Contemplating the thrill of it all
So, yeah, I’ve been a slacker with the whole blogging thing. Part of it is that there isn’t much to report. But part of that is because I haven’t found it in me to contemplate much lately. And contemplation seems to go hand in hand with blogging, at least for me. Why the lack of contemplation? In a nutshell, fear. Who knows what thoughts will rise to the surface if one gives them a chance to do so.
That said, I managed to do some long overdue contemplation today, which I will attempt to put into some kind of cohesive form — no promises though. Overdue contemplation leads to an overload of thoughts and emotions that seem to both flow freely and jumble together all at the same time.
I spent most of my day here. 
This is, in my opinion, one of the best beaches in the world. It’s not so much about the sand and the surf, though they are fantastic, but the whole atmosphere of the place. A resort town where shoes are optional, people walk everywhere, and there is so much to see around every corner from eclectic little shops to musicians in the streets. Strangely enough, halfway around the world, there is something about it that feels very right to me — like in some strange way I am home. Or at least at home in some alternate universe.
So after having a good wander around the town and taking a long walk along the shore, I found myself sitting in the sand. I watched the families playing in the breaking waves. The lovers walking hand in hand along the beach. The birds (which were more attractive than any seagulls I ever see at home) fluttering here and there in search of food. The surfers way back in the ocean, seemingly watching over it all, occasionally gliding toward the shore only to paddle back out to the depths. And there was a little girl in a pink tutu. She was there with her mother and two older sisters, and clearly the free spirit. Chasing after the birds. Splashing into the surf, just a little bit deeper than the others. Plopping down in the sand and letting handfuls of it run through her fingers. I found myself envious of the little girl in the pink tutu. I wished to feel that free, that alive.
I watched the sunburned tourists pack up their gear and head back to their hotels, reminding me that this primarily a holiday town. For some reason I heard my parents’ voice reminding me that this isn’t real life.
But as i watched the sun set over the blue waters, I thought to myself “Why can’t this be real life?” Why must “real life” consist of drudgery and entrapment? Why can’t real life be as free as the little girl in the pink tutu? Why shouldn’t there be joy and wonder in every day life?
Is it so crazy to wish for a real life that entails all of this?
I thought of a quote I saw somewhere: “Life isn’t about finding yourself, but creating yourself.”
I guess this means that if this is the reality I want, I’m the only one who can make that happen. And that’s quite a terrifying thought. I’m the one who needs to figure out how to get from point A to point B. I’m the only one who can do it. And I won’t have any guidelines or roadmaps to help me do so.
The dangers of contemplation. Realizations may be more terrifying than anything.
As day turned to evening, I wandered back to catch the ferry back to Sydney. Thinking about these things. Thinking about the last time I was in this part of the world. More specifically when I came home from this part of the world only to have the bomb dropped and my marriage and life as I knew it shattering into pieces. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Yet I couldn’t help but remember who I was then, and compare it to who I am now, the good and the bad. And as I sat on the deck of the ferry with my feet propped up on the railing, looking up at the moon, a light rain began to fall. I felt the cool droplets on my face, mixing with the hot tears that had somehow escaped from my eyes without my noticing. Cleansing. Refreshing. Washing away regrets. Preparing me for something new. While listening to the lyrics of the song playing on my mp3 player. And perhaps really understanding them for the first time:
It’s a secret no one tells;
One day it’s heaven, one day it’s hell.
It’s no fairy tale;
Take it from me,
That’s the way it’s supposed to be.
You will fly and you will crawl;
God knows even angels fall.
No such thing as you lost it all.
God knows even angels fall.
You laugh, you cry, no one knows why
Behold the thrill of it all…
You’re on the ride
You might as well
Open your eyes…
Questions
“Sometimes questions are more important than answers.” ~Nancy Willard
What do you do when you find out your entire adult life was based on a lie?
What do you do when you realize that your life is essentially useless because you built it around the aforementioned lie?
What do you do when you know you did your best, but your best simply wasn’t good enough?
How do you erase the memories which are now tainted?
How do you work on building a new life when it’s all you can do to hold together the basic scraps of your old one?
How do you find hope (again) after it is lost (again and again)?
How do you stop questioning things that cannot and will not be answered?
“When is a crisis reached? When questions arise that can’t be answered.” ~Ryszard Kapuscinski
Broken
Time.
Thought I’d make friends with time.
Thought we’d be flying.
Maybe not this time.
