The last few days have been rough, friends...
On Friday the lawyer finally got around to officially filing our divorce papers. So even though we aren't legally divorced until early-mid August, for all intents and purposes we are divorced.
On Saturday, my ex went out. We had decided to start implementing the his Saturday/my Saturday now, so we are used to the routine when I move out. That was his Saturday.
He went out from 6 p.m. to 4 a.m. He took an uber, wore his new shirt he bought earlier that day, new hair gel in his hair. He has never in the 12 years I have known him stayed out until 4 a.m., except for that time we were at a Full Moon Party in Koh Phangan in 2007.
At 2:45 a.m. I woke up to get my daughter water and saw he wasn't home. I called, and he didn't answer. I texted saying I was worried, and he replied saying he was on his way home. He didn't say where he was.
At 4:15 a.m. I woke up again and saw he had just come in. I asked where he had been and he said at the Braves stadium watching a game and at the bars. I asked who he was with, since he isn't the type of person to hang out at a bar alone for nine hours. He said ''people''. ''A woman?'', I asked. ''Well, people. Men and women'', was his reply.
On Sunday we were watching a movie with our children. I had been crying a good part of the day, escaping to go antiquing with a friend for an hour earlier. It was the first weekend that our divorce was unofficially official, and it was hard for me. I asked to look at his phone for a moment and saw a text conversation taking place with some named ''German''. Very innocent, like German said, ''How was your day?'' and he said, ''Good, did you get your t.v.?'', and she said, ''Yes! Here is a pic''. That sort of thing.
''Who is German?'', I asked. ''Someone'', he said, stone-faced. I excused myself, and was in tears. Tears. I guess I just hadn't figured he would go out drinking all night long with a random girl the second day our divorce papers were filed. While he is entitled to do whatever he wants now, it didn't lessen the sting.
That night he said, ''Why don't you sleep in here with me and we'll cuddle up?''. I did, it was completely platonic, and it was nice. I was so damn sad and lonely, I couldn't take it. So I held him, his back, and the quilt kept coming off his arm as he slept, so I kept covering it back up and rubbing his shoulder to warm it up. While I was in and out of sleeping I noticed that my own shoulder was cold. I was so busy making sure his was warm, I had been ignoring my own. It may seem insignificant, but I had an epiphany in that moment, that it was time to stop worrying about him and start worrying about myself. To let go.
All of our marriage, he never really held me, even before we had children. He would say that there was always a child in the bed, and that was why, but I remember even as newlyweds I would ask him, ''Can you hold me?''. I would have to ask, and I always found it odd. I have never been a hugely sexual person, but I find human connections like hugs and hand holding and being held very, very enjoyable and intimate. He on the other hand, is not too cuddly. I always told myself it must because he is British, and they aren't the most cuddly of people. Whatever the reason, it is something that I always found unsettling. Warming up his cold shoulder while my own was cold reminded me of that. I would like to think that one day if I ever find Rupert, I would wake up to find his arms around me and the sound of his heart against my ear and the knowing that he would never let my shoulders get cold while he was around.
On Monday, I was still quite beside myself. Everywhere I look at home is a reminder; that's the granite we picked out in the kitchen, we walked around that warehouse, a child in each of our arms, on a cold winter's day. Those are the front steps he built by hand, where we posed for our first family of five picture when our last child was a newborn. I held our sweet new baby swaddled in my arms, and he had our daughter on his lap. That was the cottage we built for the children, with old barn wood and a tin roof and a little front porch and pink roses out front. That was the nursery I decorated, with a big yellow paper sun and grey crib and dresser and long, white curtains and a vintage map of the world. I would sit in there for hours and rock our baby to sleep, looking out the window at the lake and the trees swaying back and forth on a fall day, smelling his sweet new baby smell. That is our dock, where we taught our kids how to fish, and take our little boat out for sunset jaunts, and just sit there and watch the ducks go past. That is the tree that we had donkeys tied to and the long driveway where the pony and cart went up and down during a farm party we had for the children. That is the spot on the grass for the time we had the giant inflatable water slide. That's where I hide the eggs at Easter for the egg hunt. That is the corner where the Christmas tree goes every year, beside the grey armchairs we were so excited to buy at Ikea after eyeing them up for two years. This is my home, our home, where we have been raising our family and bringing home babies and celebrating holidays and first days of school on the bus and trick or treating and birthday balloons tied to the mailbox. So not only am I losing my husband, but I am also losing my home. It symbolizes the happiest time of my life, it symbolizes my past, and our plans for the future, where I thought I would live forever. It is a lot of loss all at once.
