One week ago today, the Professor divorced me. Between the divorce and work, it's been a tough week. I've been delirious with exhaustion and numb to everything. I have had moments of sudden sorrow. I have laughed, I have cried.
For some reason, my feelings are closer to the surface than they were before the divorce and in the first few days after. So are my memories.
I've been angry at the Professor for things said and done long ago, things I have long-since accepted will never be resolved. I've mourned shared moments I thought I had buried, lost bonds I thought I had released.
I am not surprised by any of this, although that doesn't make it less difficult. The loss is enormous and, while I don't mourn the loss of who he now, because I don't really know him now, I mourn the loss of what we shared, of what we once had, however long ago.
I believed in what we shared, whatever name it merits, and it was real to me then, in those moments, in memories that flicker through my mind. And, perhaps the hardest thing to accept, the greatest pain, is that it must not have been real to him in that same way, or he wouldn't have -- couldn't have -- left. Because how does one walk away from that?
None of this should imply that there weren't reasons for the Professor to be unhappy, or that I didn't screw a lot of things up. There were, and I did. Our life was not a fairy tale. At the end, it was quite the contrary. There was a lot of screaming, a lot of silence, a lot of hurt and anger. Tension filled this house, everything became a misunderstanding, a struggle. Things toppled, and I saw it happen around me, but I didn't know how to stop it. And, at the end, all he wanted was to escape, and I know I had a hand in that. I own that, and it rests heavy on my shoulders.
Sometimes that makes it easier to accept the loss. Sometimes, it makes it harder. But knowing it makes me real.
And at the moment, being real just sucks.
7.26.2011
7.23.2011
Glimpses
Working 12+ hour days is a doubled-edged sword. On one hand, I've been too busy to think about the divorce; on the other hand, I'm worn out -- mentally, physically, emotionally. The last week was both a blur and a dark, extended nightmare. I felt jumbled up inside, slightly off-balance, like I was running for my life and chasing something at the same time.
As busy as I've been, there have nonetheless been a few acutely painful moments.
Friday morning I was walking out the door and saw a folder on the kitchen table. Thinking it might be work, I flipped through the documents. Not work. Divorce papers. Final Judgment. The Professor must have left them when he came by to let the dogs out. I flipped to the last page of the Judgment, saw the court's stamp. Sweaty and nauseous, I closed the folder. Took a breath. Walked out the door and went to work.
Today, I boxed up some of the Professor's things. Cleaning out his bedside table, I found a card. I opened it. Happy birthday, Princess, it's your first birthday as my wife. Electrified, I snapped the card shut and dropped it in a box with his things.
I can't see those things, can't touch them, can't think of them. I just want to close them up and ship them away. I wish it were that easy -- as easy to clean my heart of him as it is to clean the house of him.
It's not.
As busy as I've been, there have nonetheless been a few acutely painful moments.
Friday morning I was walking out the door and saw a folder on the kitchen table. Thinking it might be work, I flipped through the documents. Not work. Divorce papers. Final Judgment. The Professor must have left them when he came by to let the dogs out. I flipped to the last page of the Judgment, saw the court's stamp. Sweaty and nauseous, I closed the folder. Took a breath. Walked out the door and went to work.
Today, I boxed up some of the Professor's things. Cleaning out his bedside table, I found a card. I opened it. Happy birthday, Princess, it's your first birthday as my wife. Electrified, I snapped the card shut and dropped it in a box with his things.
I can't see those things, can't touch them, can't think of them. I just want to close them up and ship them away. I wish it were that easy -- as easy to clean my heart of him as it is to clean the house of him.
It's not.
7.19.2011
The Moment Between Before and After
There was a moment today between before and after. A moment when my world paused, and everything changed.
The Professor called me today (around 11:30?) to tell me that everything went fine in court, and it was done. A second. I said okay. Another second. Thanks for letting me know. Goodbye.
The expression, 'my ears swam'. It means something to me now. I heard the rush of the ocean, of wind, and nothing else.