- Tori Amos, “Baker Baker”
Have you ever dropped a plate? Or a porcelain figurine? Or a piece of pottery? It breaks into pieces. If you can manage to find all of the pieces you can attempt to glue it back together. You may choose to use rubber cement, or Gorilla glue, or good old Elmer’s school glue. And you can do a pretty good job. If you’re careful and take your time, you can fit every piece back into place. It looks as good as it did before if you don’t look too closely to see the cracks.
But maybe a week later while dusting you jostle it a bit. Knock into it by accident. And where as before it wouldn’t have been enough to damage it, because the structural integrity has already been compromised, it breaks. All over again. You can find all of the pieces. Perhaps not all of the pieces have even broken off. But you wonder if it is really worth repairing again.
That’s how it is when your heart is broken — really broken. You can pick up the pieces. You look pretty good from the outside, especially since most people don’t look closely enough to see the cracks. You think you’re pretty good on the inside too. You’re proud of yourself for fixing and for being fixed. Then your heart is jostled. In a harsh way or a subtle way. And it falls apart all over again. And you’re faced with repairing it yet again and wondering if it’s worth it.
Jaded
Baby
You’re so jaded
‘Cause I’m the one that jaded you.
~Aerosmith
No, I haven’t given up on blogging already. I just haven’t had a topic in quite some time. The debris seems to be settling, and the drama subsiding. Only constant internal monologues remaining. I sometimes wonder if this is normal when one lives on one’s own. To be honest I’ve never completely lived on my own full-time before in my life. It sounds a bit ridiculous, I know. So I don’t know how much of what I’m experiencing is normal for a person living alone, or how much is a reaction to recent events. It’s a little unnerving at times, I have to admit.
One theme I keep coming back to in conversations with others (and that blasted internal monologue) is the subject of being jaded. How jaded I am now. How jaded I ought to be. How jaded I should have been all along. As soon as my previous life as I knew it started crumbling people warned me that I would be jaded forever going forward. While analyzing the breakdown of the marriage, I chided myself for not being jaded enough all along.
However, I came to a different conclusion just recently.
There is no reason I ought to have been jaded. Being jaded would have meant questioning every joy I did experience. Being distrustful. Being cynical. And, yes, perhaps had I known then what I know now, I ought to have been those things. But I’m glad I wasn’t. Because you are supposed to trust in your spouse. You are supposed to treasure joy for what it is. And you are supposed to embrace life events and feelings rather than be skeptical of them. So, no, even if some people may call me naive or foolish, I’m not sorry I did those things.
And to that point, I don’t want to be jaded now or in the future. Sure, I may be more cautious. Sure, my heart may be more tender. But I want to live my life; not sit on the sidelines making cynical comments about it. I want to experience emotions full throttle; not simply the watered down versions. I don’t want to live my life with kid gloves on. What is the point of living if one doesn’t do so fully and completely?
The way I figure it, I’ve been through what I can only imagine is one the most painful devastating events a person can experience. And I’ve survived. I’ve learned. I’ve evolved. If not for the pain there would be no reward.
So here I go back into the world, without my training wheels of jadedness to keep me from falling. It is through our mistakes and our mishaps that we learn and, eventually, accomplish more than we thought we could before.
Pity Party for One
I received news late last night that a childhood friend delivered a baby girl. Mother and child are healthy. This was especially wonderful news because she’d had an extremely difficult pregnancy and ended up having her labor induced out of concern for the life of the baby. This is a girl with whom I grew up, whose mother has been best friends with my mother since they were 12 years old. I am truly happy for their entire family.
But forgive me for feeling a little bitter.
I’m beginning to feel like everywhere I look family and friends my age (and younger!) are having children. Expanding their families. Living the dream. The dream I desperately wanted.
And I blew it.
Logically I know it’s not all my fault. And that the only thing worse than going through this divorce would be going through this divorce after having had a child by this man, which would mean being tied to him forever (or at least 18 years).
But I see my parents excitedly congratulate their family members and friends as they become grandparents. It’s happening more and more often. And now it will never be their turn to receive these congratulations in return.
So I not only blew it for me, I blew it for them.
If I ever had a son, I wanted to name him after my father. It was a secret I kept to myself (along with my former husband) because I wanted to be able to surprise my dad if the day were to ever come. If I ever had a daughter I wanted to name her after my great-grandmother – a feisty redhead who immigrated to America in the early 1900s, never really learned to speak English very well, yet managed to successfully take very good care of herself and her family, even fighting off a mugger when she was in her 70s.
