When the Professor and I were dating, his younger brother, Junior, had a series of girlfriends. Junior was edgy, creative, hilarious. I think he was searching for something -- someone -- lighter than himself. Every year at Christmas, he brought one home with him, and every year, his mother had a stocking for the girl, one with her name embroidered on it. Every year, there was a new stocking, a new name. I don't know what happened to the old ones. Maybe they were tossed in the attic, gathering dust. Maybe they were thrown out.
I still think of the Professor's mom as my mother-in-law. She hasn't acknowledged me once since the Professor told her that he wanted a divorce. Neither has Junior. Not once. You would think that I was a serial killer, or a serial cheater. You woud think that I left him. But maybe they hated me all those years. Maybe they breathed a sigh of relief, followed by many more sighs and much more relief, when the Professor actually left me. But I didn't breath a sigh of relief when I lost them. To me, that is what it was. And is. Loss.
I wanted to tell someone a story the other day, and it started with the Professor's father. I opened my mouth to speak, and realized I didn't know what to call him. My ex-father-in-law? He died before the Professor left me, and so that didn't seem right. And I had loved him, and I thought that he at least liked something in me, some fire he saw, however much he worried it would burn out his son. I couldn't tell my story, because I couldn't figure out the words around that. So I started, and stumbled, and thought of the Professor and his family, which had been my family. And I found that I couldn't think of anything else, so I stopped talking. There was simply no way to begin that felt adequate.
I once thought I knew where things stood. I once believed that I knew people, and that they knew me, and loved me anyway. I have learned much in these last sixteen months, mostly about myself. About others, I have learned that I did not know, that I did not see and certainly did not not understand. I was, probably, simply wrong, about many things. About many people. That knowledge, and the painful learning of it, has made me someone I was not. Someone stronger, someone scarred, someone deeper, someone hurt. I am brave, and I am terrified. I am changed, in both good ways and bad. I can never be unchanged.
I was wrong about what it means to love someone. Love goes deeper and longer than I ever knew. Love is less selfish than I once was. Love treads more carefully than I did. And love can bear you up against intolerable pain and make you stronger than you dream possible. But everyone does not love the way that I do. Or, at least, everyone I love does not love me that way back. But still, I am not a stocking that can be replaced or tucked away to gather dust in the attic. You can pack me up and leave me up there, but I am not. I am not fungible. I am deeply flawed, I know. But so are we all. And there is beauty and kindness --something uniquely worthy of love, tenderness, loyalty -- in me. In you. I may not know yours yet, but it is there.
I don't know yet what it all means. I don't know what to do with all that I have learned, or how much more I will heal, or in what way the breaks and scars might make me even better -- or worse. I want hope for the best, although I have no idea what that might bring. But I know I have to hope, because I yearn for more. Despite, and because of, everything. More.
1.29.2012
1.22.2012
Auld Lang Syne
It's been more than two months since I blogged, and I feel guilty about that. It's not that I've been too busy, but that I haven't known what to say. I feel sort of like I'm writing a chagrined letter to a friend I've neglected.
The last two months have been full. There was a trip to Nuevo Vallarta, Mexico, for Thanksgiving. I found getting my SCUBA certification to be more challenging than I anticipated. There is something about it -- the water pressure of being so deep, the ceasing of all sound but your own air bubbles, the feeling about being completely isolated from the divers hovering only five feet away -- that makes me want to rip the regulator out of my mouth and scream. With each dive, it takes me some time to get past that, to breathe through the anxiety and relax. And my friends helped me do just that. I made the trip, and the dives, with my dear friend, Julie. I won't get into all of the gory details here, but long story short, as they say, I came pretty close to not getting certified. Julie, who already was certified and who fears nothing -- who cannot possibly understand my own anxiety -- supported and cheered and pushed me all the way. Julie is the kind of friend who takes your or leaves you on true terms. She is one of a kind. Love it or hate it, she will tell you her truth. We all need a friend like that. I think it helps me see myself in a way I would not, otherwise. And it pushes me to be a better person, to be less afraid, or to at least walk head-on into my fears, knowing that they won't destroy me.
