Tag Archives: single mother

October 10, 2011 · 9:31 pm

{ping}

When my children are with me, I say good night to each of them by lying in bed with them, chatting about their days and saying prayers.  At the end, just before I get up to leave, I ask them to tell me one thing for which they are grateful.  I do this because I think it’s important to encourage a habit of gratitude and because I want them to close their day on a positive note.  When they were itty-bitties, I would refer to this time as me spending a minute with them before they sleep; it has since been shortened and is now simply called, by all of us, “Our Minute.”

My ex-husband has his own traditions with the girls, but they have both told me how much they miss Our Minute together at the end of the day when they are at their dad’s.  I hate that I cannot be there with them every night.  I miss their soft little cheeks and bubbling stories of their days.  I miss holding their hands or softly stroking their hair while we recite our prayers together.  I hate that the decisions that I made 2 1/2 years ago keep me from sharing Our Minute with them every single night.

My phone pinged 4 times in rapid succession, and I picked it up to discover multiple texts from my older daughter, Sabrina…

The texts contained, without preamble or explanation, her two prayers that we typically say together.  Then a separate text that simply read, “Here are our prayers.  I miss you sitting with me.”

Then, finally, a moment later, “P.S. I’m thankful for being able to text you.”

I was overcome by those simple, sweet messages.

Leave it to a 10-year-old, and the technology of her generation, to close the distance and space between us in an instant.   She is so much smarter than me.

And I am grateful for that.

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September 12, 2011 · 9:20 pm

yowza.

Every once in a while, I have a Single Parent Moment that leaves my married parent friends shaking their heads in amazement and quiet relief that they are not in my boat. Last week, I had such a moment.

James and I have been on-again, off-again for just over a year now.  My daughters, aged 10 and 8, have known him for many years, became reacquainted with him before we started dating last September, and have been mostly unaware of our relationship ups and downs.  To them, he has been a constant over the last year.  They know him, they like him, they have vacationed with him, and for the last few months, they have known that we sometimes spend the night together.  But he has never stayed over at my house when my girls are also there.

Until last week.

I decided it was time, so I told the girls that James would be coming over, was going to spend the night, and that he’d be there when they awoke in the morning.  My youngest, Bryn, teased me about it with a grin.  Sabrina, my 10-year-old, shrugged.

James arrived as I was putting Sabrina to bed.  He let himself in the open front door and shouted up his hellos to us all.  And then it began:

Sabrina:  So, is James coming over to have a drink with you?

Me:  Yes, and remember I told you that he’s going to spend the night tonight?

Sabrina:  Uh-huh.  So…. are you guys gonna have sex?

YOWZA.

I wish I could report that I responded maturely and gracefully, but I’d be lying.  What I did instead… was laugh.  Yes, that’s right.  I laughed.  I giggled until I had tears squeezing from the corners of my eyes and I was clutching my tummy.  At first, Sabrina looked at me, puzzled, but then she started laughing, too.  We ended up lying on her bed, clutching each other amidst fits of giggles.  It was ridiculous.

Eventually I recovered, and, wiping my tears of silliness away, replied thusly:

Me:  Baby, I’m a grown-up and you’re a child, and so who I do or don’t have sex with isn’t something we are going to discuss.  In fact, who I do or don’t have sex with isn’t really anyone else’s business except for the man I’m involved with.  That’s not even a question that other grown-ups typically ask each other.  And, when you’re a grown-up, whether and with whom you’re having sex won’t be any of my business either.   Do you understand?

Sabrina:  Hmmm…. Yes, I think so.  I guess I feel like it should be my business if I’m going to end up with a little baby brother or sister.

This dramatically illustrated the fact that, while I have instructed her quite a bit about the biology of sex, I haven’t quite gotten around to the idea that adults have sex for reasons other than procreation of the species…  So I punted and went with what I had:

Me:  I can absolutely, positively assure you that you will not be gaining a little brother or sister.

Sabrina:  Phew.  Okay.  That’s really good news.   Thanks, Mom.

Me:  Sure, baby.  Anytime.

There is so much about single parenting that is surreal.  So many conversations that I never imagined having, so many events that I never pictured, so many moments altered by the simple, pivotal fact that their father and I no longer live together.  Parenting is always something of an exercise in Extreme Winging It, but single parenting throws in the extra curve balls.  Just for fun.

I am sure that there will be many more moments such as that one, many more conversations that leave me speechless or giggling at the absurdity of the situation.  But I feel quite certain that, even if I should live another 42 years, I will never, ever, ever forget the night my 10-year-old asked me if I was going to have sex.

Yowza.

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August 24, 2011 · 9:53 pm

breaking up with his kids

When I was first divorced, I knew that I would likely end up dating men who had children.  I thought that I was prepared for this eventuality, even though the first few men that I was involved with did not actually have children.  I thought that I knew what I was in for.

Statistics tell us that step-children are the primary stressor on second marriages and the biggest reported contributor to the deterioration of those marriages.  I am not here to dispute that.  Between my kids and James’ kids, we accumulated some pretty good examples of children acting out against the interloper in their family.  And some of my worst arguments with James — including the last one — stemmed from disagreements about the children.