German didn't help matters, as friendly as she was. I had a good, long cry with him last night, getting it all out of my system. I said I didn't mind German, or anyone else, but while we are still technically married and I am living here, out of respect for me, would he mind waiting to be someone else until after I moved out? I explained my plight, my sadness, my grieving. I said I just wanted our last few weeks of being married to be us, and our family, without someone else in the picture. That is how I want to say goodbye to us, with a shred of normalcy. With our usual family dinners and weekends together. Not with him out until 4 a.m. getting drunk with another woman while I am at home, constantly reminded of all that I am losing. He said he hadn't intended on meeting anyone, he just went out to watch the Atlanta vs. Seattle soccer game, and someone showed an interest in him. It felt nice going out somewhere, breaking the seemingly-endless cycle of work/kids/house/repeat, and for the first time in 12 years, talking to another woman in a flirty kind of way. He had no intention of seeing her again, she just asked for his number, it was innocent, and if our divorce was not imminent he would not have given it to her. He doesn't have many friends here, his family is an ocean away and doesn't talk to him much, and he enjoyed having a conversation with someone. Is that so bad?
I said it wasn't. I said I didn't want him to be lonely. I wanted him to have company, someone to talk to. I said it was normal, after years of being at home and working all of the time, to want to wear something nice and feel good about yourself and go out and talk to other adults, make new friends, go somewhere different. I agreed with everything, I understood. I just want our last few weeks to be as it always has been. Our marriage is dying, and that is how I want the final moments to be. That is how I want to say goodbye to us.
He confided in me that he had been very depressed over the winter. Very depressed. He knows he didn't do what he should have done during my cancer treatment, he knows he broke my heart by being inattentive during the hardest time of my life, when I was fighting to live and needed him the most. He tried making it up to me with flowers and chocolates and things of that nature. I told him that buying me flowers from the grocery store on his way home from work while he bought beer wasn't enough for me. It was merely a bandaid, a quick fix. I needed more from him, and he didn't know how to give that to me. He tried in his way, and when it didn't work he grew depressed, and hopeless, and felt like a failure. He was lonely, and wishing he had made more friends here over the years, and was overwhelmed from my cancer, and then my broken wrist was the death knell for us. The pressure became too great for us both, and we took it out on one another.
In the Spring, we started talking about splitting and living separately. I said I needed space, time to heal, time to discover myself again. I didn't even know who the fuck I was anymore, honestly. I couldn't stand his gloom and doom attitude and complaining any longer. I hadn't just escaped the depths of hell to live with Eeyore and the constant negativity that plagued him. I could not be his cheerleader anymore. I didn't particularly want a divorce, I just wanted time to myself. He said we either stay together or divorce, no grey area. So I chose the latter.
The funny thing is, we both started being happy again. Especially him. He wasn't depressed anymore. He made jokes about how my perfect boyfriend would be named Professor Rupert Twatface, and he would be this well-read intellectual who would sit around and analyze books with me and wear a cardigan with patches on the sleeves and we'd have matching Birkenstocks and go on hiking day trips in his Prius. I joked that his perfect girlfriend would be named Sally, and she would be some super-cool Drum and Bass girl who goes to shows with him in the city and likes listening to his record mixes in his record room. My house would be filled with antiques and flowery things and pops of pink, and arts and crafts and a little puppy, all of which he dislikes, and his would be minimal and orderly and ''smart''. I would have a few days to myself a week, he would have a few days to himself a week, and we would each finally get a break. From work, children, house stuff. Each other. We would both have time to find ourselves again, eke out our own identities.
The more we talked about it, the happier we became.
