The D Word

I'm divorced.

The big D. Not even an indent remaining on my left ring finger anymore, although, I’m not legally divorced yet. The process has been long, emotionally draining, and stressful enough to make me want to punch sixteen lawyers, and stab my own eyes out with a rusty nail. So, technically, I am not divorced but I have been separated for over five years now and I’m well on the way to being divorced *she whispers like it’s the plague. I'm riding the divorce train and sadly, there are no stops to get off, and I could really use a gelato.

I dislike that word: divorced. It's ugly. Like melanoma. I grew up a child of divorce. That sounds really dramatic, doesn't it? She's "a child of divorce". GASP. I picture all of us kids raised by one parent, or the other, or absent of both parents, wandering out of a field, eyes glazed over, arms wrapped around ourselves, not knowing which way to go...all creepy 'Children Of The Corn' like. But my point is, I didn't get to witness any positive examples of marriage. I had no idea what marriage involved. And yet, I always wanted to be married, and I still do. And I most definitely did not want to be divorced.

So how did I get here?

I think I had a pretty good marriage, it's been a long time now so I can't be sure, and the opinions expressed here are mine alone. But, I do know that he was my best friend, he probably still is in a strange way, I know that I loved him, and that I always wanted him to be happy. I remember that he would hop down the stairs at Easter with a basket filled for me and for the kids, he would hide special presents for me in the bottom of my Christmas stocking, he had terrible taste in hats, he would build me anything I saw in magazines, he understood my phobia, he tolerated my pms, he understood how much I loved my mom and how sometimes I also despised her, and how hurt I was that my two fathers didn't love me or want to know me, or our children. He knew that there was a part of me because of that, which always felt not good enough, and like I just didn't belong. He knew as much of me as I let him know. More than anyone before, or since. And to top it off, we had our dream home, professional careers we both enjoyed, a house cleaning fairy, two beautiful, smart, sweet children, and we had finally gotten to sleep through the night again. We made it through the hard years of becoming parents, which are just sheer survival, mixed in with moments of pure joy. Life was just starting to get easier for us.

And then my mother got sick. The worst kind of sick. And then she died. Less than three months later. The one person who loved me for my whole life, even through the unfortunate teased bangs, bad perm years. "Bad" was probably unnecessary there. The one person who loved me just exactly as I was. She was suddenly gone.

And when she died, I walked out of the hospital, after holding her hand while she took her last breath, and I kept walking.

Right out of my life.

There's no other way to describe it. When people ask why I am divorced, I say because my mother died and I lost my mind. It sounds trite, but that is quite simply, the truth. There's a reason professionals recommend that you don't make any major life decisions when you are grieving. Trust me on this, they will almost always be the wrong ones.

Don't quit your job. Don't move. Don't leave your partner. Don't start drinking. Because none of it will be the fix. None of it. There is no fix. You have to just be. It's awful. It's painful. It will make you feel like you are going insane. And, clearly, I wasn't able to do it. But, try. Remind yourself that it is only grief talking when you think maybe joining a fitness bootcamp will be the fix. Grief is very often an idiot.

My mom was wonderful, but she was completely batshit crazy. I loved her and I hated her. She made bad decisions when I was growing up. And some terrible ones. She left me alone a lot while she worked, from about the age of eight, in a not so great neighborhood. She brought home not so great people, and I saw some not so great things. My kids can barely stay upstairs alone, with me just downstairs in the house, and they are much older than I was playing dominoes alone on the kitchen floor at 3:00 am, just praying for the sun to come up. As a parent myself, and a social worker, I recognize her (pretty huge) mistakes. I took care of myself. We set up a code word so I'd know not to go with any perverts who tried to abduct me on the way home from school. Unless they knew her brand of cigarettes, I would most definitely not get in the car. And generally the drunkards in our apartment building left me alone, aside from the nights they banged on my door thinking they were on their own floor, and I hid in the closet. She swore like a trucker who came home after a 16 hour shift and stepped on Lego, and she lied to me for eighteen years of my life about who my father was. You can read about that here, if you're not asleep yet. And despite all of these things, that together made her unlikely to win any parent of the year award, I adored her. She was the funniest, most loving, strongest woman I knew. She was my hero and my only role model. She relied on no one. To me, she could do anything. You want a shelf hung, you hang it. You want a sink fixed, you fix it. Furniture carried, you carry it. A car stolen, you steal it. Kidding. She never fixed a sink. We had a superintendent.