But that didn’t stop me from falling in love with his kids.

Sure, his son Jay’s teasing of me ventured into the disrespectful realm sometimes, and yes his teenage daughter, Taylor, once spent an hour pretending like I wasn’t in the room.   His two youngest girls, devoid of guile, would sometimes ask me directly what I was doing there and how long I was staying, with the clear implication being that I was somehow interrupting.  But the moments that stuck in my heart were preciously sweet..  Like how, when we were all lying on the sofa watching a movie, Jay would allow me to put my arm around him, and he would ever so subtly snuggle against me.  Or the times when 9-year-old Chelsea would beg me to stay and hang out with them.  Or how little 5-year-old Chloe  insisted on carrying my purse to the car for me, just to be “helpful.”  So many tender, small moments that I cherish.

I last saw them 10 days ago, when I went to his house to say goodbye.  I couldn’t believe how sad it made me, how many tears fell on my solitary drive home over children that are not even my own.

I knew, from my own childhood experience, that when you date a single parent, you also date their children.  What I hadn’t fully appreciated is that when you break up with that single parent, you also break up with those children.  And it hurts.  A lot.

I have spent some time recently remembering my own experience on the other side.  I remember many of the men my mom dated, but none so clearly or so fondly as Van.  Van and my mom dated off and on from the time I was roughly two until I was 12.  They had a passionate, tempestuous relationship, and I learned early on that when they broke up, it was never forever.   Other men didn’t get a second chance, but Van kept coming back.

Van was as much of a father as I had in those early years.  On Sunday mornings, I’d curl up on his lap and he’d read me the comics, changing his voice for each of the Peanuts characters.  He took me hiking in the Shenandoahs, and built me snowmen in the yard, and taught me to ride a two-wheel bike.  He was the one who told me that my grandfather had died.  He was tall and handsome and funny and one of my best friends.

But one day he was gone.  The last time they broke up, I remember asking my mom what had happened.  She pursed her lips and said tersely, “We broke up.” I shrugged, certain that it didn’t mean anything and certain that he’d be back. But I never saw him again.  The weeks melted into months and the months turned into a year and my mom met and married the man who became my stepfather.  I loved my stepfather, but I never forgot about Van.

When I was 27, I finally tracked Van down and wrote him a long letter, telling him of my educational and professional achievements, my budding relationship with my now ex-husband, and updating him on all my friends and family he’d known.  I enclosed a photo of myself and my boyfriend.  I had no idea what to expect when I mailed the letter, but what I got back was no less than wonderful:  a lengthy missive telling me how often he’d thought of me over the years and how much he’d missed me.   He told me how he’d always regretted not having the opportunity to say good-bye to me, but my mother wouldn’t allow it.  He’d remarried and later retired, and he sent me a photo of him and his wife.

How I wish I could talk to Van now.  Not only must I get over James (damn hard on its own), but I must also let go of his children.  I can still see Chelsea’s smile and feel Chloe’s small hand in my own and laugh at Jay’s constant tickling or rib-poking.  I was not in their lives long enough to have made more than a passing impression on them; but I’ll remember them, and the weeks we spent together, always.  I protected my heart mightily with regard to James — walls and buttresses surrounding it lest I should fall completely in love with him and end up broken beyond repair.  But I had no such ramparts in place to protect my sorry heart from his kids.

There is so much about dating this time around that surprises me…. so much for which I am woefully unprepared.  Breaking up is brutal.  Around every corner is another reminder of James that cuts me quickly and cleanly and makes me wonder again how we ended up here.   Then, just when I catch my breath again, I round another corner and smack squarely into a reminder of his kids.  It’s bruising, I tell you.

I have found myself sinking into my own children for solace.  Their hugs and kisses ease my sense of loss.  Like the jilted lover who takes a new partner to bed to forget the smell and taste and touch of the one just lost, I am burying myself in my own children to block out memories of time spent in that other family.

I wonder what will happen the next time I date a man with children…. I suspect that I will not be so unguarded, so open to his children.  I suspect that I will begin — maybe already have begun? — to construct the walls that protect us from future grief.

And I wonder if I will ever see them again.  Possibly, but probably not.  Maybe for me they will remain frozen in time… captured in my photos from this hot summer that we spent together.   Locked in my heart forever.

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August 23, 2011 · 4:02 pm

the last dance

My mom likes to tell me stories about the old folks in her retirement community… how this couple has been married 53 years and is still (or, more likely, again) blissfully in love… how that couple can barely stand each other and is each waiting for the other to die…. how that woman is a “tramp” and will sleep with anyone with a pulse… and how that lovely lady can’t seem to find a decent man.

I love her stories.  I love to imagine the octogenarians at the clubhouse dances shuffling around the ballroom floor, cheek to cheek.  I love when she tells me about her elderly friend who has fallen in love and giggles like a school girl when she speaks of her “gentleman friend.”  So many of her retirement community love stories embody hope and tenderness and the perpetuity of blossoming love.

But the ones that break my heart just a little are the stories of the women who, year after year, attend the dances alone and wait for an attached man to be permitted by his female partner to whisk them around the dance floor just once.  These women are the perpetually date-less.  They eat nearly every meal alone, travel with their children and their girlfriends, and fill their days with bridge clubs and water aerobics.