We decided to have a big family vacation, before we split up, God knows we needed it, and rented a huge, gorgeous house by the Gulf of Mexico. His parents flew into Tampa, and babysat some nights, and we went out and had drinks and time to ourselves. I often wonder if on the times his parents visited, twice a year, if even once if they offered to babysit the kids for a weekend so we could have a break, if it would have reached this point. But they never did, and he never wanted to ask. We've only ever had two nights away from our children in eight years, and in hindsight it really took a toll on our marriage. One of those nights was in December 2015, when we flew to England for Christmas. I had been planning a surprise trip to Belgium for him for his birthday, and asked if they would watch the children for one night so I could take him on the Eurostar. I booked us a quirky room by the Christmas Market, and we stopped in amazement for this amazing symphony that started playing that night in the square with all of the Christmas lights lit up amid the Gothic architecture. We ate mussels and fries with mayo and drank Trappist beer in medieval bars and feasted on chocolates. It was only one night, but it was one of the funnest nights of my life.
During our heart to heart, we decided that since we still technically be married for our 11th anniversary at the end of July, we would have one last night out as a married couple. No house, no kids. Just us. Like the old days. We are going to book a night at hotel in Atlanta, and go out bar hopping and having fun, staying out as late as we want and sleeping in until as late as we want. We decided that would be a nice way to say goodbye to ''us'', to feel like we were young and free again, if only for one more night. To feel like how we felt before the burdens of parenthood and home ownership and careers and cancer beat us down. To celebrate making it to 11 years, with barely a fight, filled with traveling and transatlantic moves and relocating to a new city with only our suitcases and each other. To bringing three babies into the world and giving them a loving home and learning how to be parents together. That is a lot to celebrate. That is a lot to be grateful for.
He said that this will always be my home, I can always come here whenever I want. He will always love me in a way he'll never love anyone else, I will always be the mother of his children, and the person who went on many adventures with him. No one else could replace me, he said. Sure, he might want company, he might end up with someone else one day, but no one could ever replace me. He was sorry he couldn't love me like I needed him to, sorry he couldn't change. If we never get back together, he wants me to find someone who could be all of the things that he couldn't be. He wants me to be happy, even if that's not with him. I want him to be happy, too. Even if it's not with me.
I think that's the greatest act of love, letting someone go. When you put their happiness before your own, even if it means breaking your own heart into a thousand pieces.
We'll still be a family, he said. We will have children who get to see the best part of their parents, who are fun and loving and caring. Not the parents who fight, and get depressed, and disappointed with one another. They will get to have parents who still take them out the lake, and the movies, and for pancakes, and go over each others houses for dinner, and who can be there together to watch them unwrap Christmas presents and Easter baskets and get dressed up for Halloween. We might not be married anymore, or live together anymore, but we will always be their parents. We will always be a family.
We can look back on our memories with happiness instead of bitterness, and still be able to make more memories together. Just in a different way.
He made me feel so much better. He really did. But still, it hurts. Saying goodbye hurts.
I read an article about the benefit of divorcing in your 40's. I am actually in my 30's, but close enough. The article first gave tips about getting through the divorce, such as writing a goodbye letter. The goodbye letter is to your spouse, essentially pouring your heart out and laying it all on the table. The hello letter is to yourself, talking about all of the things to look forward to about your new chapter. On the bad days, you read your hello letter. The article then talks about all of these positive things, like how much better dating someone in your 40's is compared to your 20's. For instance, people in their 40's know their likes and dislikes, and exactly what they want from a partner. They aren't fucking around. They don't play games. They are mature, but still young enough to be fun. They have baggage, and understand you have baggage, too. They are old enough to have had some kind of trauma, and have empathy as a result. Evidently women reach their sexual peak after 36, and men in their 40's are better at pleasuring their partner as they get older, so that's a happy coincidence. They are also aging, too, getting a few wrinkles or grey hairs or balding a bit, and so they understand a woman in her 40's is likely to have some wrinkles or grey hairs or stretch marks or a soft tummy. They have a realistic expectation of what a woman looks like, compared to when they were in their 20's. They are usually pretty settled, not sewing any wild oats anymore.
The more I read, the more content I became. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.