To this day, I have a very hard time asking for any help. And it causes problems, because apparently people who care about you, like to help, and want to feel needed. I'm learning that being self-reliant isn't top of the wish list in a partner. Possibly why I am still single. That and about 6,432 other reasons I will most definitely write about later.

Marriage and I - well, we didn't know how to be together at all, but I knew I wanted it. I wanted everything I never had. I went through my teens and early twenties pretty aimlessly, always searching for something or someone to make me feel like I was worth loving. I can't explain exactly why I felt so unloveable, given how much my mom loved me. well, I could, but this post is already too long, so that's for another day (*hint: daddy issues). Mostly, I think I'm pretty damn cool, but honestly, I fight that 'not good enough' demon, daily. Growing up, I went from one long term relationship to another, one friendship to another, one job to another, one degree to another, one university to another, one eating disorder to another, from one apartment to another, in search of feeling good enough. I will tell you from experience, that feeling can't be found in a shiny new apartment with a walk in closet, or in any old boyfriend who claimed your love was magic, or in those size ones, so don't even bother looking there. Nope. Apparently, it's within you. And holy fucking shit, guys, I can watch every single Ted Talk on self-love and acceptance, and Iyanla Vanzant the crap outta myself, but I still can't grab ahold of that feeling for long. I fear it's buried down too deep, under all the cookies I've sleep eaten. Which is not convenient at all.

So, I was introduced to my husband through a mutual friend when I was twenty eight years old. I met him on the street for the first time when we were both going home after work. I liked his jacket. He had a spring in his step. He was too short for me. And then he wasn't. He wasn't my 'type'. And then he was. I realized pretty quickly that he was the person who made me want to have children for the first time in my life, he made me want to be a wife, to have a real home, and he made me see that I didn't have to go through life alone. Oh, he built, and he hung the shelves, baby. He made me feel like I could possibly have all the things I only dreamed of, or had seen on those made for TV Hallmark movies that I still can’t get enough of. I could have a different life. My non-existent children could have a very different life than I had. They would have a better life. Within six months of meeting, we moved in together, and two years later my mother walked me down the aisle to my new life. It was the first time I felt certain about anything.

He had a pretty "normal" childhood; two parents married for over fifty years, and he lived in the same house for his whole life. His parents never hugged in front of him, they didn't often say I love you, but they were together 'til death do they part. His childhood was the polar opposite of mine. Stable could have been his middle name, if it sounded more Irish. My middle name should have been Chaos. Or Gabriella, because I always liked that name. He gave me stability. I started hyphenating. Stable-Chaos. We laughed a lot. We were different, but we had fun together. He made me more social. I’m not sure what I made him. Happy, I hope. And little crazy at times, I'm sure, but the good kind of crazy. My life never felt more "normal". This was the first time in my life that I ever felt truly safe. At the time, it was all I needed.

We shared over ten years of married life together. I would dare to say married “bliss” but we had a colicky baby so there were some not so blissful days too. But we got through them together. Driving our son around the neighbourhood at 3 am so he’d stop screaming. Cursing every neighbor sleeping peacefully. But we made it. I believed in my marriage vows. I wanted forever. I loved that ring on my finger.

And then cancer.

One of the worst kinds.

And then she died.

And I shut him out.

Completely.

I don’t actually remember much from that time. I try hard not to think about the moments in the hospital. The times she screamed in pain. The times she was throwing up and I was hiding in the hallway of the hospital, terrified to go in and unable to help her. Afraid she would die right then in a hospital bathroom. Sitting with her through blood transfusions. How brave she seemed. How scared she looked. When she could no longer speak coherently because of the pain medication. I lost my mother before she stopped breathing, but I crawled into that hospital bed with her every moment I could. And I held on. I hoped for a miracle.