Work was crazy today. I couldn't think straight. I was in meetings all afternoon. Ten minutes after the call, I went to a meeting, pissed a off partner by saying the wrong thing to the client. He was legitimately upset. What's the status of that issue? What? Issue? What? I have no idea what you're talking about. No idea what you even just said. Did you say something? Do I work here?
For three hours, I didn't have a single logical thought. Just emotion, just mental chaos. Just the ocean roaring through my brain.
I should have stayed home today. Instead, I billed twelve hours. For thirty seconds, I sat on my office floor and cried. Sobbed. If you can sob in thirty seconds. Then I went to another meeting.
I have more to say. But I just can't say it tonight. I want to say it thoughtfully, with perspective and peace, and I don't have any of that at the moment.
But I will. I know I will. Just give me tonight to cry.
The Professor called me today (around 11:30?) to tell me that everything went fine in court, and it was done. A second. I said okay. Another second. Thanks for letting me know. Goodbye.
The expression, 'my ears swam'. It means something to me now. I heard the rush of the ocean, of wind, and nothing else.
Work was crazy today. I couldn't think straight. I was in meetings all afternoon. Ten minutes after the call, I went to a meeting, pissed a off partner by saying the wrong thing to the client. He was legitimately upset. What's the status of that issue? What? Issue? What? I have no idea what you're talking about. No idea what you even just said. Did you say something? Do I work here?
For three hours, I didn't have a single logical thought. Just emotion, just mental chaos. Just the ocean roaring through my brain.
I should have stayed home today. Instead, I billed twelve hours. For thirty seconds, I sat on my office floor and cried. Sobbed. If you can sob in thirty seconds. Then I went to another meeting.
I have more to say. But I just can't say it tonight. I want to say it thoughtfully, with perspective and peace, and I don't have any of that at the moment.
But I will. I know I will. Just give me tonight to cry.
7.18.2011
D-Day Eve, Redux
Last Friday, the Professor filed the divorce papers I drafted. It's a lot of paperwork, but pretty straightforward stuff -- for the most part. It's an uncontested case (notwithstanding that I contested vehemently for a very long while), so there was a chance that the judge would issue the judgment that same day. The judge we were assigned doesn't do prove-ups on Fridays, so the Professor is scheduled to return to court tomorrow for a prove-up. It should be pretty standard stuff. Barring any unexpected complications -- and every attorney knows that complications should always be expected -- the divorce should be final tomorrow.
I have a range of feelings about tomorrow, some conflicting and confusing. Some peaceful, some heartbreaking. All just very real, very human emotions. Like me, like all of us, my feelings are complicated. I accept them all -- the relief, the fear, the sorrow. I know that I have to experience those things, to let myself feel them, although it is uncomfortable and sad. So I let it all come to me, and I sit with it, and it fills me. And that's the only, and best, thing I can do at the moment.
I don't reminisce very often, because it's still just too raw. But I remember one of our first dates in Athens. Late spring. We had dinner and drinks, and it rained. For some fundraising or marketing event, there were enormous bulldogs all over the city, painted in outrageous fashion. We grabbed a disposable camera from the drug store, and in the dark, in the rain, we schlepped around the city, hunting for and taking photos with the statues. We were soaked and laughing. It was joyful. It was pure.
I could go on, but I think that's enough. It is a heartbreaking memory, but beautiful, and that is how I choose to leave things in my own heart. It is, after all, a choice, and I want to be left with the beauty -- however painful it might be for a moment.
I'm too mentally, emotionally and physically tired to write much about this tonight. Give me a few days to process and adjust, and I'll try to say something thoughtful and articulate this weekend.
Love and thanks to all of my readers and supporters.
I have a range of feelings about tomorrow, some conflicting and confusing. Some peaceful, some heartbreaking. All just very real, very human emotions. Like me, like all of us, my feelings are complicated. I accept them all -- the relief, the fear, the sorrow. I know that I have to experience those things, to let myself feel them, although it is uncomfortable and sad. So I let it all come to me, and I sit with it, and it fills me. And that's the only, and best, thing I can do at the moment.