But it is their nights that I wonder about.  Do they ever lie awake in bed and feel the loneliness?  Have they accepted their solitude with alacrity or do they secretly hope that some handsome retiree will come along and sweep them off their feet?  Do they miss being in love?  Do they get gussied up for the clubhouse dances in the hopes that someone new will be there or maybe a neighbor will bring a male friend?

The poignant and sad truth is that many of these ladies have fallen in love for the last time.  To be sure, some will stumble upon a sweet and special love in the twilight of their lives, but for many of them — based on the sheer ratio of men to women in their 80’s — those days are behind them.  And here is what I wonder about most:  did they know when the last was the last?  Or did they think, as we all do in middle age, that there would be another, someday, somewhere down the road….

I suspect the answer is different based on how the last love ended:  if it was a long-term marriage that ended in their spouse’s death, the women seem to believe and accept (often incorrectly) that there will not be another.  But when the last one was a “gentleman friend” that ended in a break-up, I wouldn’t be surprised if they — like most of us — start looking around the clubhouse for their next dance partner.

What would we do if we knew that we would never be in love again… that we’d danced our last dance with love… that we’d never feel that giddy lightness again…?  Just typing it seems blasphemous, and yet….

Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

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August 4, 2011 · 3:23 pm

withdrawals from the love bank

When I was going through my divorce, I heard about the concept of the “Love Bank,” and it really resonated with me.  The basic premise is that inside of us we each have a “love bank,” with accounts in the names of everyone we care about.  When someone treats us well, they are making a deposit into their account and we feel closer and more appreciative and more loving toward that person.  When someone treats us poorly or hurts us deeply, they make a withdrawal from their account and we feel less close to them, perhaps less trusting, less likely to try to connect with them at that moment.  If the withdrawals exceed the deposits, we ultimately fall out of love or stop caring for that person.  For the most part, once someone has overdrawn their account, there isn’t a whole lot that can be done to save the relationship.

It is an intriguing and thought-provoking concept that I wish I had been aware of at the beginning of my marriage.  I have watched it play out in romantic relationships, friendships, and familial relationships over and over again.  Just for the record, my personal belief is that only our children have overdraft protection.  Perhaps our parents, too, to a certain extent, but even then not to the same degree as our children.

I think love bank withdrawals may be the best explanation for marriages that “just grew apart” or ones that seemed fine until “suddenly” one partner was done and over it and not looking back.  I know that was definitely the case in my own marriage — it wasn’t one or two big hurts or betrayals that brought us down, but many, many years of small hurts and disappointments coupled with weak apologies and obligatory acts of kindness delivered grudgingly.  Some people think that small hurts are not reason enough for a love to die, but, just like your bank account, multiple small withdrawals add up just as quickly (or more so?) as large ones.

What I have noticed most is that a lot of people don’t want to have to make things right when they mess up.  They want to apologize and have it all go away.  To a certain extent, I can understand that:  admitting we’re wrong is uncomfortable, and it makes us uniquely vulnerable.  Add to that the fact that most of us have encountered people who will exploit our moment of guilt and vulnerability into an opportunity to emotionally blackmail us or gain a power dynamic advantage. Such behavior, in the face of a sincere and heartfelt effort to make things right, is horrible, plain and simple.  And it teaches the apologizer — very clearly and directly — not to bother next time.  No self-respecting person should be expected to grovel or otherwise self-mutilate, just to make up for a screw-up.  It’s mean and unfair to expect.

BUT if you make a $1,000 withdrawal from the love bank, a $200 deposit doesn’t bring you back into balance.  And that’s the part that I think a lot of people — especially otherwise smart, well-intentioned men — miss.  If I’m angry about something, a quick apology and some make-up sex will get me over it.  But if my feelings are hurt?  If I’m disappointed in you?  If I feel unspecial or taken for granted?  Then a simple “I’m really sorry” — no matter how sincere — on its own isn’t going to bring the love bank balance back up to pre-incident levels.  I’m going to need a little more reassurance than that.  Some tender TLC.  A little reminder that you hate the thought of me crying over you.  No groveling, no public humiliation, no expensive grand gestures.  No, I’m just talking about the simple, little things.  Call me a little more often the next day.  Hold my hand more.  Tell me, just once more when I least expect it, that you’re sorry for hurting my feelings.  Acknowledge, in some tiny way that I can’t miss, that hurting me was not what you meant to do and not what you’d ever want to do.

And watch your love bank account balance take off.

I think the most powerful thing, to me, about the love bank idea is how well it captures our capacity for forgiveness, alongside the plain fact that forgiveness does not come without a price of some sort.  A sincere, well-delivered apology can be a huge deposit in the love bank, as can some small thoughtful token given at just the right moment.   It is amazing to me how those gestures, those tenderhearted attempts to demonstrate our care and concern can bring a relationship back from the brink of eternal bankruptcy.

I have forgiven a lot in my life, and I have been forgiven a lot. I have had friends who slept with my boyfriends, a mother who ruined my wedding reception, and a boyfriend who threw me down a flight of stairs.  I have betrayed friends and let people down and been the worst version of myself.  And what I have learned is this:  sympathy is not the key to forgiveness, empathy is.