Those imagined children are now fading into the mist. Just like the rest of my dreams.
I know, I know, it’s time to focus on new dreams. Unfortunately biology is a bit unfair in that women don’t have forever to have children. Yes, adoption is an option, even for single parents (an option I will seriously consider when I’m nearing 40 with no partner in sight.) Still, call me selfish, call me self-centered, call me petty and mean and anything else under the sun (I deserve it). As heartfelt as my congratulations are to parents everywhere (and they really are) I can’t help feeling the sting of losing what I never had.
Bad Day
You know it’s going to be a really bad day when:
- You need to force yourself to get out of bed.
- You cry so hard in the shower that you don’t know which water is from the tap or your tears.
- The mere idea of wearing contacts or eye makeup is a joke.
- You accidentally reach for your wedding rings as force of old habit.
- Even your dog looks sorry for you.
- Every fiber in the carpet of your home seems to contain a memory.
- It takes every ounce of strength to put one foot in front of the other.
- Climbing a staircase is like climbing a mountain.
- You close your eyes and pretend to sleep on the train so the other passengers don’t see your tears.
- Your reflection depresses you.
- You feel nauseous when you log onto your computer and see your married last name.
- You get a kind email asking if you want to be added to a prayer line, and debate for ages whether or not to respond, or even how to respond if you would. In the end you don’t respond at all.
- Your throat hurts from trying not to cry.
- You need a hug but have no one to ask, even if you could ask.
- Your heart literally hurts.
Adventures in Therapy
Not only do the endless possibilities for therapy blow my mind, the process that one must go through to find a good therapist can be overwhelming in of itself. Prior to recent events I’d never seriously considered therapy. It’s not that I thought it was a bad thing or a waste of time — it’s just not something I seriously considered as necessary in my life. I did have a few fleeting thoughts of looking into some kind of therapy when a loved one passed away, but I didn’t think that I had the time or money. And besides, I’d be ok on my own.
Well, I knew this time that it was not something that I could handle on my own. My adventures started with a marriage counselor. After my husband dropped the bomb and I cried for about 24 hours after overcoming my initial shock, he finally agreed to see a marriage therapist with me, though he warned me that it wouldn’t change his mind. (Granted at this point I didn’t realize how far things had deteriorated. I still had hope.) I realized I had no idea how one goes about finding a therapist. So I asked my friend, a social worker. She told me there were two ways: word of mouth, and calling your insurance company. Well I knew I didn’t know anyone in my geographic area who had gone to any kind of marriage therapy (other than my in-laws, and I just didn’t want to go there) so I called my insurance provider. I spilled the whole story on the phone (and, yes, started to cry again.) The person was very sympathetic and asked if I wanted someone male or female. Those were the choices. Nothing about specialties or recommendations from previous clients. I took down the names of two men and two women in my region. I asked my husband if he preferred male or female. (Looking back I’m really upset that I did this because it just gave him further control over a horrible situation he had way too much control in already. But anyway.) He said he preferred female. The first one I called, I was informed that she no longer practiced at that office. Wonderful. The second said that they could get me an appointment for the end of the week. Hallelujah! This was going to be the solution. This was going to fix everything.
We somehow make it through the week, and arrived at the office. They gave me one form to fill out. I explained that we needed two forms since we were both seeing her. Lots of confusion in the office ensued. Finally I was told, “She doesn’t do marriage counseling.”
WHAT??
I asked why that information was not relayed to me when I made the appointment. They didn’t know. I asked why my insurance company recommended her as a marriage therapist. They didn’t know. Finally the therapist came out and I informed her we were both coming in. After hearing the story of what happened, she agreed to treat us both.
Looking back this should have been a very bad sign. But I knew nothing about therapy. And I was really clinging to the fact that he agreed to the counseling as my only hope for saving our marriage. I was desperate.
I had made the mistake of reading one of those “Save Your Marriage At All Costs” self-help books (one that I do NOT recommend and therefore will not provide a title nor any other information). The gist was that if only one person wanted to save the marriage, that one person had to take responsibility for every mistake s/he had made and resolve to do the opposite in the future. The concept is that the “bad” things one does drives one’s mate away, and by fixing those “bad” things, your mate will love you again. (Now it seems really stupid, but, again, I was desperate.) Therefore I started the session by listing all of my faults and how I took responsibility for them. I was too assertive. I was stubborn. I had too high of standards. I pushed too much. I aspired for too much. Meanwhile my husband is sitting there nodding enthusiastically. Of course it was all my fault. Somehow it became a session focused on “See how crazy she is.” By the end of it I not only agreed to lower my expectations, but also to see a shrink for general anxiety/depression. Which my husband, again, enthusiastically agreed was my problem.