I don't reminisce very often, because it's still just too raw. But I remember one of our first dates in Athens. Late spring. We had dinner and drinks, and it rained. For some fundraising or marketing event, there were enormous bulldogs all over the city, painted in outrageous fashion. We grabbed a disposable camera from the drug store, and in the dark, in the rain, we schlepped around the city, hunting for and taking photos with the statues. We were soaked and laughing. It was joyful. It was pure.
I could go on, but I think that's enough. It is a heartbreaking memory, but beautiful, and that is how I choose to leave things in my own heart. It is, after all, a choice, and I want to be left with the beauty -- however painful it might be for a moment.
I'm too mentally, emotionally and physically tired to write much about this tonight. Give me a few days to process and adjust, and I'll try to say something thoughtful and articulate this weekend.
Love and thanks to all of my readers and supporters.
7.14.2011
D-Day Eve
I might be divorced 24 hours from now. As in no longer married, not the Professor's wife -- not his anything. Just a memory, a mistake, his bad decision. Something he did once, and then undid. That hurts me in ways I cannot articulate. I will be forever changed, always somehow altered. But I am already hurt, and I am already altered, and nothing can undo that. I let it wash over me and paint me with the kaleidoscopic colors of loss and newness. I embrace it, because really, there is no other choice but to let it destroy you. And so, I am ready.
I've spent a lot of time in these last ten months thinking about the Professor, thinking about the things I did wrong and the things I did right. I've dwelled in a dark place, a lonely place, a place of coming to terms with him and with myself. It's a tough place to dwell. It's humiliating and humbling to consider yourself honestly. It's scary to sit alone with yourself -- to seek refuge in nothing but the painful glare of reality mirrored back at you, to be enveloped by nothing but you.
But still. As I have said before, there is always a "but still."
But still, I have done more than survive. Because I sat alone with myself and did not hide, I know myself. I have learned (and continue to learn) to be conscious of myself. As a result, I am stronger and better -- and know how to continue to keep on that path. I am also gentler with myself, because I am well-acquainted with my own flaws and my own strengths. I see the good in myself tempered by the bad, the bad in myself balanced by the good. And I'm working on improving the bad.
But even more than that, more than what I see in and know of myself, is that I can move through this experience, and past it, without bitterness or anger. Yes, I get angry. I want to be mean. But those feelings are momentary. I don't let them control my actions or words, and they pass. And, somehow, the perspective and gentleness I've learned how to have with myself gives me perspective and gentleness towards the Professor, as well.
It may not make sense to you. I'm not sure I really understand it, myself. But I do know that it's real and it's true. And it's important, because it means that despite being altered by this experience, despite being hurt in ways that make my breath catch, I am not broken and brittle. I am not consumed by what has happened, by being left, by my hurt and anger. The scars are there, but they do not define me. They are just scars. Sometimes tender and aching, sometimes inflamed -- but not who I am or what I am about. And that is good and freeing. It empowers me to keep moving forward in a sure, but kind and gentle, way.
And that is who I want to be. Kind. Gentle. Real.
I've spent a lot of time in these last ten months thinking about the Professor, thinking about the things I did wrong and the things I did right. I've dwelled in a dark place, a lonely place, a place of coming to terms with him and with myself. It's a tough place to dwell. It's humiliating and humbling to consider yourself honestly. It's scary to sit alone with yourself -- to seek refuge in nothing but the painful glare of reality mirrored back at you, to be enveloped by nothing but you.
But still. As I have said before, there is always a "but still."
But still, I have done more than survive. Because I sat alone with myself and did not hide, I know myself. I have learned (and continue to learn) to be conscious of myself. As a result, I am stronger and better -- and know how to continue to keep on that path. I am also gentler with myself, because I am well-acquainted with my own flaws and my own strengths. I see the good in myself tempered by the bad, the bad in myself balanced by the good. And I'm working on improving the bad.
But even more than that, more than what I see in and know of myself, is that I can move through this experience, and past it, without bitterness or anger. Yes, I get angry. I want to be mean. But those feelings are momentary. I don't let them control my actions or words, and they pass. And, somehow, the perspective and gentleness I've learned how to have with myself gives me perspective and gentleness towards the Professor, as well.
