Well sometimes, life gives us lessons sent in ridiculous packaging, 
And so I found him in the arms of a Student Against the Treacherous use of Fur, 
And he gave no apology, he just turned to me, stoned out to the edge of oblivion, 
He didn’t pull up the sheets and I think he even smiled as he said to me, 
“Well, I guess our dreams went up in smoke.”
And I said, No, our dreams went up in dreams, you stupid pothead…
[Dar Williams, The Poignant Yet Pointless Crisis of a Co-ed]

As I am moving forward in my recovery (from my marriage, my divorce, my codependency, my dysfunctional upbringing) I am learning that I can choose the path of my responses take vs. the sudden zip-lining of reacting. For someone who for years, operated strictly from a place of victimization (all that pity felt so much like love) I am learning, too, that I can choose how to re-frame my experiences with positive versus pitiful language.

Today I spent the day with my new lover and his 14 year old daughter. She lead us excitedly through every corner of one of our region’s largest shopping malls. She relished having the attention of her father & me (and, let’s be honest, access to our wallets).

I loved watching her: leading us through the crowds, weaving through the stores, making instant yes or no decisions about this blouse or those jeans. (And for the record, can I just ask why in the heck is any teen-aged girl suddenly on the prowl for “mom jeans?” Those SOBs look terrible on everyone! But, I digress…)

My own girls were spending the day with their father and his new lover. All day I’ve been fighting this feeling of being left out, left behind. And it hurt. But when I came home I realized something: I have a choice whether to feel wounded or not.

Feeling sorry for myself feels good; familiar, and does, indeed, fulfill some sick need for negative attention. But what if I decided rather than feel sad, to choose to feel grateful? I tried it out:

My girls have two parents who love them and who can never be replaced. They now have additional grown-ups in their lives and in their corners. They have good heads on their shoulders and can determine who is a positive influence and who is not. And, they both truly want their parents to be happy; fulfilled.

The difference in my mood was astonishing. I missed that “woe is me feeling,” but the whole-heartedness I felt instead felt, well, good.

Am I ready to permanently drop the victim role? To decide to be happy? It sounds so corny, but I actually feel lighter. Also, it’s not lost on me that buoyancy is necessary to keep from drowning. I think I’ve thrown myself a life preserver. Wow! It feels oddly satisfying, this being happy instead of sad. Perhaps, I can get used to it.

(Song lyrics used without permission from Rush. They may mind. Hopefully, not.)

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.

—————————————————————-

(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.

I go to the river to grieve.
its current carries my sadness
downstream
each eddy and swirl
brings me closer
to the person I am meant to be
I cannot cross over, Alone.
“Build me a boat,” the traditional says, “that can carry two,
and both shall row…”

“What if,” asks the river,
“my love”
Is Me?

When I was a senior in high school, my two best friends were in charge of writing the “Senior Will and Prophecy” aka “Where We’d Each Be in 5 Years.” Mine read, “Five years from graduation, M will be hosting her own daily talk show called, “Meet My Friends” in which she’d engage and entertain with her lively banter and babble.” I have always been simultaneously flattered and insulted by this prophecy: were they acknowledging my friendliness and bubbly demeanor? Or where they mocking me for having nothing of substance to say? Either way, it doesn’t matter, really. What’s important to me is that my two friends saw me, knew me, and loved me for who I really am–a combination of warmth and silliness.

That was a long time ago. Since then we’ve all been through so much–the passing of parents, the dysfunction of siblings, and in my case, the end of a marriage. But those two friends of mine, and gratefully, several others, have stuck around. This weekend, they came over to my “bachellorette pad” and had a good old fashioned sleepover. Here we were decades beyond our high school years, still able to tease each other a bit, listen a lot, reflect, and support one another. Oh, and laugh. We definitely laughed.

It’s January, time to take out a brand new calendar and make plans. And to put the year that has passed behind me. The year that I am affectionately calling my “Year of Pain.” But that doesn’t mean it’s all been bad. I’ve been spreading my wings, feeling them unfurl, uncertain how to catch the wind. But I am learning. And I am open to trying a new skill–pulling myself through the air, rather than circling and circling around, caught in the same current.

It’s kind of terrifying. But it turns out that I can do it. And I am not alone.  

“I’ll bet you will be laughing
With your friends
In the light of a better day
Laughing away…”

[“Something to Get Through” Used without permission by Dar Williams, though I don’t think she’ll necessarily mind.]

It’s Alright.

I know shame is a bad thing. Turns you into a scary sad thing, not some iridescent grateful butterfly.

Oh, wait. Those aren’t the lyrics: “Change. I know change is a bad thing…” That’s what Dar wrote. And yet, it’s shame, not change, that has brought me here. To this second story apartment with windows facing only south.

But sometimes change comes, even when you didn’t know that’s what you’d wanted.

I’d believed in happy ever after. I really believed in the fairy tale version of my life–the two kids, the dog, neighbors who never bother knocking. It was what I’d always wanted since my own parents split when I was 5. But why then was I so fucking miserable all of the time? Why did I have to go and throw a grenade into our family to get out?