I’ll spare you the rest of the gory details by concluding that I did not like the marriage counselor (or whatever she was) very much at all, because she participated in heaping all of the blame on me (a process I admit that I started, but she shouldn’t have allowed to continue) all while validating his feelings. He was lonely. He was curious. He wanted to be free. Never once saying, “Dude. You’re married. Having an affair is not an appropriate response to these feelings.” Whatever.
So I agreed to see the shrink. Note to anyone out there who has never experienced this: don’t be sarcastic in a shrink’s office. They tend to take everything you say during the initial evaluation very seriously. First of all he started the session by talking to me very slowly and sing-songy like I was 5. I felt like I was being interviewed by Mr. Rogers. Doc, I’m going through a divorce, I’m not mentally incapacitated. He made up this wonderful story/analogy about how we would be putting together a team for me to improve my mental health, and that I got to be the team captain!! Yeah, I hate sports and was always the kid picked last because I couldn’t catch a ball if my life depended on it. Sports analogies aren’t going to do it for me. I suppose he had to ask all kinds of random questions as part of the process to figure out what was wrong with me, but I started to find some of them really amusing. “Do you know where you are?” “Do you know what year it is?” “Do you hear voices telling you what to do?” I started to get a little punchy. He asked “Do you know who the president is?” I replied, “Unfortunately, it’s Bush.” He asked “And who’s the vice-president.” I replied, “Supposedly it’s Cheney.” It got a concerned look on his face and followed up with, “Do you think the media tells you things that aren’t true?” I actually had to explain sarcasm. Yeah, and I’m the crazy one.
Finally, in another attempt to reach out for help wherever I could get it, I contacted my companies Employee Assistance Program to look into individual therapy. This is something I didn’t tell anyone about at first. It turned out that my company would cover short term counseling at a corporate counseling facility not far from my office. I took them up on that offer. I had the pleasure of meeting with the most wonderful counselor there. She really helped me a lot, encouraging me to talk things out and figure things out on my own and with some guidance. She also gave me what I think of as little nuggets of wisdom that allowed me to look at issues and situations from a slightly different perspective. She also was the first person to really give me permission to focus on ME during this time — not my husband, not my marriage, not my plans of what I was “supposed” to do — just me.
Unfortunately it is only short term counseling and now I need to find a long term counselor. She does have a private practice, but is not allowed to take on clients she met through the corporate facility. Which is a huge bummer, but understandable. She gave me a few recommendations based on her experiences and the backgrounds of these people. I need to schedule an initial consultation with someone, see if we click. If so, we can go from there, if not, I need to try someone new. And so on. Finding a long term therapist seems like a lot of work right now. It’s a bit daunting.
But I had to laugh on my way back from the appointment, recommendations in hand. If I can’t handle finding a therapist — someone I will pay to spend time with me — there is no way in hell I’m ever going to be able to think about dating again!
I miss the “you” you used to be
I don’t know who this monster is who is inhabiting your body, but I know that it’s not you — the you that I married. The you that I loved — that I still love. I told you I don’t love you anymore. I don’t love the “you” you are now. I don’t love the “you” who lied, cheated, used, and betrayed me. The “you” who is so cold and mean to me. I don’t know what happened to you — the real you. As angry as I am, and as much as I am accepting that this marriage is over, I know that this person, this monster can’t be the real you. I’m having a very hard time because while I’m angry at this new you, I’m grieving the loss of the old you. And it’s a concept that not many people can understand.
You were always the one I turned to when I was upset. The one who comforted me and told me everything would be ok. The one who would hold me until I stopped crying. The one who would wipe my tears away. Now I have no one to comfort and console me. No one is going to hold me and wipe my tears.
As angry as I am at you, and as much as the sight of you makes me ill, I still want the old you to comfort me and assure me that I will make it through this. That we will make it through this, just like we made it through so many other hardships and disappointments. Together. As a team.
Remember my nightmares that you would do something bad to me? In them you would turn into a monster or abandon me. I used to wake up mad at you, and you’d be upset with me for even having these dreams. You used to feel horrible that I could even imagine such a thing in my dreams. Now the nightmare has come true. And I can’t wake up.