When I have hurt someone I genuinely care about, what I try to do is imagine how I would feel.  Sometimes this is really, really hard to do.  But when I do that, and I am filled with the same feelings that my hurt friend or lover or family member is likely feeling, then I am compelled to make it right.  I want to take that pain away and help them feel better.  That experience is empathy.

Likewise, when someone has hurt me, a sympathetic apology only goes so far.  What really touches my heart, what convinces me that they truly do care for me regardless of what error they have committed, what dissipates my sadness or resentment or sense of distrust faster than anything is a little empathy.

Take this example: Many months ago, my friend Annie and I had a really rough time in our friendship.  She was doing something that was hurting me, and she didn’t understand why I was hurt.  After some time and several difficult conversations, she apologized, sincerely and without reservation.  But there was still space between us…. mistrust on my part, resentment on hers.  Then one day, she experienced something similar and called to tell me about it.  At the end of that conversation, she said, “I’m really sorry.  Now I realize how it must have felt for you.”  And in that instant, we were okay again, love bank accounts restored to previous levels.

In my experience, the same is true for romantic relationships.  We all screw up.  We do things that hurt the people that we love.  But I honestly think that it’s what we do afterwards that matters most.  Do we diminish the other person and their feelings as ridiculous or unreasonable?  Or do we honor those feelings and try to help them let go of their hurt through empathy and caring?

I recognize, of course, that some people are truly unbalanced and so sensitive or over-reactive that there is no chance or possibility to make it right with them.  But I think those people are few and far between.  Most of us want to get over things.  We want to give people another chance.  We want to make our relationships better.

We want our love banks to be full.

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July 13, 2011 · 10:35 pm

jinx

I can be very superstitious.  Especially about dating.  There are certain things that, if I do them, seem to doom the relationship.  I know it sounds silly, but it’s uncannily consistent, and I suspect I’m not the only one to whom these things happen.

I’ve written before of the diabolical effects that food has on my relationships — if I provide a man a meal, either by cooking it myself or dropping large coin on the dinner tab, the night will inevitably end with me in tears.  I used to think that perhaps it was my less-than-fabulous culinary skills, but I’ve since realized that it extends to the best chefs in Boulder, so apparently it’s not my cooking.  And before you go thinking that it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, let me assure you that several times I have forgotten this particular jinx, found myself crying at the end of the evening, and had to back-track to figure out what went wrong.  “Ah!  You stupid idiot!  You bought him oysters again! Duh!”

Perhaps the most annoying jinx — due to the sheer inconvenience of it — is that I cannot put a man I am romantically interested in into my list of favorites in my phone.  I have no idea why the fates insist that I dial his number every single time, but there you have it.  If I favorite his number, the relationship will most definitely fall apart with a day or two.  Guaranteed.  Don’t believe me?   I offer as exhibit A the time I favorited the guy I’d been dating for months, only to have him take off the next day for a weekend getaway with a stripper.  And, no, I’m not kidding.  Exhibit B:  the guy who surprised me with the unexpected declaration that he loved me and wanted to have babies with me and live happily ever after?  The next day I put his number on my favorites list and didn’t hear from him again for a year.   Seriously.

I have put James’ number on my favorites list twice; and we have broken up — twice.  You do the math.  I almost put James’ number on my favorites list last week and then thought the better of it…. which certainly explains the recent near-miss we had.

But the one jinx that I really hate the most is the jinx on acknowledging my own happiness in a relationship.  I don’t know why, but as soon as I begin to think that a relationship truly has legs and might not crumble at the slightest difficulty, as soon as I really trust that it’s real, that’s when it disappears.  Poof!  Gone.  And so I am guarded.  Afraid to really embrace my own contentment and joy.  My good friends know this and mostly shrug it off.  “How are things going with James?”  they say.  “Pretty good, I guess,” I say.  “Oh my gosh!” they laugh, “Will you just enjoy it, already?!”  Uh huh.  They don’t have the jinx….

The jinx holds me back.  I have been hesitant to write too much about James… fearful that the moment I wax poetic about how he makes me laugh or how I love kissing him or how safe I feel in his arms…. Poof!  Gone.  But I am all too aware of my jinx and how quickly this might disappear.  So I will continue dialing his number and trying to avoid buying him food and exercising only cautious optimism around our relationship.  Because I really, really don’t want this one to disappear.

Really, really.

Oh, and by the way, this is the second time I have had to write this particular post.  The first time?  I hit “Save Draft” and my computer crashed immediately.  Coincidence?  I think not…..

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May 8, 2011 · 9:15 pm

why every mom in america needs to quit

I rarely do this, but today’s post is a complete plagiarism of a column that a friend (a male friend, I might add!) sent me last week.  I love it and I hope you do, too.

Happy Mother’s Day!

______________________________________________________________________

WHY EVERY MOM IN AMERICA NEEDS TO QUIT
By Mel Robbins

Ladies, it’s quittin’ time.  Since when is a year’s worth of laundry worth a store-bought bouquet of flowers? And three hundred dinners prepared rates only a breakfast in bed?  Yes, your husband and kids are fantastic and you love them madly, but we deserve more – we deserve help!

