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.
4.27.2011
4.22.2011
Poem
My husband floats
beside me on a river, in a paper boat
folded and bent by a child
folded and bent by a child
I don't know.
4.05.2011
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.
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.
2.19.2011
Moving My Little Finger
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.
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.
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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