I've been trying to write another post for the last six weeks, but I haven't been able to bring myself to do it. I don't want this blog to be self-pitying, depressed and uninspired and, unfortunately, I've been those things. In fact, the introspection required to write a post seems to invite those things. But I have nonetheless been moving forward. I still can't say I have more good days than bad -- because it's hard to describe any part of this experience as good -- but the days are significantly 'less bad' than they used to be.
Things are getting better, incrementally. I imagine that recovering from divorce is a lot like recovering from a traumatic injury: you go through seemingly endless hours of excruciating physical therapy, and it takes months to move your little finger, stand without support, lift your foot and take a step. Each minute improvement feels like a victory, but there is still so much more to get through. Just thinking about how much more must be endured is exhausting.
But you keep going, because you have to. Because your heart is still beating and you're still here, and life is moving on with or without you.
To that end, I have been stretching my bruised self and slowly filing my life with activity, with newness: spending time with friends, serving dinner at a 'soup kitchen' on Wednesday nights, meeting with legal staffing firms about temp work, straightening out my finances, volunteering with a visual arts not-for-profit, and (finally) scoring another job interview.
It's sunny, and I'm sitting outside as I write this, wrapped in a winter coat. I can see my breath in the air, but the sun warms my skin and birds chirp. And I think I moved my little finger.
2.19.2011
12.31.2010
Just Don't Drive Off The Road
That girl sitting in the car next to you at the intersection, hunched over the steering wheel, her shoulders heaving -- I'm that girl.
I recently spent close to 48 hours driving between Chicago, South Carolina and New Jersey. On the drive from South Carolina to New Jersey, I spent three and a half hours in one spot on I-85, waiting for the snow and a wreck to clear. I sat immobilized in the car, surrounded by motorists frustrated by their own stalled travel plans. I was overwhelmed by the stillness of the car, the sameness of the trees I'd been staring at for hours, the sorrow of being left by my husband -- and my utter helplessness to change any of it. I gripped the steering wheel and sobbed. Alone in the car, I wailed, a guttural moan pleading for relief. Then I pushed myself up, forced myself to breathe deeply and closed my eyes for a silent moment. And then I sobbed again.
In the almost four months since my husband told me he wants a divorce, I've discovered that acceptance of tremendous loss is like that; it is not a door we walk through at once, but a tide that ebbs and flows, until at last it carries us to shore.
I recently spent close to 48 hours driving between Chicago, South Carolina and New Jersey. On the drive from South Carolina to New Jersey, I spent three and a half hours in one spot on I-85, waiting for the snow and a wreck to clear. I sat immobilized in the car, surrounded by motorists frustrated by their own stalled travel plans. I was overwhelmed by the stillness of the car, the sameness of the trees I'd been staring at for hours, the sorrow of being left by my husband -- and my utter helplessness to change any of it. I gripped the steering wheel and sobbed. Alone in the car, I wailed, a guttural moan pleading for relief. Then I pushed myself up, forced myself to breathe deeply and closed my eyes for a silent moment. And then I sobbed again.
In the almost four months since my husband told me he wants a divorce, I've discovered that acceptance of tremendous loss is like that; it is not a door we walk through at once, but a tide that ebbs and flows, until at last it carries us to shore.
At some point, when you're crying so hard you can't see what's coming, you have two choices. You can pull over, put the car in park, sit on the side of the road and sob. Or you can wipe your eyes, find a good song, turn it up so loud it pushes everything else out of your way, and keep driving. You might still cry, but at least you're moving forward. Keep tissues handy, and just don't drive off the road.
I'm a sit-on-the-side-of-the-road-and-sob kind of girl, and I've spent the last four months watching cars blow by me. I'm still crying, and I probably will be for a while, but now I'm crying while driving. I may stall out. I may have to pull over and sob again. I may forget that I'm moving away from the things in the rear-view mirror. But I will get back on the road, I will keep driving, looking for the shore.
I'm a sit-on-the-side-of-the-road-and-sob kind of girl, and I've spent the last four months watching cars blow by me. I'm still crying, and I probably will be for a while, but now I'm crying while driving. I may stall out. I may have to pull over and sob again. I may forget that I'm moving away from the things in the rear-view mirror. But I will get back on the road, I will keep driving, looking for the shore.
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