This Mother’s Day, don’t stop at taking the day off. Just quit.  That’s what two women in my life did.

In 1978, Judie Robbins stood up at the dinner table in front of her husband and three sons and said, “Effective immediately, I am resigning as Chairman of the Household.” My husband is her youngest son — he was 8 years old at the time.

For years, she’d been asking for help from the family. She tried using an allowance as an incentive; she tested out becoming a tyrant.  Finally, she just settled into a long stint as a silent, resentful domestic servant. But Judie woke up one day and took a step that too few moms dare — she decided to assert her right to the pursuit of happiness.

No more laundry, no more dishes, no more making the beds – no more of any of that daily drudgery: packing the lunches, cleaning the house, taking care of the dog or organizing everyone’s social life. “I’ll buy groceries and make dinner on weekends,” she announced, “but that’s it.”

What followed was silence … and some nodding of heads. After a moment, everyone simply resumed eating, totally unfazed. They’d seen this kind of thing before – playing dumb was the best strategy. The boys cleared the table, sure that, once their mom calmed down, they wouldn’t have to repeat the chore.

But Monday morning, there was no breakfast ready, no lunches packed, and no clean uniforms ready for a week of football and soccer practices. Judie wasn’t even home to hear their complaints – she’d gone for a walk with a friend.  By day four, the Robbins household was gripped by absolute panic. You could see it in the boys’ eyes as they ate Cheerios again for dinner.

Judie volunteered instruction, teaching the boys how to run the laundry and the dishwasher, but she never took over. She stuck to her guns.

Every few mornings, the boys crept down three flights of stairs into a dark, damp basement to run another load of laundry. They packed their own lunches, made their own beds, and kept their rooms tolerably tidy. On weeknights they took turns cooking very mediocre meals for the family.

When I first heard the story, I thought my mother-in-law was a monster.  How could she have done that to her boys?  How selfish! I thought. A third grader doing his own laundry?  I’d never be a mother like that!  I’d take care of my kids!  I’d bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan!  I’d do it all.  How wrong I was.

Being a mom has always been tough. But when four out of five families have both parents in the workforce, motherhood is a thankless treadmill. There’s very little upside. Even as women improve their incomes, and outnumber men in the workforce and professional schools, we’re still stuck with the second shift at home. Only 20 percent of men share housework with their wives in dual-income families!

Why do we do it? Because for a while, our husbands and our kids truly need us. In the early days of starting a family, being a mother really does mean nourishing, cleaning, caring. It feels deeply satisfying, but we hang on far too long to what’s safe, familiar and common.  There’s also the fear if we’re not doing it all, we won’t be needed.  The fear is real, but the reality is that as moms we’re needed for much more than folding shirts.

Quitting isn’t about staying home versus working; it’s about living in a modern world and getting what you deserve.  Once our kids reach school age, we can afford to ditch the 1950s ideal of motherhood for something a little more 2011 – collaboration and empowerment.

Last year, I stopped saying I was fine and I quit. I’d just discovered a pile of clothes in the closet that my youngest said he’d put away. When I confronted him, he looked at me with the deadpan honesty that only a 6-year-old can pull off and said, “But mom, I like when you do all the work.”

The fact is, your kids (and husband) can help a lot more than they do. When I quit as Head of Household, I learned just how capable my kids really are. For my Lego-obsessed son, sorting and folding laundry is a game.  Turns out, my 10-year-old loves to cook dinner and my 12-year-old can create a family calendar while texting, doing homework and weaving a friendship bracelet. The hardest part is letting go of how you want everything done. The best part is once you do, you have a solid team in place and time to be with everyone, instead of slaving for them.

When I thought about it, I realized my mom, Marcia Schneeberger, quit too.  When I was in ninth grade, she announced that she was opening a business with her best friend and would need my younger brother and I to pick up the slack.  I put up a fight, layering on the guilt, but my mom stuck to her guns and we kids got it done.  When my mom’s kitchen store opened, I remember feeling so proud that Mom owned it and I forgot about the pile of laundry at home with my name on it.

Quitting made me a better daughter, a better wife and it has let me become the kind of mother who isn’t ticked off and cranky at the slightest problem. My kids are more responsible, and I’ve gained their respect, because they see me as someone who won’t let people run her over.

You need to be honest with yourself and your family.  You aren’t fine doing it all.  It’s driving you crazy, it’s turning you and your spouse into roommates, and it’s making your kids lazy. This Mother’s Day, why not get what you really want?

When your family wakes you up this Sunday with breakfast in bed and the promise of a “day off,” just take a moment to prop yourself up with some pillows, gather everyone around and make the following announcement: “Thank you very much for the gesture, but this Mother’s Day I don’t want a day off.  I want the year off.  I hereby quit as Head of the Household.  Thanks for making breakfast.  Now what’s for dinner?”

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May 4, 2011 · 7:09 am

was it worth it? (pt. 2)

A new friend wondered aloud recently if I would have the desire and commitment to fight for the kind of love and intimacy I claim to seek, or would I let fear and doubt strangle the possibility.  Because I respect his opinion, I gave his comment some serious consideration.