I went on match.com. I really did. I didn't register or anything, and have zero intention of pursuing any man for quite a while, but was curious. I entered the 35-45 age range, and a few cuties came up, two of whom live in my town. One had a 5 year old daughter, and said she is a huge part of his life and that anyone whom he dates would have to be okay with that. The other had two sons, and said he and his ex are raising them together even though they're divorced, so the person whom he dates can't have any insecurity issues about that. The other guy was a few towns over, and didn't have kids, and said he was pretty sure he didn't want kids, but would love to be the stepfather to someone else's. I loved the honesty they all had. They just put it all out there. It made me feel confident that one day when I am ready, I can say that I have three children, and am raising them with my ex, and I can lay it all out there, too, and won't feel like I have too much baggage for someone. I like how a lot of them said they weren't interested in kids, or anymore kids, because that takes the pressure off of me. My ob/gyn said just last week that me having anymore babies was still ''very much in the realm of possibility'', but I would be heartbroken if I met someone who desperately wanted a baby and I couldn't give that to him. Not to mention, I am on year eight of teething babies and diapers and cutting up food into tiny pieces and wiping someone's ass. Now when I see a pregnant woman, swollen and giant and sweating profusely, I really don't feel envious. I don't miss morning sickness, and hemmroids, and having to urinate all of the time, and having heartburn so bad I'd have to sleep sitting upright. I am back in my nice, pre-pregnancy clothes, feel healthier than ever, and quite enjoy starting to sleep through the night again uninterrupted. While I am happy to close that chapter, I would feel terrible if I met someone wonderful who wanted a baby and I wanted to have one with him and I couldn't. So, that's a big plus, not having that pressure. Although I'd like to think Rupert would be so madly in love with me that my procreation abilities wouldn't phase him in the slightest.
The trouble is, as my friend reminded me after my 12 year dating hiatus, that most men think with their penises. Meaning, this euphoric idea I have of finding someone whom I can talk to about history and literature and politics and religion and philosophy and watch movies with and go on walks with and play Connect Four with is very 'pie in the sky'. Before long they will want to get in my pants, and as I have mentioned earlier I am not having sex anymore. I am waiting to have an earth-shattering, love making experience with someone I am madly in love with, and you don't just fall madly in love with someone overnight. Or maybe when it's the right person, you do. I am getting divorced, so what the hell do I know about it?
Anyway, I am feeling a lot better today. It still hurts like hell, but it's better. My life has changed a lot in a year; this time last summer I was bald, had three tumors, my breasts, and was planning my 11th anniversary trip. Now, I have a cute (albeit, weird and curly) hairstyle, perky (albeit, nipple-less) new breasts, am getting divorced after my 11th anniversary, am about to start my dream job (did I mention they have a coffee bar on Wednesdays? A coffee bar!), am about to go on my first solo trip in years (see you in 73 days, Seattle!), have had an essay I wrote picked up by Wildfire magazine to be published in December, and will be buying a sweet little house in the fall, my favorite season. That's a whole lot of change in a year for a girl who, not too long ago, was projectile vomiting into a bag and wondering what she did in her past life to be subjected to such torment. So I am confident that in a year from now, life will be even better. It won't hurt like hell anymore. Maybe life will even feel really good.
I am still working on it, but are you ready for my hello letter? Here it is:
Hello, career! New classroom, new students, new school. Go, Raiders!
Hello, new house! Front porch with potted plants and wind chimes and a swing bench, and whistling tea kettles, and farm table with daisies, and a cozy patchwork quilt.
Hello, little dog! Cuddling up on the couch, and playing fetch in the yard, and going to the dog park.
Hello, children! More one on one time, baking and arts and crafts, and glitter everywhere. EVERYWHERE.
Hello, friends! Time to hang out, and go to the movies, and search antique markets for treasures with.
Hello, trips! Freedom to catch a flight or jump in the car for a quick weekend away when the mood strikes.
Hello, school! Thinking about applying to graduate school for my History M.A. in the new year.
Hello, Rupert! I doubt Prince Charming will suddenly fall into my lap, but he'll be worth the wait.
