35 Things - Eighteen through Twenty-six

It is taking me entirely too long to get through this list, not because I haven't learned 35 things, but because when you try to distill what you've learned into just 35 things, it's hard to select and articulate the most significant.  I keep getting hung up on trying to say something profound, something meaningful -- or at least something hopeful and optimistic.  It's not working.  So, without much discernment, eighteen through twenty-five -- and, with substantially more thought, and also with humility, twenty-six:

18. I may be scarred, but I am not destroyed.  On the other hand, I may not be destroyed, but I am nonetheless damaged.  And that makes me afraid, both that no one will be willing to love me again, and that I won't be willing to let them.

19. The best friends provide comic relief, wise ears, stern words, and open arms, all of which are absolutely necessary.  Laugh with them, speak to them, listen to them, embrace them.


Thank you to all of my wonderful friends (new and old), and especially to Julie, for giving me all of the above, even (and particularly) when I don't like it, which is when I need it the most.

20. I would rather struggle to be better, to change, than live with ease, blind to my own failings.

21. Wanting to to be better is not even close to enough.  Change requires small, excruciating steps, frequently in the wrong direction.  It requires daily effort and endurance, and may not be apparent for a long while.  I still have a long way to go.

22.  I'm not sure I can stop loving someone I have once loved.  I can love them less, and in a different way, but I'm just not sure I can stop entirely.  And I'm not sure that's something I want to change.

23. Two people can share an experience -- or a love, or a life -- yet experience two entirely different things.

24. Strong, brilliant, otherwise self-possessed women regularly define themselves by the men (or man) in their lives.  We mold ourselves to them -- or try.  I do it, women I love and admire do it.  I'm befuddled.

25. Family, family, family.  Aunts, mother, sister, cousins.  They have buoyed me through dark times again and again, and this year is no exception.  They ground me, they lift me, they infuriate me, they delight me.  They push and inspire me to be better, to be more like them.  These are the strong women -- and the strong man who will always be thirteen in my mind and a brother in my heart -- who help me define myself.  They are my ties, my history, my fabric.

Speaking of strong women, I feel compelled to mention Erin Poston Stone, a classmate and fellow Model Arab Leaguer of mine from Converse, whose husband very recently passed away.  Her most recent blog post literally left me in  tears this morning, waiting for court and realizing that, if I didn't stop reading immediately, I would be sobbing in front of the judge.  After court, I was simply unable to get into the car and drive.  Instead, I could only sit in the parking lot at McDonalds to finish reading Erin's post.  I read it in its entirety again when I got home from work this evening, and cried for Erin, Cameron, Patrick and their entire family.  I also cried for Dr. B, the Professor, and his family.  The heart cries for those it loves.

Erin is, and has been, so breathtakingly strong.  Her writing is heartwrenching and real.  Her experience and her blog posts remind me that I am so lucky.  I am surrounded by women who endure and survive much worse than I have ever dreamed of going through, and I am humbled by that.

And so, lesson number twenty-six is that no matter your experience, however devastating it is, someone, somewhere, is almost certainly going through much, much worse -- unimaginably worse -- and they are doing it with grace and beauty.  Like Erin.

Erin's blog:

http://stonecancer20.blogspot.com/2011/10/good-man-lost.html

The Truth Is There Is No Truth

Despite the fact that no one has actually posted a comment on the blog itself, I've received more feedback on the last blog post than on any other post I've written, both in terms of the number of responses and their intensity.  It's been an interesting experience of discovery for me, because I didn't anticipate that a post painting me in such a negative light would elicit sympathy, encouragement, and passion.

Many responses have been along the lines of telling me I'm being too hard on myself, everyone has their bad moments, etc.  And I get that, I really do.  As I said at the end of the post, I know that's not the whole story.  As one generous friend said, it's a simplistic narrative.  And it is.  This blog is.  The reality has far more nuance and complexity than my last post -- or any single post taken alone -- can capture. 

The point of my last blog post was not that the end of my marriage was entirely my fault, or even mostly my fault.  But before I started this blog, I thought long and hard about what I wanted it to be.  I could use this as a forum to exact some meaningless, unfulfilling revenge.  I could play the victim, rally you to my corner (although, admittedly, most of you are already there).  I could say the Professor was terrible with money, emotionally inaccessible, utterly lacking in empathy.  I could tell you stories about how the Professor failed me, disappointed me, broke me.  And I'm sure I will.

But I have no illusions about the fact that I can also tell you stories about how I failed, disappointed and broke the Professor.  I don't mean that I deserved to be left.  I don't mean to justify his leaving or anything else he has done since then.  I couldn't want to mean that even if I wanted to want it.  And I don't want it, because this is all still a story I don't want to read.

But here I am, writing it nonetheless.  And, whatever else I do or don't know, I know that no single blog post can completely portray the Professor, or me.  No retelling can tell the true story of our relationship.  More likely, there simply is no true story, no single, definitive history.  And, if there is, it probably cannot be told from my perspective, because my perspective is necessarily limited by the fact that it's mine.

Or maybe that's wrong.  Maybe the Professor is a static, uncomplicated and unredeemable character, and my reluctance to accept that reflects an unwillingness to believe that I was taken.  But I don't really believe that.  I can't, for numerous, complex reasons.  And I don't want you to, either.  I loved him.  I still do.  And I have to believe there is something to that, something important and life-altering, even if I don't understand it.  Perhaps because it's true.  Perhaps because I need it to be true.  Probably some of both.

I'd like to say that I have some sort of broad, noble goal for this blog, some profound motivation for the things I write.  But I don't.  This is just me, living this experience in the most honest and thoughtful way that I can.  I will be angry, and I will write fury.  I will be sad, and I will write sorrow.  I will be selfish, and I will write pity.  I will be sorry, and I will write guilt.  But, whatever I write, I will try to temper it with awareness of the limitations of my own retelling.  I hope you can read it that way, as well.