Two years ago January, I was walking at the river, early in the morning. It was cold. The water nearest the banks was frozen. I’d noticed a log about four feet off shore, it’s nose jutting out, it’s movement, unlike the flow beneath it, stymied by the ice. The image rocked me and I fell to my knees in grief: The log jam was me. I was frozen in place by ice, by a marriage, that would not budge. The current beneath pushed to break the log free, but it was futile. It was going nowhere. I was going nowhere.

I fell to my knees right there on the dirt path and began to sob. I had to get out of my marriage. If I didn’t leave it, I’d never move another inch.

And so I found an exit. A sloppy, careless, irresponsible, adolescent exit. 

And now here I am, nearly two years later. My life is a 180 from where it was. I have a new home, a new [old] dog. I am working. I am in love. I know that I am worthy. Imperfect. Desired and desirable.

It’s been quite a journey, climbing out of the relentless pit of shame. That place felt comfortable, so I stayed there for awhile. Punishing myself with accusations of being a selfish, horrible person, a terrible mother. I very nearly tattooed my skin with the word “Liar.” (I thought I’d cleverly disguised it by spelling it l-y-r-e. You know, the instrument. Thankfully, a dear, honest friend saw through that bullshit and forbade me from getting it done.) I wanted to be marked, branded, eschewed. That’s what shame tells you is right. But shame is a liar.

I’ve made mistakes, I’ve used poor judgement. But I’ve also acted out of extreme desperation. Fear, loneliness. I am human and I deserve to be loved. Just like everyone else does. (So says Robert Smith, so it must be true).

“I know change is a bad thing, turns me into a sorry sad thing.” And yet, here I am, this grateful, iridescent butterfly…

(“It’s Alright,” Dar Williams. Title and lyrics used without permission. Though I don’t think she’ll mind).

Stopped pretending.

Happy ending.

Everything I ever wanted stands in front of me.

I have lost my dreams.

I have lost my dreams.

Now they say I told the truth.

Life beyond the burden of proof:

Paper thin blue skies and windless fields.

I have lost my dreams.

I have lost my dreams.

Traffic crawling,

Life is moving,

Up through stately trees into their green leaves.

Find a new dream.

Find a new dream.

I have lost my dreams.

I have lost my dreams.

(I Have Lost My Dreams, Dar Williams)

52. Everything I’ve known for the past thirty years is changed. A year and a bit ago I blurted out in couples therapy that I wanted out. Actually, the phrase I used was that “we needed to rip the band aid off of this thing.” Externally, we’d been “Facebook-ly” happy for years. My fantasy relationship: weirdly-named boy falls in love with weirdly-named girl–who’s best friend is his brother’s wife–they get married, get a couple of dogs, make two beautiful and perfect children and live out their days in a center-hall colonial on a cul-de-sac. What’s not to love? The loneliness? The dire lack of intimacy, nay, chemistry between them? Who cares about sex when you’ve got a red minivan and a black sedan in the two-car garage? Hmmm. Seems I did.

I’d journaled. Written poetry.  Songs. I’d written about the wantingness of being alone, versus the desperation of being with someone and yet, incredibly lonely. I missed being talked to, not at. I missed being heard. I missed being touched.

And so, in a couple’s session with a new-to-us and in-over-his-head-therapist named Bruce that October day, I heard myself say I wanted out. It came from some unknown space deep inside me. I was as surprised to hear it as my husband and our therapist were.

It wasn’t a practical call. We’d already separated and I was living (and breathing) for the first time in years in a clean, uncluttered space to call my own. He was paying for it. We could’ve gone on like that indefinitely. But I guess my psyche(?) needed more. And just like that it was over. Or on the way to being over.

But divorce takes time, mediation, affidavits. Today, he wrote to me that some files were missing and our case was “held up at the courthouse.” Unsuspectingly, I read the email header and had the strangest visceral response. Relief. The divorce was stymied. It could be stopped. “What the fucking hell are you telling yourself? This is what *you* wanted. This is what all this pain has been for! You wanted out. And now, now that there’s a snag at the courthouse you want to shove this train into reverse? Jesus, woman, you really are crazy!!” These thoughts tumbling through my brain at an incredible speed. I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. And then the sadness, unbearable, make you quiver sadness at what I had lost. At what I had thrown away. For what? Conversation? Sexual intimacy.

Yes. That. And companionship and simple kindness. And a relationship with my worthy-of-love self. That woman I’d glimpsed in her 20s, who got buried underneath dishes and homework, hand-me-downs and holiday dinners was still there, crying out to be seen. Heard.

My prince charming preferred the History channel on the basement TV to spending time with me. My fairy tale romance looked great on paper and stunk like sewage in real life. We had nothing in common. Ever. We just fit one another’s expectations of what we were supposed to want. That’s not the same thing as getting what you need.

It’s time for a new dream. Where the Prince is a nice guy, but who doesn’t get to keep the girl, who is off on her own, discovering herself. At 52.

(Title used without permission from Dar Williams. Though I don’t think she’ll mind).