Hello, gym! Working out and getting ripped. Well, not ripped. But close. Well, kind of close...
Hello, writing! Finally getting around to a literary idea I have been thinking about pursuing.
So while I have a lot of goodbyes happening, I have a lot of hellos, too. I have to remember that on my bad days. The hellos will be what keeps me going.
Thank you for being one of my hellos.
''Everybody wants to live how they wanna live, and everybody wants to love how they wanna love, everybody wants to be closer to free. Everybody wants respect, just a little bit, and everybody needs a chance once in a while. Everybody wants to be closer to free. Everybody needs to touch, you know, now and then, and everybody wants a good, good friend. Everybody wants to be closer to free.''
Link to Closer to Free by the Bodeans: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mpv8prvZufk
On Saturday, my ex went out. We had decided to start implementing the his Saturday/my Saturday now, so we are used to the routine when I move out. That was his Saturday.
He went out from 6 p.m. to 4 a.m. He took an uber, wore his new shirt he bought earlier that day, new hair gel in his hair. He has never in the 12 years I have known him stayed out until 4 a.m., except for that time we were at a Full Moon Party in Koh Phangan in 2007.
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| The early hours of the Full Moon Party Koh Phangan, Thailand, February 2007 |
At 2:45 a.m. I woke up to get my daughter water and saw he wasn't home. I called, and he didn't answer. I texted saying I was worried, and he replied saying he was on his way home. He didn't say where he was.
At 4:15 a.m. I woke up again and saw he had just come in. I asked where he had been and he said at the Braves stadium watching a game and at the bars. I asked who he was with, since he isn't the type of person to hang out at a bar alone for nine hours. He said ''people''. ''A woman?'', I asked. ''Well, people. Men and women'', was his reply.
On Sunday we were watching a movie with our children. I had been crying a good part of the day, escaping to go antiquing with a friend for an hour earlier. It was the first weekend that our divorce was unofficially official, and it was hard for me. I asked to look at his phone for a moment and saw a text conversation taking place with some named ''German''. Very innocent, like German said, ''How was your day?'' and he said, ''Good, did you get your t.v.?'', and she said, ''Yes! Here is a pic''. That sort of thing.
''Who is German?'', I asked. ''Someone'', he said, stone-faced. I excused myself, and was in tears. Tears. I guess I just hadn't figured he would go out drinking all night long with a random girl the second day our divorce papers were filed. While he is entitled to do whatever he wants now, it didn't lessen the sting.
That night he said, ''Why don't you sleep in here with me and we'll cuddle up?''. I did, it was completely platonic, and it was nice. I was so damn sad and lonely, I couldn't take it. So I held him, his back, and the quilt kept coming off his arm as he slept, so I kept covering it back up and rubbing his shoulder to warm it up. While I was in and out of sleeping I noticed that my own shoulder was cold. I was so busy making sure his was warm, I had been ignoring my own. It may seem insignificant, but I had an epiphany in that moment, that it was time to stop worrying about him and start worrying about myself. To let go.
All of our marriage, he never really held me, even before we had children. He would say that there was always a child in the bed, and that was why, but I remember even as newlyweds I would ask him, ''Can you hold me?''. I would have to ask, and I always found it odd. I have never been a hugely sexual person, but I find human connections like hugs and hand holding and being held very, very enjoyable and intimate. He on the other hand, is not too cuddly. I always told myself it must because he is British, and they aren't the most cuddly of people. Whatever the reason, it is something that I always found unsettling. Warming up his cold shoulder while my own was cold reminded me of that. I would like to think that one day if I ever find Rupert, I would wake up to find his arms around me and the sound of his heart against my ear and the knowing that he would never let my shoulders get cold while he was around.
