Here’s Where the Story Ends
Divorce was finalized today.
I saw him today for the first time since our final blowout back in September. He looked like a tired, broken down old man. I guess I should feel some sort of vindication about that. But I don’t. It was just sad.
To his credit, he was very polite and cooperative. I ended up initiating small talk while we waited for my attorney — simply inquiring about how he was and how his family was. It broke the ice. I was no longer nervous or anxious. I wasn’t even angry. I wasn’t upset. I found I didn’t feel anything for him beyond what I’d feel for or about any other fellow human being. I guess that’s closure.
Funny the way that works. Ten years together and that’s how the story ends. With barely a whisper. Two strangers who were each other’s worlds, once upon a time.
Beach Walking as a Metaphor (or not)
So this evening I decided to once again take advantage of the fact that it is summer here, and I am staying mere blocks away from a very nice beach. I wanted to walk from one end of the shore to the other, with the goal of catching a nice sunset in the process. So with my mp3 player in my ears, and shoes in hand, I set out. At first it was quite ideal. Tepid water lapping at my feet over smooth, soft sand. The stuff postcards are made of. Then there were piles of seaweed here and there which I skirted, then dodged, then found myself hopping over. See, wimpy confession here: Ever since I was a kid I’ve hated the feel of seaweed. It’s just… icky. But soon enough there were just piles upon piles of seaweed. So eventually I was just walking over a carpet of it. Then came the rough bit. The part of the shore that was more pebbles and broken shells than sand. I thought to turn back, but, no, I wanted to get to the other end. So I braved my way through it (wincing now and then, I admit.) However it is on this part of the beach that I did find a couple of truly lovely, intact shells, which I washed off and pocketed when they dried.
Finally I was at the other end. Triumph. Perhaps it was the music in my ears making a sort of soundtrack, but I was struck by brilliance. This walk along the shore was a metaphor for life. Easy at first, then dodging the icky stuff, until there was no choice but to wade through the icky stuff. And then the rough stuff. The painful stuff. To come out on the other side. Inspired, I spotted the rocks rising up out of the coast. The rugged, huge rocks made smooth by the surf. I was going to climb those rocks to overlook the sea. It would be representative of my ultimate victory. So I started my climb. Cautiously, but with no intent of backing down. I managed via some wobbly stepping stones to make it. Such satisfaction. This was surely representative of what would ultimately be my victory in this life.
I stood there for a while. Watching the last rays of the sun disappear. As the last stragglers on the beach departed. As the waves began to get stronger… wait. The tide was coming in. As it was getting dark. And my stepping stones had… disappeared?
No problem. I was victorious after all. I managed to feel my way with my feet, wading into the water just a bit as I did so, trying to find my path back to shore. And just as I was one step away from the big rock closest to shore… I fell.
So much for victory.
I did manage to catch myself with my hands before falling face first into the rocks. And I did manage to keep myself from falling into the water. And I did manage to keep hold of both my shoes and my bag in the process. Not only that, the shells I found earlier were still intact in my pocket.
So perhaps victorious after all?
I did stub my toes, but could still wiggle them so nothing serious. Though a couple did begin to swell immediately and I figured I ought to head back to the hotel while I could still walk.
Leaving the beach, I realized the neighborhood wasn’t familiar. See in my quest to get to the other side, I didn’t think that the path to and from the other side of the beach might come out on the other end of town from my hotel.
Oops.
So I started walking in the direction of my hotel. And walking. And walking. And then, as my toes’ swelling became more prominent, limping. Hoping I was going in the right direction at least! Hoping I wasn’t limping through a bad neighborhood.
I made it back. Obviously.
At first I laughed at myself and my silly notion of a beach walk as a metaphor for life. I figured that the fall was a higher power’s way of saying “Ha ha, you fool.”
But then I started thinking. Maybe the important part wasn’t the walk. Or the fall. But rather the walk back to the hotel. Lost. Limping. But continuing to move forward until I arrived. Maybe that’s really what life is all about.
Or maybe it was just the result of being utterly ridiculous in thinking that scaling slippery rocks on a strange beach at night with no one around was a good idea.
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.
Meme?
So I’ve been tagged for a meme. Thanks to Paige for tagging me, and subsequently explaining in detail what exactly it meant and what I had to do. Again, my apologies for being stupid about this stuff. I’m basically a blog virgin; that’s my excuse.
So, anyway, onto “the rules” (which I plan on breaking — more on that later).
The Rules:
- Link to the person that tagged you, and post the rules on your blog.
- Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself.
- Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
- Let each person know that they’ve been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
So, 7 random and/or weird facts. Here we go:
1.) I have a great love for all things Eastern European. Partly because of my Polish heritage, and partly because of my travel experiences in Eastern Europe which I hold near and dear to my heart.
2.) I tend to tear up fairly easily. Not just when I’m sad — no, when I’m happy, mad, excited, emotional, frustrated, or laughing. I think it’s hereditary — all of the women (and some of the men) in my family are the same way.
3.) Possibly nothing makes me happier than seeing a good musical. Generally the cheesier the better. And yes this does include musical films intended for tweens. I know this is very dorky.
4.) I am and always have been a dog lover but just recently have started to come around to liking (some) cats thanks to getting to know the furry felines of friends of mine (such as this cutie here.)
5.) Possibly my biggest bad habit is procrastination. I get majorly stressed out when trying desperately to finish something when the deadline is approaching, yet it doesn’t seem to keep me from procrastinating again and again.
6.) I love the night. I don’t know why but often times it is more appealing to stay up all night than it is to sleep. There is something about a night time vibe that nothing during the day can replicate. I can also get by on ridiculously little sleep, short term at least.
7.) I’m 31 years old and still have no idea what I want to be when I grow up.
Now for the rule breaking. The only people I know with blogs are those of you who have kindly commented on mine (some of you whom I know, and some who I only know through your words. And those of you whom I know have already been tagged for this meme.) So here are the new rules: If you are reading this, you have been tagged. If you have a blog, go ahead and link it in the comments section of this post. If you don’t blog, feel free to post your list right in the comments section. Frankly the idea of all of us sharing 7 strange/random/wonderful/weird facts about ourselves gives me the warm fuzzies. (And yes I will now sign off before I start humming “It’s A Small World After All.”)
Illusions vs. Reality
Tonight it hit me that for at least the last several months of my marriage I had been living an illusion that only existed in my own mind. That’s a scary notion. And it made me really start to wonder. How much of my life as I have known it has been an illusion? How many of my memories have been no more authentic than impressions created solely by me? Is it possible that all of my relationships, friendships, or other connections throughout my life have only been held in importance on my end alone? Am I merely a legend in my own mind?
I find myself analyzing situations from not only the recent past, but the distant past, as well as the present with entirely new eyes. Yes, it is possible that all that I have held dear have merely been my own fantastical creations. Some people have made comments that my ex lost his grasp on reality. I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps I never had a grasp on reality in the first place. What is real? What is merely one’s perception? Does one’s perception create one’s reality? If so, wouldn’t that mean that reality is in fact not real?
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.
Naked Finger Solution
Ever since I removed my wedding rings, I have felt like there was a giant strobe light focused on the ring finger on my left hand, alerting the media to my naked finger status. Even though I never wore my wedding rings 24/7, seeing that finger naked every day was bothering me. I even was paranoid enough to think that possibly other people were noticing my naked finger and looking at me with pity or contempt. Yes, I know this is crazy. On a completely materialistic note, I missed the sparkle of diamonds and the shimmer of light that occurred whenever I used my left hand to emphasize a point (especially if it happened to be in direct lighting).
While these are not good enough reasons to resume wearing my wedding rings (to put it mildly) I did discover a solution for my naked finger syndrome over the weekend. I was going through my jewelry box looking for earrings and came across my college ring. Not for nothing, but I went to a pretty well respected college, and my ring is quite classy: large, oval black stone with my school crest in gold, on a solid gold base. Sadly, I never wore my college ring very often. (I’ll admit that I mainly wore it for job interviews when I was just about to graduate college. I even tried to flash it around a bit, as if to say to prospective employers, “See! Good school! I must be a really smart chick, so you should definitely hire me.”)
When my ex and I became serious he gave me a pretty ring that I wore on my left ring finger until I did eventually receive my engagement ring. (I’m actually not sure what happened to that original ring as it seems to be missing from my jewelry box – very strange.)
Anyway, as you may have guessed, my college ring has now been appointed its proper place on my left ring finger. It’s classy (like me!) It’s smart (like me!) And most importantly, it symbolizes my accomplishments that I achieved on my own – for me alone. To others it may appear to be a simple ring, but to me it’s my “You’re a kickass chick with a brilliant future” ring.
New Decade, New Rules?
So, the last time I explored the dating scene a lot of girls liked to play games. Men found women who didn’t buy into that mentality and who were their true selves refreshing. (At least that’s what always worked for me. Not for nothing, but when I’m not an emotional wreck, I can actually be quite charming.)
This time around, guys still proclaim that they don’t want a woman who plays games. Yet it seems men have developed games of their own to play. Which seems a bit hypocritical, if you ask me.
This is progress?