Christmas came upon me suddenly, which I suppose is probably best. I didn't spend much time this year feeling very festive, but that also meant I didn't spend a lot of time thinking about the holidays, missing the sweet joy of sharing the holidays with the Professor, and all of the excitement that always went with that. And so I made it through the holidays mostly unscathed. But I will admit I thought of the Professor a great deal. I missed him.
Things have been kind of dark and blurry since then. I chalk it up, at least partly, to generic post-holiday blues. I think it's pretty normal to feel down after the holidays, especially in a cold, snowy city like Chicago. But I also think it's another transition phase for me. I kept pretty busy last year, kept myself focused on concrete things I had to look forward to, a new job, parties, vacations, etc. Even the divorce itself was something to focus on. I had an objective: getting through the divorce in a dignified way, not doing anything to give the Professor a reason to think he made the right decision in leaving me.
Now that it's over, and the holidays are done, I feel kind of lost. The challenge, however it might be described -- getting through the divorce, handling it in the best way I could, being the best person I could, giving the Professor every opportunity not to go through with it -- seems over. And what is left?
I don't know. That's the answer.
Things -- life -- haven't turned out how I expected them to. I did get what I wanted out of this last year, or at least what I could have hoped to dig from the remains of a decimated life, which is to say that I recovered some dignity, I put myself back together as best I could, I didn't kill myself, and I kept moving on, waking up each day, pushing myself, doing what scares me. What choice did I have?
And that question keeps coming back to me, because 'what choice do I have' is a fine way to get through a tragedy, but it's no way to get through a life. Lately, I feel a little stuck there, like I'm treading water. Where do I move on from here? Honestly, I want what I had, or thought I had: love, companionship, friendship, acceptance. But the thought of going through it all again, meeting someone, learning to know someone, sharing myself with someone (which part of me feels must be a completely screwed up and unlovable someone, or else I would not have been left), seems impossible, like an unmoveable weight on my chest, bearing me down so that I cannot breathe. If the person who knew you most in the world -- the person who knew all of your weaknesses and flaws -- could not stand to be with you, how could anyone else ever love you?
Before I met the Professor, I honestly thought my opportunities for life-long love were over. I realize that sounds dramatic. I was only 27 at the time. But I had put myself, and others, through a lot by then already. I sort of knew I was a little screwed up. I doubted anyone could stand me for very long. I actually ran like hell from the Professor. But he eventually wore me down, and I decided we were both equally flawed, and that we were both lucky to find someone to take us unconditionally. The thing is that the more I think about that, the more I recover from the last year and think more objectively about the ten years preceding it, I can't help but recall those feelings. I thought I was done before I met him. I thought he saved me. And I know it shouldn't be true -- I know that my strength and goodness this last year should mean something to me, should be a light of my own future self, shining to show me the way -- but the truth is, I can't help but feel that his leaving me only confirms what I already believed. That I am too screwed up for anyone to properly love.
That makes it hard to move forward on the love front. How can I pretend to be this great, SCUBA diving, hang-gliding, litigation wonder, when I feel like I am such a mess, inside? If the one person who truly knew me -- knew all of my worst habits, saw me at my ugliest and most raw, but also saw my best, my most generous and loving self -- left me, how can anyone else ever love me?
So what is next? What is left? Am I loveable? Will I be alone forever?
I don't know. I can't say yes and I certainly can't say no. Life hasn't turned out as I had imagined it would as a child, and that sort of breaks my heart for my child-self. But there has still been beauty in my life, and wonder, and warmth. I have been so lucky, to have loved so deeply -- and more than once. Perhaps all of the love that I have already had in thirty-five years is more than most people get in a lifetime. I can't argue with that, because I have had some beautiful and intense love. Perhaps that will have to be enough.
The last two months have been full. There was a trip to Nuevo Vallarta, Mexico, for Thanksgiving. I found getting my SCUBA certification to be more challenging than I anticipated. There is something about it -- the water pressure of being so deep, the ceasing of all sound but your own air bubbles, the feeling about being completely isolated from the divers hovering only five feet away -- that makes me want to rip the regulator out of my mouth and scream. With each dive, it takes me some time to get past that, to breathe through the anxiety and relax. And my friends helped me do just that. I made the trip, and the dives, with my dear friend, Julie. I won't get into all of the gory details here, but long story short, as they say, I came pretty close to not getting certified. Julie, who already was certified and who fears nothing -- who cannot possibly understand my own anxiety -- supported and cheered and pushed me all the way. Julie is the kind of friend who takes your or leaves you on true terms. She is one of a kind. Love it or hate it, she will tell you her truth. We all need a friend like that. I think it helps me see myself in a way I would not, otherwise. And it pushes me to be a better person, to be less afraid, or to at least walk head-on into my fears, knowing that they won't destroy me.