On Monday, I was still quite beside myself. Everywhere I look at home is a reminder; that's the granite we picked out in the kitchen, we walked around that warehouse, a child in each of our arms, on a cold winter's day. Those are the front steps he built by hand, where we posed for our first family of five picture when our last child was a newborn. I held our sweet new baby swaddled in my arms, and he had our daughter on his lap. That was the cottage we built for the children, with old barn wood and a tin roof and a little front porch and pink roses out front. That was the nursery I decorated, with a big yellow paper sun and grey crib and dresser and long, white curtains and a vintage map of the world. I would sit in there for hours and rock our baby to sleep, looking out the window at the lake and the trees swaying back and forth on a fall day, smelling his sweet new baby smell. That is our dock, where we taught our kids how to fish, and take our little boat out for sunset jaunts, and just sit there and watch the ducks go past. That is the tree that we had donkeys tied to and the long driveway where the pony and cart went up and down during a farm party we had for the children. That is the spot on the grass for the time we had the giant inflatable water slide. That's where I hide the eggs at Easter for the egg hunt. That is the corner where the Christmas tree goes every year, beside the grey armchairs we were so excited to buy at Ikea after eyeing them up for two years. This is my home, our home, where we have been raising our family and bringing home babies and celebrating holidays and first days of school on the bus and trick or treating and birthday balloons tied to the mailbox. So not only am I losing my husband, but I am also losing my home. It symbolizes the happiest time of my life, it symbolizes my past, and our plans for the future, where I thought I would live forever. It is a lot of loss all at once.
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| Egg hunt! Our backyard, Easter 2017 |
I said it wasn't. I said I didn't want him to be lonely. I wanted him to have company, someone to talk to. I said it was normal, after years of being at home and working all of the time, to want to wear something nice and feel good about yourself and go out and talk to other adults, make new friends, go somewhere different. I agreed with everything, I understood. I just want our last few weeks to be as it always has been. Our marriage is dying, and that is how I want the final moments to be. That is how I want to say goodbye to us.
He confided in me that he had been very depressed over the winter. Very depressed. He knows he didn't do what he should have done during my cancer treatment, he knows he broke my heart by being inattentive during the hardest time of my life, when I was fighting to live and needed him the most. He tried making it up to me with flowers and chocolates and things of that nature. I told him that buying me flowers from the grocery store on his way home from work while he bought beer wasn't enough for me. It was merely a bandaid, a quick fix. I needed more from him, and he didn't know how to give that to me. He tried in his way, and when it didn't work he grew depressed, and hopeless, and felt like a failure. He was lonely, and wishing he had made more friends here over the years, and was overwhelmed from my cancer, and then my broken wrist was the death knell for us. The pressure became too great for us both, and we took it out on one another.
In the Spring, we started talking about splitting and living separately. I said I needed space, time to heal, time to discover myself again. I didn't even know who the fuck I was anymore, honestly. I couldn't stand his gloom and doom attitude and complaining any longer. I hadn't just escaped the depths of hell to live with Eeyore and the constant negativity that plagued him. I could not be his cheerleader anymore. I didn't particularly want a divorce, I just wanted time to myself. He said we either stay together or divorce, no grey area. So I chose the latter.
The funny thing is, we both started being happy again. Especially him. He wasn't depressed anymore. He made jokes about how my perfect boyfriend would be named Professor Rupert Twatface, and he would be this well-read intellectual who would sit around and analyze books with me and wear a cardigan with patches on the sleeves and we'd have matching Birkenstocks and go on hiking day trips in his Prius. I joked that his perfect girlfriend would be named Sally, and she would be some super-cool Drum and Bass girl who goes to shows with him in the city and likes listening to his record mixes in his record room. My house would be filled with antiques and flowery things and pops of pink, and arts and crafts and a little puppy, all of which he dislikes, and his would be minimal and orderly and ''smart''. I would have a few days to myself a week, he would have a few days to himself a week, and we would each finally get a break. From work, children, house stuff. Each other. We would both have time to find ourselves again, eke out our own identities.
The more we talked about it, the happier we became.
