Secretly, some days I think if he had died instead, this would all be less complicated. I know you’re cringing. I am going to lose some of you right away for saying that. It’s totally perverse, and I feel so much shame for thinking it, but I have thought it.
It’s like when I hear people with a rare disease say they wish they had cancer instead. CANCER? What?! No one wants cancer. That’s a horrible thing to say, but when doctors, family and society can’t comprehend how severely you are suffering, it is not rare at all for people to say, “At least if I said I had cancer, people would take my suffering seriously.”
When a loved one passes, that memory is in tact. In time, the very best memories rise to the surface. Their imperfections drift away. You cling most to the joy and love you shared, and their best attributes shine. That’s what I want for him. I want his legacy to be in tact, and to be part of my heart… for him not to have broken it.
In a divorce, even if you shared a long, loving and sweet relationship, the breakup and divorce process turns it all sour. I wish there were a way to put 16 years in a time capsule, and then just sweep away the last 9 months.
I want so badly to remember him as he used to be. It’s impossible to look back at the relationship with the love and sweetness it deserves without the ending shading every single moment beforehand. That’s how bitterness blooms.
I don’t want the best years of my life to be erased by a few months of the worst. Many have advised to just let go of it, but you can’t just punch out half of your life. I can’t move from this so quickly. Especially not when it ended so abruptly. It deserves to be felt. I loved him that much that I’m willing to feel it all.
I want to grieve the man I love like the widow grieves her departed. I want to cherish the love we shared like the treasure I believed it to be. I want to bury our marriage so it rests in peace.
My other secret is that I pray for him. That he is well, and God is taking care of him.
So it has been 9 months since my husband and I parted ways. For us it was not a gradual thing. Well, maybe for him it was….
[I’m going to get through this without talking about his personal details.]
On my end, I knew he had been struggling all year, and I was trying to be uplifting. One day, I was texting him love messages, silly photos (which are now just embarrassing), funny videos, and anything to try to help him smile at work. The very next day, I was living at my parents’, confused, and unsure what happened the day before, or why.
I don’t remember much about that conversation after he got home. I do remember messaging a friend in a daze asking what I should take with me, and Google searching
: “what do you take in case of a fire.”
In some ways, 9 months has flown by, and in other ways, it has dragged on much too slowly. It has felt impossible at times for my heart to catch up to all that has occurred, the choices that were no longer mine to make, the quickly unraveling dreams that were out of my control. I was often reminded that I had experience with surrendering, and making peace with pain, and could do it again if forced to. (I think people with disabilities are resilient in that way, and though it feels like every day is a fight, we learn adaptability which is a gift!) On the other hand, I felt continually impatient. If you have ever waited for test results that would almost surely come back with an outcome you don’t want to hear, something within you cannot help but crave the knowledge of it, no matter how bad. Almost like the tree of good and evil. Waiting was like an itch I couldn’t scratch. A part of me wanted to know my future in certain terms, and with immediacy. The rest of me was at peace to wait a lifetime in limbo, however impractical that would be.
That afternoon was our last conversation as husband and wife; I didn’t know it was goodbye at the time. You may remember, I wrote A Season of Waiting just after. Now you know the inspiration behind the message.
And while so many months can seem like a very long time, with a new life emerging beneath me, there are still huge landmines that explode in my face when I least expect it. Several exploded from the mail box right after breakfast this morning. It was a hard day, but not the first, not the last, and I’ve certainly not seen the last good day either. The “process” ended just last month, but THIS process is only beginning.
I’m trying to grow accustomed to managing life on my own. …Without having someone to share these pitfalls and triumphs with. Loss and heartbreak is certainly not new to humans; and I will adjust to it better and better. I confide in God, and it is incredibly humbling to share my worries with the creator of the universe.
I’m thankful to be ending my day with you, eating bacon and drinking chocolate coconut milk. (I get to eat that kind of thing, because I have POTS… at least that’s my story.) That IS my story… at least part of it.
Have a good night. And avoid those landmines.
New page, Disabled and Divorced
PS, Check out the counter for my sister’s wedding at the bottom of the page. Getting close!