my home. If committed a second, or a third time, the consequences would be upped. On Valentines Day, I received a text from my emotional affair partner and immediately deleted it. He was angry with me because earlier in the week I’d told him I was cutting off all ties. He was compassionate at the time, but after stewing on it for a few days, decided it was unfair. Cruel. So he texted me to tell me so. I read it, felt the sting of the anger, the hurt, and immediately deleted it. And immediately after that, told my then-husband, “Hey, I just want you to know that I just received and deleted a text from ‘him’.” My then-husband’s response? “You’re going to have to find somewhere else to sleep tonight.”

So I packed my overnight bag, grabbed a bottle of wine and my guitar and headed towards an inexpensive hotel nearby.

I was sad. I was lonely. I was angry with myself for fucking up the agreement, not three hours after we’d signed it.  I was shocked that my husband would actually kick me out. But he did.

Two days later, I returned to the house, having made some BS story to the kids that I’d had to go take care of my nephews. I hated lying to them. I hated so much about what was happening: that my beautiful life with my beautiful husband was a train wreck. That I was behaving in a way that was completely incongruous with who I knew myself to be. That my marriage was over, had been over for quite some time, and neither of us wanted to face it.

I thought the counseling we were in was going to save us. Instead, it gave him a label to stick on me (Sex & Love Addict) and me a well of shame to dive into and disappear.

But here’s the thing about me–good or bad, honestly I’m not sure–I am a survivor. So many times I have wanted to give up on everything, give in to the weight of the sadness in my heart, give in to the deep seeded belief that I am not enough. Am not worthy. Don’t actually belong here. How I’ve wished I could give up. But I don’t.

I was born with my umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. And even in those first precious moments of my being on the planet, I knew there wasn’t enough love here for me. And yet, I didn’t die. I lived. I breathed. I god-damned survived. And I’m going to god-damn survive every effing thing life throws at me. That’s the blessing and the curse.

Tonight the man I love shared with me something he’d not wanted to. A truth about himself that he would have rather kept secret. I am so grateful that he told me. That he loves “us” enough to be honest, even though the truth–that truth–was painful to hear, and frankly, too much for me to bear.

I’m a survivor and even though my addiction to being loved is strong enough to take me down with him, I said no. And I walked away. In 12-step they call it “detachment with love.” I call it fucking giving in to being a survivor. Which sucks. I don’t want to be “better”. Love myself enough. Be on a path to recovery. I want to be with him. In the dregs. But my freaking DNA won’t let me. I cannot drown in his habits. I have to swim to the top for air. I have no choice.

Some mornings I wake up so sad. I go out, walk the dog, and the tears just come. As we wend our way around the apartment complex pond, she sniffs out animals hiding in the brush and I sniff away the snot and the salt, stinging my face in the winter wind.

I keep going over it and over it and over it. Where did we go wrong? What was the moment that set us on the path of destruction? I thought we were stronger. I thought we’d have fought to save the crumbling foundation. We both had loved the idea of marriage, if not our marriage. We certainly both loved our family, our girls. Why could we not keep it from falling apart? And then this deeply nagging question: Why wasn’t I good enough, special enough for him to want to keep me? Keep us?

That’s really the most painful realization. I wasn’t special enough. He, the golden child in his family, always the center, granted special treatment, the extra slice of chocolate cake. He was the special-est. But me, too. The youngest, the cutest, the good one, I was the special-est too. Maybe that’s it. There simply wasn’t room for us both. Reading that over now, it all makes perfect sense. But damn it’s painful, to be not-chosen. Not fought for. Not loved enough.

And the thing is, now that I love myself, accept myself, I can’t help but replay the tapes and, wonder, Jesus, if I had changed sooner would I still be there, drinking my coffee at the kitchen island on the cul-de-sac, instead of here?

“Sometimes life sends you gifts wrapped up in ridiculous packaging,” goes the song, Yesterday was like that…

In the morning, I learned from my 14 year old that my [now] ex-husband of 26 years got himself a new, athletic girlfriend. And that she was coming to the house for dinner. And that she doesn’t eat beef. Or lamb. (His two favorite foods). And also, btw, that he’s bought himself a new bike, to go riding together, with her. Twenty-six years ago I bought him a bicycle. To go riding. With me. (Which, he never did.)

Our marriage is over, but the grieving process of what we could not be is in it’s infancy. I’m feeling it hard.

I don’t begrudge him the girlfriend. He deserves joy in his life. But does he have to become for her, the man I always wanted him to be, for me?

Maybe he does.

And maybe he had it in him all along, but for whatever cosmic reason, I just wasn’t the person to bring it out.

And that’s okay.

Because: After I heard this news and I drove, hands squeezing the steering wheel for dear life, to the river–my grounding place–and through my, deep, primal sobs, was comforted over the phone by an old friend, who said all of the right things, I was able to go to work. And hours after that, I was on roller skates. Yes, roller skates.

Remember that old Melanie song from the 1970s?

Well, I got a brand new pair of roller skates
You got a brand new key
I think that we should get together and try them out, you see
I been looking around awhile, you got something for me
Oh, I got a brand new pair of roller skates
You got a brand new key

Because while my husband has found someone, to perhaps, be his true self with. I, too, have found someone. A beautiful man, who sees me, and loves me, exactly as I am. We went roller skating. Just for fun. And it was. And it will be.

I’m ok alone, but you got something I need…
Well, I got a brand new pair of roller skates
You got a brand new key.

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(Lyrics from Dar Williams’ “The Poignant, Yet Pointless Crisis of a Coed” and Melanie’s “I Got a Brand New Pair of Roller Skates” both used without their permission. I hope they won’t mind!)

This year January lasted a thousand days I’ve never been so happy to see mud squishing slightly under my feet as winter has decided for now to let go of her grip

The river is full of life geese just skimming the water blue jays bouncing about and even Woody Woodpecker flying overhead for this moment I’ll take in the Sun.