We decided to have a big family vacation, before we split up, God knows we needed it, and rented a huge, gorgeous house by the Gulf of Mexico. His parents flew into Tampa, and babysat some nights, and we went out and had drinks and time to ourselves. I often wonder if on the times his parents visited, twice a year, if even once if they offered to babysit the kids for a weekend so we could have a break, if it would have reached this point. But they never did, and he never wanted to ask. We've only ever had two nights away from our children in eight years, and in hindsight it really took a toll on our marriage. One of those nights was in December 2015, when we flew to England for Christmas. I had been planning a surprise trip to Belgium for him for his birthday, and asked if they would watch the children for one night so I could take him on the Eurostar. I booked us a quirky room by the Christmas Market, and we stopped in amazement for this amazing symphony that started playing that night in the square with all of the Christmas lights lit up amid the Gothic architecture. We ate mussels and fries with mayo and drank Trappist beer in medieval bars and feasted on chocolates. It was only one night, but it was one of the funnest nights of my life.
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| Brussels, Belgium, December 2015. I surprised him with a 4 a.m. train ride, and he had no idea where we were going until we boarded. I love surprises. Happy ones, not the ones of the ''You have cancer'' variety. |
During our heart to heart, we decided that since we still technically be married for our 11th anniversary at the end of July, we would have one last night out as a married couple. No house, no kids. Just us. Like the old days. We are going to book a night at hotel in Atlanta, and go out bar hopping and having fun, staying out as late as we want and sleeping in until as late as we want. We decided that would be a nice way to say goodbye to ''us'', to feel like we were young and free again, if only for one more night. To feel like how we felt before the burdens of parenthood and home ownership and careers and cancer beat us down. To celebrate making it to 11 years, with barely a fight, filled with traveling and transatlantic moves and relocating to a new city with only our suitcases and each other. To bringing three babies into the world and giving them a loving home and learning how to be parents together. That is a lot to celebrate. That is a lot to be grateful for.
He said that this will always be my home, I can always come here whenever I want. He will always love me in a way he'll never love anyone else, I will always be the mother of his children, and the person who went on many adventures with him. No one else could replace me, he said. Sure, he might want company, he might end up with someone else one day, but no one could ever replace me. He was sorry he couldn't love me like I needed him to, sorry he couldn't change. If we never get back together, he wants me to find someone who could be all of the things that he couldn't be. He wants me to be happy, even if that's not with him. I want him to be happy, too. Even if it's not with me.
We'll still be a family, he said. We will have children who get to see the best part of their parents, who are fun and loving and caring. Not the parents who fight, and get depressed, and disappointed with one another. They will get to have parents who still take them out the lake, and the movies, and for pancakes, and go over each others houses for dinner, and who can be there together to watch them unwrap Christmas presents and Easter baskets and get dressed up for Halloween. We might not be married anymore, or live together anymore, but we will always be their parents. We will always be a family.
We can look back on our memories with happiness instead of bitterness, and still be able to make more memories together. Just in a different way.
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| Hosting our son's Renaissance-themed 1st birthday party, June 2011 |
He made me feel so much better. He really did. But still, it hurts. Saying goodbye hurts.
I read an article about the benefit of divorcing in your 40's. I am actually in my 30's, but close enough. The article first gave tips about getting through the divorce, such as writing a goodbye letter. The goodbye letter is to your spouse, essentially pouring your heart out and laying it all on the table. The hello letter is to yourself, talking about all of the things to look forward to about your new chapter. On the bad days, you read your hello letter. The article then talks about all of these positive things, like how much better dating someone in your 40's is compared to your 20's. For instance, people in their 40's know their likes and dislikes, and exactly what they want from a partner. They aren't fucking around. They don't play games. They are mature, but still young enough to be fun. They have baggage, and understand you have baggage, too. They are old enough to have had some kind of trauma, and have empathy as a result. Evidently women reach their sexual peak after 36, and men in their 40's are better at pleasuring their partner as they get older, so that's a happy coincidence. They are also aging, too, getting a few wrinkles or grey hairs or balding a bit, and so they understand a woman in her 40's is likely to have some wrinkles or grey hairs or stretch marks or a soft tummy. They have a realistic expectation of what a woman looks like, compared to when they were in their 20's. They are usually pretty settled, not sewing any wild oats anymore.
The more I read, the more content I became. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.