Every person leaves a marriage for their own, very personal reasons.  I left because I was dying inside.  My ex-husband was not a drinker or a gambler.  He didn’t sleep around or lie or beat me.  I did not hate him or think him an awful person. But there did not exist between us that magical connection that is as fragile as the finest, thinnest silk thread, and as strong as steel.  Our love was not capable of surviving the challenges and punishments inflicted on it by circumstance and time, and no amount of wishing that it was could change that.  That connection, that intimacy simply wasn’t there.

It took me many years to accept that this was the truth… to face it in my own heart and do what was best for both of us… to acknowledge that I could no longer pretend that what we had was enough…. to finally leave.

Divorce sucks.  Plain and simple.  I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, if I had one.  I lived through my parents’ horrific divorce, and I still wasn’t prepared for how painful and wretched my own divorce was.  There have been ample opportunities in the last couple of years to search my soul and re-examine my commitment to my decision, and plenty of dark moments of intense pain and grief that have seriously challenged that dedication.  Lots of tears and lots of peaks and valleys.  And time after time, I have sat across from a perfectly nice, attractive, interesting man and thought, “If I wanted this, I could have it.  But is it enough?”  And over, and over, and over again, I have answered no.

Deep down, in the very core of my soul, I know extraordinary love is possible.  I have felt it and seen it and tasted it in my own life, lost myself in it and surrendered completely to the possibilities inherent in it.  I have also witnessed it in my friends’ relationships, heard their stories, and seen their eyes sparkle with that magical connection that cannot be adequately explained, even after decades together.

Am I frightened of getting hurt again?  You betcha.  Does my flight reaction still kick in with an annoying regularity.  Yep.  But over the last few months, I have finally begun to really push back against these demons.  I know that they could very well rob me of the prize that I seek with my full heart, and I absolutely, resolutely, with every ounce of my Irish stubbornness, refuse to grant them that victory.  No, no, a thousand times no.

I know it won’t be easy to find the kind of love and connection that I want.  And once it’s there in front of me, I’ll have to step up and dig in and commit myself fully to the adventure it presents.  I know that I’ll stumble, that those old fears and reflexes will show up like the party-crashers that they are.  Hopefully my partner in that great journey will have the patience to love me through it as I show the unwelcome guests the door.  Hopefully he’ll understand that beating these demons is simply part of my journey and not a reflection of my commitment to my ultimate goal.

Perhaps I won’t find the kind of love that I seek.  Maybe I’ll reach old age and simply be one of those remarkable old ladies with a bevy of amazing, loving friends and a life full of smaller miracles.  But I hope not, and I intend to keep trying to be open, trying to be brave, for the rest of my life.

I met someone recently who, like a nudge from the universe, reminded me of the profound possibilities that exist in the realm of love.  Against all traditional definitions of what is “rational” and “smart,” I have embarked on a wonderful adventure of mutual discovery with this man.  I have no idea where it is going, and, yes, that scares me a little, but at the very least, I have discovered another kindred spirit who seeks the same thing I do.  We are out there.

I have told only my two closest friends about this new man, and their reactions have told me volumes about my own commitment to the kind of love I seek, because they are both completely unsurprised that, once again, I have signed on for the adventure.  Are they worried that I’ll be hurt?  Of course they are; they love me.  Are they supportive of me taking this risk?  Of course they are; they love me.  They understand that I will never be happy with less, and so they cheer me on as I press forward.

When I first announced that I was leaving my husband, my then-closest friend scolded me, saying, “Well, I sure hope it’s worth it!” I endured her scolds silently, knowing that I could never make her understand how I felt or why I was doing what I was doing.  And what she could never appreciate — not in a whole lifetime — is that it is already worth it.  I am no longer dying.  In the last two years I have learned how to live again.  Yes, I crawl into bed alone most nights, and yes, I am poorer than I once was, and yes, my future is wide open and uncertain.  But there is possibility.  There is a chance.  There is hope.  And there is me, standing in the middle of all of that.

So, yes, it was worth it.  A thousand times, yes.

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April 3, 2011 · 8:42 am

the value of pain. seriously.

I read an article the other day that reported that scientists have discovered that social rejection actually is painful.  Apparently, by studying MRI’s and PET scans of the human brain activity, scientists have found that the areas of the brain that are triggered by social rejection overlap with the areas of the brain that recognize physical pain.  So, it appears that scientists have now confirmed what every dating woman has always known:  being rejected hurts.  Literally.

I think we all have slightly different ways of experiencing that pain.  I feel it in my muscles, which ache like I’ve run a marathon, and in my chest, which tightens like the clenched muscle it is.  I had a friend once who got physically ill every time she got her heart broken; it was like she was vomiting out all her pain, until she was empty. It was almost as painful to watch as it probably was to go through.

I think we also process our pain differently.  My mother used to rage when she was heartbroken — slamming kitchen cabinets, pounding fists on the table — the outward manifestation of the violence happening in her heart.   I have a friend who retreats to her sofa and her remote control, watching countless movies and episodes of Sex in the City until she finally tires of her own sadness and gets up and moves on.  Then, of course, there are my guy friends, who self-medicate to forget about it, at least for a little while.