Christmas came upon me suddenly, which I suppose is probably best. I didn't spend much time this year feeling very festive, but that also meant I didn't spend a lot of time thinking about the holidays, missing the sweet joy of sharing the holidays with the Professor, and all of the excitement that always went with that. And so I made it through the holidays mostly unscathed. But I will admit I thought of the Professor a great deal. I missed him.
Things have been kind of dark and blurry since then. I chalk it up, at least partly, to generic post-holiday blues. I think it's pretty normal to feel down after the holidays, especially in a cold, snowy city like Chicago. But I also think it's another transition phase for me. I kept pretty busy last year, kept myself focused on concrete things I had to look forward to, a new job, parties, vacations, etc. Even the divorce itself was something to focus on. I had an objective: getting through the divorce in a dignified way, not doing anything to give the Professor a reason to think he made the right decision in leaving me.
Now that it's over, and the holidays are done, I feel kind of lost. The challenge, however it might be described -- getting through the divorce, handling it in the best way I could, being the best person I could, giving the Professor every opportunity not to go through with it -- seems over. And what is left?
I don't know. That's the answer.
Things -- life -- haven't turned out how I expected them to. I did get what I wanted out of this last year, or at least what I could have hoped to dig from the remains of a decimated life, which is to say that I recovered some dignity, I put myself back together as best I could, I didn't kill myself, and I kept moving on, waking up each day, pushing myself, doing what scares me. What choice did I have?
And that question keeps coming back to me, because 'what choice do I have' is a fine way to get through a tragedy, but it's no way to get through a life. Lately, I feel a little stuck there, like I'm treading water. Where do I move on from here? Honestly, I want what I had, or thought I had: love, companionship, friendship, acceptance. But the thought of going through it all again, meeting someone, learning to know someone, sharing myself with someone (which part of me feels must be a completely screwed up and unlovable someone, or else I would not have been left), seems impossible, like an unmoveable weight on my chest, bearing me down so that I cannot breathe. If the person who knew you most in the world -- the person who knew all of your weaknesses and flaws -- could not stand to be with you, how could anyone else ever love you?
Before I met the Professor, I honestly thought my opportunities for life-long love were over. I realize that sounds dramatic. I was only 27 at the time. But I had put myself, and others, through a lot by then already. I sort of knew I was a little screwed up. I doubted anyone could stand me for very long. I actually ran like hell from the Professor. But he eventually wore me down, and I decided we were both equally flawed, and that we were both lucky to find someone to take us unconditionally. The thing is that the more I think about that, the more I recover from the last year and think more objectively about the ten years preceding it, I can't help but recall those feelings. I thought I was done before I met him. I thought he saved me. And I know it shouldn't be true -- I know that my strength and goodness this last year should mean something to me, should be a light of my own future self, shining to show me the way -- but the truth is, I can't help but feel that his leaving me only confirms what I already believed. That I am too screwed up for anyone to properly love.
That makes it hard to move forward on the love front. How can I pretend to be this great, SCUBA diving, hang-gliding, litigation wonder, when I feel like I am such a mess, inside? If the one person who truly knew me -- knew all of my worst habits, saw me at my ugliest and most raw, but also saw my best, my most generous and loving self -- left me, how can anyone else ever love me?
So what is next? What is left? Am I loveable? Will I be alone forever?
I don't know. I can't say yes and I certainly can't say no. Life hasn't turned out as I had imagined it would as a child, and that sort of breaks my heart for my child-self. But there has still been beauty in my life, and wonder, and warmth. I have been so lucky, to have loved so deeply -- and more than once. Perhaps all of the love that I have already had in thirty-five years is more than most people get in a lifetime. I can't argue with that, because I have had some beautiful and intense love. Perhaps that will have to be enough.
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