I went on match.com. I really did. I didn't register or anything, and have zero intention of pursuing any man for quite a while, but was curious. I entered the 35-45 age range, and a few cuties came up, two of whom live in my town. One had a 5 year old daughter, and said she is a huge part of his life and that anyone whom he dates would have to be okay with that. The other had two sons, and said he and his ex are raising them together even though they're divorced, so the person whom he dates can't have any insecurity issues about that. The other guy was a few towns over, and didn't have kids, and said he was pretty sure he didn't want kids, but would love to be the stepfather to someone else's. I loved the honesty they all had. They just put it all out there. It made me feel confident that one day when I am ready, I can say that I have three children, and am raising them with my ex, and I can lay it all out there, too, and won't feel like I have too much baggage for someone. I like how a lot of them said they weren't interested in kids, or anymore kids, because that takes the pressure off of me. My ob/gyn said just last week that me having anymore babies was still ''very much in the realm of possibility'', but I would be heartbroken if I met someone who desperately wanted a baby and I couldn't give that to him. Not to mention, I am on year eight of teething babies and diapers and cutting up food into tiny pieces and wiping someone's ass. Now when I see a pregnant woman, swollen and giant and sweating profusely, I really don't feel envious. I don't miss morning sickness, and hemmroids, and having to urinate all of the time, and having heartburn so bad I'd have to sleep sitting upright. I am back in my nice, pre-pregnancy clothes, feel healthier than ever, and quite enjoy starting to sleep through the night again uninterrupted. While I am happy to close that chapter, I would feel terrible if I met someone wonderful who wanted a baby and I wanted to have one with him and I couldn't. So, that's a big plus, not having that pressure. Although I'd like to think Rupert would be so madly in love with me that my procreation abilities wouldn't phase him in the slightest.
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| Pregnancy Days: Eight months along, celebrating my 33rd birthday on the Etowah River with my new camera, September 2016 |
Anyway, I am feeling a lot better today. It still hurts like hell, but it's better. My life has changed a lot in a year; this time last summer I was bald, had three tumors, my breasts, and was planning my 11th anniversary trip. Now, I have a cute (albeit, weird and curly) hairstyle, perky (albeit, nipple-less) new breasts, am getting divorced after my 11th anniversary, am about to start my dream job (did I mention they have a coffee bar on Wednesdays? A coffee bar!), am about to go on my first solo trip in years (see you in 73 days, Seattle!), have had an essay I wrote picked up by Wildfire magazine to be published in December, and will be buying a sweet little house in the fall, my favorite season. That's a whole lot of change in a year for a girl who, not too long ago, was projectile vomiting into a bag and wondering what she did in her past life to be subjected to such torment. So I am confident that in a year from now, life will be even better. It won't hurt like hell anymore. Maybe life will even feel really good.
I am still working on it, but are you ready for my hello letter? Here it is:
Hello, career! New classroom, new students, new school. Go, Raiders!
Hello, new house! Front porch with potted plants and wind chimes and a swing bench, and whistling tea kettles, and farm table with daisies, and a cozy patchwork quilt.
Hello, little dog! Cuddling up on the couch, and playing fetch in the yard, and going to the dog park.
Hello, children! More one on one time, baking and arts and crafts, and glitter everywhere. EVERYWHERE.
Hello, friends! Time to hang out, and go to the movies, and search antique markets for treasures with.
Hello, trips! Freedom to catch a flight or jump in the car for a quick weekend away when the mood strikes.
Hello, school! Thinking about applying to graduate school for my History M.A. in the new year.
Hello, Rupert! I doubt Prince Charming will suddenly fall into my lap, but he'll be worth the wait.
Hello, gym! Working out and getting ripped. Well, not ripped. But close. Well, kind of close...
Hello, writing! Finally getting around to a literary idea I have been thinking about pursuing.
So while I have a lot of goodbyes happening, I have a lot of hellos, too. I have to remember that on my bad days. The hellos will be what keeps me going.
Thank you for being one of my hellos.
''Everybody wants to live how they wanna live, and everybody wants to love how they wanna love, everybody wants to be closer to free. Everybody wants respect, just a little bit, and everybody needs a chance once in a while. Everybody wants to be closer to free. Everybody needs to touch, you know, now and then, and everybody wants a good, good friend. Everybody wants to be closer to free.''
Link to Closer to Free by the Bodeans: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mpv8prvZufk
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