As for me, first, I fall into a fog.  I mindlessly move through my day, reaching the end of each one with no real memory of how I got there.  Second, I become restless and antsy, pacing like a caged cat, my mind racing like a mouse in a maze to uncover an alternative happy ending.  Then, finally exhausted, I surrender to the reality of my situation, force all memories and theories and what if’s to the recesses of my mind, and bury myself in work and my children.  This moving on period usually culminates in a date or two with a guy who really wants to spoil me, just to remind myself that such men exist.  Oh, and there’s usually crying.  Lots of crying.  What can I say?  I come from a theatrical family.

But I think, even as I sit in the midst of a present pain, that there is some value in hurting.  As a child, my mother used to constantly remind me that adversity builds character.  “People who have it easy,” she would say, “are boring.”  As an adult, I know she is right.  It is only through our struggles that we truly discover ourselves and our world in any meaningful way.  It just sucks that those struggles have to hurt so much.

I have also realized and come to appreciate that pain is grounding.  There is something profoundly humbling in coming to grips with the fact that someone does not care for you as you thought or wished that they had.  It knocks you down a peg or two, puts you in your place, squashes any hubris that might have been taking root as you basked in the glow of your successful relationship.  I found myself this morning, lying in bed, reviewing in my head my ex-husband’s catalog of grievances against me, examining each one for possible validity, and wondering — for the umpteenth time — if maybe, just maybe he was right about me after all.  It is an extraordinarily painful exercise to move through, but definitely valuable.  Because each new pain peels back another layer of understanding, of perspective, so that some of his complaints begin to stand on their own legs, while others sink further into the morass of crappy, wrong things he said about me.

Some people don’t question themselves at all after a break-up.  They move out of that potentially painful space with the confidence and certainty that they are not at fault, are not flawed, are not to blame in any way for the dead relationship.  Such people leave me incredulous, and I’m not sure whether I envy them or want to slap them.  But I am forced to concede that it must be a nice, easy way to avoid the fog-and-restlessness-and-crying-and-overanalyzing  approach that I employ.

I think, however, that the most valuable part of pain is the clarity that it brings with it.  Sometimes it causes me to pause and consider the choices others have made with which I have disagreed.  Suddenly, I don’t feel so smart and righteous after having my ass handed to me.  In my humility, I must admit that perhaps their way was the better one, perhaps they are the wiser for having chosen it.  Perhaps I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about and should quit spouting off like I do.  Perhaps the choices that I’m making — about who to date and how to date — are the very choices that are giving birth to these painful episodes.  Maybe, just maybe, I’m not as smart as I think I am.  In fact, maybe I’m completely clueless.

A friend commented today that every time I am hurt, it is a moral crisis for me — I re-examine myself, take myself apart and look for broken pieces, trying to identify the culprit that tripped the trigger that caused the pain.  As he said to me, “Not everyone is worth a complete transmission overhaul.  Some guys are only worth an oil change.”   I don’t disagree that, to a certain extent, he is precisely right.  But I do wonder if that isn’t what we’re supposed to do with pain.  Are we not to learn from it?  Am I to be so sure in my self-identity that no criticism leveled against me shall ever receive any credence?  I can only conclude that there must be some form of moderation involved — that perhaps I delve too deeply, too often, as he suggested.

I have noticed that the very issue of emotional pain is somewhat taboo among those who write for inspiration or motivation, and I freely admit that I waffled over whether to even publish this post.  But I have to be honest:  I really hate advice-givers and bloggers and motivational speakers who are perpetually happy and well-adjusted.  I mean, seriously, don’t they ever have any self-doubt or melancholy?  Even Carrie Bradshaw cried once in a while, and she’s fictional.   Besides, I promised myself when I undertook this project that my blog would be real and true and unvarnished.  So, if you tuned in today for a bit of uplifting prose, I apologize.  It just wasn’t in the cards.

As for my current pain, I hope that it doesn’t last long and that I can shortly return to the peaceful and contented place I was before this man reappeared in my life.  And maybe, just maybe, I will emerge from this little episode armed with more knowledge and wisdom and self-awareness than before.  Then again, maybe not.  Maybe the clarity to emerge from this period will be the clarity that I really am clueless and I really am naive and I really am vulnerable.  But I suppose there is value in that information, too.

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March 30, 2011 · 12:32 pm

the divorced and the furious

Anger and I have never been friends.  I was raised in a household where the only anger tolerated was my mother’s.  Every one else had to be “nice.”  As a result, I grew up not really knowing how to constructively deal with my anger, so most of the time, I swallowed it.  And it became an ulcer on my soul called depression.  It wasn’t until, as an adult, I had a therapist explain a theory about depression that centered on the idea that depression is anger turned inward.  In other words, it’s anger with no place to go… for one reason or another, the anger you feel cannot be expressed, so you bury it and grow increasingly depressed.  This is a clinical depression, not a sadness or a grief, but a low-energy hopelessness about your situation that usually feels completely out of proportion to the actual facts of your situation.