I kept working. I must have kept parenting. I somehow kept breathing.

And my whole life seemed wrong.

Suddenly the differences in our personalities seemed insurmountable. My husband: social, but quiet and reserved; he kept his feelings to himself. Always so easy going. Suddenly that even temper that helped keep me level for so many years, made me angry; I just wanted him to FEEL something. He didn't often say I love you. He didn't hold my hand. He didn't shout from the rooftops that he was proud that I was his wife. Now, I absolutely needed that. I had to have the shout from the rooftops crazy kind of love. I ached for it. I began to feel like I needed someone who wanted to hold my hand and kiss me in public, just to be able to go on living. It sounds so foolish now, I know. It is foolish. And me, in comparison, I was anti-social, a little too extremely emotional, and with my mom, we hugged a lot, we said I love you 324 times before we hung up the phone. But in our marriage, I had let that all go to better match him. I stopped saying I love you. I stopped wanting him to hold my hand. We had discussions early on in our relationship about how I needed to be hugged, even in front of his friends; I wanted to hold hands; I needed him to say I love you. His response was that he wasn't brought up like that. It just didn't come naturally. I let it go. In hindsight, I should not have let him off the hook that easy, but I suppose, in looking back, I still felt pretty unloveable. So, my husband not wanting to hold my hand, not saying I love you, it just reinforced the feeling that I was not good enough. If I was good enough, he would want to do all of those things, right? Grief, you see really is an ignorant arsehole because that logic is just dumb. But at the time, the only person that I knew for certain loved me was now suddenly gone, and I just fell to pieces. Who could possibly fill that void?

I don't remember asking my husband to be with me when my mother was dying. I don't remember him being there at all during that time, although I'm sure he was...caring for our children, and willing to care for me too maybe, if had asked. I don't remember him wrapping me in his arms. I don't remember him saying 'I love you, it will be okay'. I know he was incredibly sad too and he loved my mother. But I had checked out of my life. I didn't give him anything, and I didn't ask him for anything. Because I am not someone to ask for what I want, or need. Not in my marriage. And especially not now. I expect people to just know, and when they don't - because who could? - well, I hit the road.

Or the tarmac.

I took off for Italy alone very shortly after my mother died, feeling an unexplainable urgency to be as far away from my life as possible. I simply had to leave. My mother had never been anywhere and I suddenly needed to be everywhere. My husband asked to come with me, and regretfully, I said no. I thought I needed to be all alone. Alone remains my comfort zone in times of crisis. Alone is where I go when I am sad and scared or angry. So, I didn't rely on my husband, to help me through the biggest loss I'd ever experienced. I was too busy drowning in sadness. I didn't want to have to speak. How different would my life be today if I had said to him: yes, please take this trip with me. No matter how hard I push you away, just please hang on to me. What if I had just pulled him closer?

All I knew at that time was that I felt that my husband, couldn't possibly love me enough to make this kind of pain stop. But the truth is, no one could. And I looked for that love in everything. I longed for something to just fill the hole and make me forget that I lost my mother in such a traumatic way. I saw a grief counsellor for twenty five sessions (later finding out the norm is six), a psychologist, a psychiatrist, and a couple of very unhelpful marriage counsellors. I took on therapy like it was my full time job. Some counsellors I didn't even remember seeing until my doctor recently reminded me. I tried drugs. Prescribed, and otherwise. I began self harming. I had watched helplessly while my mother died a painful, absolutely horrible death. And then I packed her whole life away, all alone. I had to throw away the food that she took just one bite of and wrapped in her fridge for later, but she was never able to eat it. And nothing made that go away. And worse, I could not just sit with it. I could not just be. Instead, I set out to destroy everything good in my life.

All these years later, when I talk to my counsellor, and even as I write these words right now (which have taken me weeks to write), and each time I read them, no matter what else is going on in my life, the emotion that comes up from this loss is stronger than any other. I feel a tightness in my chest, and I cannot stop crying. An ugly, nose running, uncontrollable kind of cry. Every single time I read through these words that I've written. They're my own words. They evoke so much emotion that it's hard to breathe. I know it is grief. I recognize it. But it's not just for my mother now. This grief is for my marriage. For my husband. For my children not having the life I wished for them. For me, not having the life I hoped for, and the life I held so tightly in my hands, and then crumpled up and threw away. It is grief for taking away the life my husband had also chosen, and the life he deserved.