It may not make sense to you. I'm not sure I really understand it, myself. But I do know that it's real and it's true. And it's important, because it means that despite being altered by this experience, despite being hurt in ways that make my breath catch, I am not broken and brittle. I am not consumed by what has happened, by being left, by my hurt and anger. The scars are there, but they do not define me. They are just scars. Sometimes tender and aching, sometimes inflamed -- but not who I am or what I am about. And that is good and freeing. It empowers me to keep moving forward in a sure, but kind and gentle, way.
And that is who I want to be. Kind. Gentle. Real.
7.13.2011
Passion
The last several weeks have been busy and full. The fullness has made it a good time for pushing forward, and I have been trying to do that. The distance I've given myself from the Professor has made it easier for me to evaluate where I once was, where I am now, what I get or don't get from our relationship, and where I want to go. Sometimes those are painful or difficult things to deal with, and sometimes they are joyful.
I was recently a part of a beautiful wedding and enjoyed the perspective of capturing unmitigated love in photos. Those photos made obvious to me something I've been aware of but haven't really wanted to confront: I never loved the Professor that way. I loved him deeply and truly. I was committed to our relationship for the rest of my life, and I would never have left him. I believed in what we shared, and I believed in that commitment. But some intensity, some spark, was always missing. I could have been passionate about the Professor, and I wanted to be -- but he was never passionate about me. It's just not who he is, or it wasn't who he was to me. He never wanted or needed from me the way I wanted him to, the way I wanted and needed from him. He never got it, never connected to me on that level, emotionally or physically. I could not look into his eyes and see his soul. I could never reach that part of him.
I thought I could live without that -- doesn't passion fade with time, anyway? Isn't abiding friendship more important than spark -- emotional or physical? It was more important to me, at least. I believed that abiding friendship was what we shared, what would carry us through, what would last despite everything. And so, I married my best friend.
Apparently, I was wrong about it carrying us through. And now that I have more emotional distance and space, now that I have come to terms with being wrong, with being left, I realize that perhaps I was also wrong about it being enough. I still think that it might have been enough for me, that it would have satisfied some of my most important needs, had the Professor been willing or able. But he was neither. And now that it's been ripped away, I'm not sure I would make the same decision again. In fact, I doubt I would. And while that's a sad realization, a tough thing to acknowledge, it's also something that gives me both comfort and hope. Because I believe in passion, and I have witnessed it.
I was recently a part of a beautiful wedding and enjoyed the perspective of capturing unmitigated love in photos. Those photos made obvious to me something I've been aware of but haven't really wanted to confront: I never loved the Professor that way. I loved him deeply and truly. I was committed to our relationship for the rest of my life, and I would never have left him. I believed in what we shared, and I believed in that commitment. But some intensity, some spark, was always missing. I could have been passionate about the Professor, and I wanted to be -- but he was never passionate about me. It's just not who he is, or it wasn't who he was to me. He never wanted or needed from me the way I wanted him to, the way I wanted and needed from him. He never got it, never connected to me on that level, emotionally or physically. I could not look into his eyes and see his soul. I could never reach that part of him.
I thought I could live without that -- doesn't passion fade with time, anyway? Isn't abiding friendship more important than spark -- emotional or physical? It was more important to me, at least. I believed that abiding friendship was what we shared, what would carry us through, what would last despite everything. And so, I married my best friend.
Apparently, I was wrong about it carrying us through. And now that I have more emotional distance and space, now that I have come to terms with being wrong, with being left, I realize that perhaps I was also wrong about it being enough. I still think that it might have been enough for me, that it would have satisfied some of my most important needs, had the Professor been willing or able. But he was neither. And now that it's been ripped away, I'm not sure I would make the same decision again. In fact, I doubt I would. And while that's a sad realization, a tough thing to acknowledge, it's also something that gives me both comfort and hope. Because I believe in passion, and I have witnessed it.
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