Once I understood the concept, I had one of those beautiful “aha!” moments when something in your life just clicks into place in a way that completely alters your worldview.  This theory, I realized, explained so much of my life and the intermittent depression I’d struggled with privately.  I wasn’t sad, really, I was just very, very, very pissed off, but too “nice” to do anything appropriate with that anger.

Anger is still something with which I’m learning to get comfortable, and it’s not easy for me.  Of all the emotions, anger seems to me to be like that loud, bawdy, vulgar aunt who drinks too much at Christmas, burps loudly, and laughs at her own jokes.   There is no softness to anger, it is angular and sharp and hard.  It is unforgiving and unyielding, and it frightens me how it can be blinding in its extremes.   I realize that it is a vital emotion, and one that can be cathartic and cleansing when managed properly, but when I’m angry, I mostly feel like a newbie driver behind the wheel of a semi-truck — ill-prepared and dangerous, ready to roll over an innocent bystander at any minute.  So, I guess you could say I’m working on it.

When my parents divorced, my mother was outraged.  I am not exaggerating; there is seriously no other word for her feelings toward my dad.  His primary sin was that he didn’t love her anymore, and for this she was completely and utterly furious with him.  Now, my mom comes from a long line of Eastern European hotheads, and she did her ancestors proud.  She stayed furious at my father for 13 years after their divorce.  Yes, that’s right: THIRTEEN YEARS.  For 13 years, she seethed.  If his name was mentioned, her face and demeanor perceptibly changed.  Those who had anything nice to say about him were banished, and he became this horrible villain in her life story.  Fortunately for her (and all of us, really), an enormous falling out with me followed by some intensive therapy helped her let go of most of her anger.  Thank goodness.

Since my separation, I have dated plenty of guys who were divorced, and, not surprisingly, anger has been a frequent theme.  As expected, some of these men reported ex-wives who were a combination of Medusa and the Wicked Witch of the West, but I became adept at being an active listener and discerning what was real and what was pure emotion.    I learned to avoid the men who had a lot of unresolved anger; my experience with my mom had taught me that anger of that nature is ultimately visited on everyone around the injured person, and that’s a kind of baggage I decided to avoid.

That’s not to say that I don’t get pissed off at my ex or that I wouldn’t be in a relationship with a guy who didn’t have a fairytale happy relationship with his ex.  I’m not talking about the guy who still gets annoyed at his ex or thinks she’s a crazy bitch.  I’m talking about the guy who is seething.  The guy who has so much anger in his heart toward his ex that there probably isn’t room in there for anyone new.  That guy is, for all real intents and purposes, still in a relationship with his ex, as much as if he were still sleeping in her bed.  He is engaged with her, consumed by her, negatively infatuated by her.  And for any woman who is good enough to try to love him, he is a dead end.

The most obvious example of this kind of man was one of my first match.com dates.  We’ll call him Chris.  Chris and I met for coffee one morning and talked for over an hour.  He was handsome and interesting and seemed to smile easily. But as the minutes ticked by, I perceived that, despite his relaxed Colorado demeanor, inside he was clenched tight as a fist.  I asked about his ex-wife, and, at first, he claimed no hard feelings and enumerated some of her wonderful qualities.  I sat back and listened and, as often was the case, he kept talking.  And I saw that his smile, while easily worn, had a tightness about the edges, a sharpness to it that belied his inner anger.  He pulled at the napkin in front of him with a kind of controlled fury that I noted with apprehension.  He talked of her egregious behavior and how she had failed to honor her commitment to a life together until death did they part.  I finally interrupted him and asked how long they had been divorced.

Nine years.

They had been divorced nine years and Chris was still raging over her and the fact that she had left him.  Wow.  Needless to say, I got the hell out of there as fast as I could.

Of course divorce makes people angry.  It might even make them rageful. A lot crappy things are done and said when a marriage is dying and a divorce is being born.  But what the two people do with those feelings and how much control they surrender to them and how long they hold onto them are all very telling.  Does their anger color their world view?  Are they aware of their anger or do they deny it? Do they ever consciously let go of that anger in order to make a new life?  Or do they allow the anger to consume them, so that they are living a life in the shadow of a relationship long over?

Last week, my ex-husband disappointed me.  In a big, big way.  And I was shocked at how quickly my anger and resentment toward him boiled up again.  I spent a few days telling all my friends (not our friends, but my friends) what an asshole he was.  I had bad dreams and journaled furiously about how perfectly this latest offense encapsulated my reasons for divorcing him.  I avoided this blog, lest it become a repository for my negativity. And then, after a couple of days, I was spent.   So, I turned away from him and my feelings about him and back to the life I’m creating for myself.  And in the last few days I’ve hardly thought of him at all.

I’m sure there isn’t only one right way to deal with the anger of divorce, but I know that this is the way that I’m dealing with it.  I’m trying to allow my anger to speak when appropriate, but to do so constructively and without malice.  As with any new skill, I’ve had mixed results.  But so far, I’m just glad it hasn’t become the centerpiece of my life.  Because anger held too tightly for too long creates a barren and harsh landscape, inhospitable to compassion and love and empathy and intimacy.  I learned this early and I learned it well.   Thank goodness.

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