Today, we raise our children together and they share time with each of us equally. Our son is a teenager now, taller than us both, smart, and hilarious, athletic, and amazing. Our daughter, now ten, is a beautiful sweet soul, kind hearted and dramatic, and wise beyond her years. As far as divorces go, we have done okay. We both put our children first. We are mostly friendly. One harsh word from him still has the power to break my heart. I am still too emotional, in comparison to him. And I still feel like he knows me better than anyone ever will. We bought houses one street apart. No longer our big, fancy dream house. But he is happy, I think, living with his girlfriend, who could not be more different than I am. And I am happy, living alone, when I'm not with my children. I am not proud of our marriage ending, and I don't take all of the blame, but I carry a big chunk of it and most days it feels pretty heavy. I'm hoping to put it down soon.

I am proud of the relationship I have developed with my two children. I am a really freaking great mom. Unlike my mom, I could probably win an award, if there was one. A best mom macaroni art award, for sure. I have kept the best parts of my mother for my children, and I left the rest behind. I wonder, sometimes, if we would have the same kind of relationship if I had stayed married, or if the level of closeness we have comes with being a single parent. It's just the three of us most of the time, and it has been for many years now. I'm not sure what kind of life they would have had with their two parents under one roof together growing up, I don't know what that's like and they barely remember now, but I do know that the three of us together - - well, we can take on the world. We argue, like all families do, but we laugh a lot more. We have fun together doing absolutely nothing; we have silly words, and a special way we talk, the exact same sense of humor, and they can tell me absolutely anything. And they do. Usually while I'm trying to use the bathroom. I am thankful that they trust in me completely. I hope that never changes. The connection we have is what I am the most proud of in my life. We say I love you. A lot. We cry when we need to. We hug. Real hugs. A lot. They both want to be married someday and to have children of their own. My daughter wants five actually. What in the Jesus Hell? So, it seems our divorce hasn't ruined them. They are such good little people. My favorite people. They are the best parts of me, and the best parts of their dad. But, let's be clear, mostly me.

I have had several friends come to me when they are struggling in their marriage, asking about divorce, and how I manage alone. My words of advice are always some version of this: Marriage is sometimes hard, but being divorced is so much harder. *Provided the marriage is mostly a healthy one, and no one is getting hurt. Marriage will always have peaks and big ol' valleys. Sometimes, the valleys seem too deep to get out of, and you think about staying down there alone. Chilling with some Maltesers and Netflix. But I recommend you let your partner pull you up when you don't feel strong enough. Or just hang on to each other. Just hang the fuck on and eat Maltesers together until you have the energy to climb out.

And if you can't make the climb - - just wait.

Wait.

I'll throw you down a rope.

Someday I will forgive myself for the hurt I caused, when it was too dark in that valley to see my way out. Maybe, writing this, after all these years, is my first step to forgiveness as I continue try to evolve into the person I am meant to be. As Pema Chodron so very wisely says: "Let the hard things break you, let them affect you, let them change you. Let this pain be your teacher. The experiences of your life are trying to tell you something about yourself. Don't cop out on that. Don't run away and hide under your covers. Lean into it."

If you know me, you know that I would much rather hide under my cozy covers with a whole package of Chips Ahoy cookies than reflect on what the experiences of my life are meant to teach me. But here I am, leaning in.

Finding Nicole. 

I will finally fill that void by loving myself, for a change.

I hope with this new blog that I will learn the lessons that come from the pain. That I will recognize that I am good enough. Just as I am. No need to be fixed or changed. That I will learn to truly love myself. That I will show up for myself in ways I haven't done before. That I won't always hide behind humor.

And I also hope that you'll come along for the journey.

Lean in with me.

Imagine what we could learn if we lean right into the storm, with courage and fearlessness. And some good hair spray.

Who knows? There may even be cookies.