Muddy Waters

This post is not about the blues, in case you were wondering.  Okay, maybe it's about the blues, in a manner of speaking, but it's not about THE blues.  If you don't know what I'm talking about, forget it and keep reading.

I'm navigating some muddy waters on my long drive to Someplace Other Than Where I've Been.  I'm navigating the waters of a brand new job, working 70+ hours a week and hoping they like me (or don't hate me) enough not to fire me any time soon.  I'm navigating the waters of figuring out what I want, professionally, and realizing that maybe I want to be a litigator, after all.  I'm also navigating the waters of we're-getting-divorced-but-we-still-see-each-other-every-week.  And that's a rough river.

It's been like this since January.  Since I gave the Professor my One Last Stand - my closing argument for the case of our marriage.  Since that night, when he sat reluctantly on a chair across from me and said, no, love isn't enough, we can't go back, and even if we could, I don't want to.  At that moment, I started holding my breath, learning to wait for the tears to pass, the panic to fade to something manageable, learning to wait until he was out of the room or off the phone to let myself collapse into the dust of my devastated life.  And from those small moments of holding my breath and then gasping for air, came longer moments, when my lungs didn't ache and I could pause and savor the now.

Those moments have continued to grow longer, and I've continued growing stronger.  I am thriving in my new job, relieved to have the stress and distraction and import of something other than my own life.  And as I fill my lungs and my life with these new things, and put distance between myself and the sheer awfulness of being left by my husband, I put distance between myself and my love for him.

But still.  Isn't there always a "but still"?  But still, here we are, getting-divorced-but-still-seeing-each-other-every-week.  We still celebrate one another's small victories, commiserate one another's small defeats.  We still chat about the dogs, catch up on the general goings on of our lives.  Last weekend, I had to work, and he cooked dinner when I got home and later made a fire in the fire pit we built together last spring.  We had beers and smoked, and we chatted about the stresses of work and parents growing older, siblings and cousins getting married, and even our divorce papers (which I will probably draw up).  The conversation was pleasant, the fire was warm.  I felt calm and strong and honest and full of integrity for the way I've handled things until now.

But still.

Tonight, of all things, I was watching American Idol.  One of the contestants sang You've Got A Friend.  It took me back to a shared moment, a James Taylor concert, courtesy of the law firm I summered with in 2003, outdoors, the Professor sitting beside me in the Atlanta heat.  Those early days of giddiness and hope.

I have been disappointed and hurt.  I have been devastated.  I have moved away from the wreckage, and I will continue to move forward, to navigate my way through these waters.

But still - I love him.

Poem

My husband floats

beside me on a river, in a paper boat 
folded and bent by a child

I don't know.

684 Days

No, the title of this post does not refer to the number of days since my last post.  Nor does it refer to the number of days that have passed since the Professor asked for a divorce --although I feel like I've aged at least two years over the last six months and 28 days.  Rather, the title of this post refers to the 684 days since my last day of work at my old law firm.  Yes, I've had a 684 day "vacation," as certain of my proud family members call it.

In theory, a two year break from work certainly seems like it would be a welcome vacation.  And it should have been.  But, in reality, I've spent much of the last 684 days navigating the murky waters of depression, marital dissatisfaction, death and divorce.  Fun times.

Tomorrow I'm returning to litigation, also known as hell on earth.  Other than the occasional nightmare in which I'm being fired for missing a typo in a brief, I haven't thought about litigation, or the law, in almost two years.  I don't remember how to bluebook a case citation or have a subpoena issued.  I should be terrified.  Oddly, I'm not.

Instead, I'm excited.  I'm excited about childish details like having an office, a business card, and a reason to wear heels.  A reason to get dressed before ten a.m.  And actually wash my hair.  I'm also excited about feeling useful, even if it is as someone's billable hour slave.

Perhaps I'm not terrified because I've adapted, I've forgotten what it's like to live the stress and anxiety of litigation on a 60 hour per week basis.  I'm sure that's true to some extent.  But I like to think (or hope) that it's mostly because the last 684 days have changed me, have changed my perspective about what's worth getting stressed over, what's scary enough to be afraid of, what can kill me and what can't.

I've been lucky to have these 684 days.  I've been blessed to have the utter freedom of endless hours with no one to answer to, and morning coffee on the back porch with my dogs.  But more importantly, I've been blessed to learn that court deadlines, screaming partners and missed typos are not even close to the worst things I can get through with grace and dignity.  And that, I will do.