Tag: divorce

what?? you’re leaving me? us? huh? REALLY?
omg. but we moved here to start our new life!
omg. what now. what now……. Really??

Post 400

Posted in An Ongoing Journal...2 Comments

My first post was written in March of 2011. I have a hard time realizing that it’ll be three years soon. When I started out here, I wasn’t exactly sure what I was intending to do other than to gain a little witness to what I felt to be a pretty unfair situation. While I still feel there’s much about our situation that has been far less than fair (I can hear my mother’s voice in my head ‘who ever told you life was fair?‘) I can now see with much greater clarity – due in great part to this blog and the wonderful correspondence it’s inspired – that what had started out as a personal tragedy in my life began instead to show itself as a rare opportunity. In the beginning, when I began to write, I felt like I was talking to myself, but I always held out hope that there was somebody else in the room with me. After all, I was feeling very alone in the early days of The Hillhouse and this was my only link to the world. Thankfully, it’s a big world, a big room, and as it turns out I haven’t just been talking to myself this whole time. Phew.

There are now over eight hundred of us here, there are four hundred posts in the archives, and The Hillhouse has been visited over thirty thousand times. Wow. ! That’s fun to know. And the world map – man, impressive. I’m waving hello to all of you, wondering as I stare at the list of countries – did you happen upon us by accident? Are you a local or a lonely expat nostalgic for the U.S.? Do you visit because you too have gone through a divorce, because you too can’t make peace with growing older, or because you too have chickens? Or are we a serendipitous, tangential stop on a walkabout thru cyber space? I wish I could meet you in person; I’ve seen and read many of your blogs, and you’ve opened so many windows to other experiences and places which otherwise I’d never have known.

Not meaning to sound dramatic here, but this whole blogging adventure has been life-saving for me. Really. You have all helped to save my life – my hope, more accurately – and for that I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I so appreciate your friendship and emotional support. I send mine back to you. This planet is not for wimps, and it’s not possible to get through the adventure solo. So again, thank you, thank you, thank you.

See you again soon…

Relief

Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Divorce Diary, Mommy Mind6 Comments

Much of today I’ve spent fuming at being told just this morning – by an email I might well have missed (as it’s not something I check more that once a day when I’m super busy) – telling me that Elihu was to be on a plane to Chicago at 6:30 am the next morning. Now I realize that my ex’s dad has been terribly sick lately, and we ourselves have all been sick with worry about him, and I realize this visit is important, but with so little notice it was a major logistic monkey wrench in the week, and it’ll take another month to get back on course. Braces being put in, important lessons in school, butchering rescheduled yet again, a skipped bass lesson, not to mention a classmate’s birthday party missed as well. I’m not cold to the importance of the visit, and I don’t want to appear selfish, but I feel like there should have been a mutual acceptance of said plans first. I knew the idea was out there – but Fareed had said his dad was in ICU where children weren’t allowed, and then he said the fares were too insane to purchase one. Lastly, he said he’d get back. Ok, so he did. With twenty four hours to go before the flight. Not a lot of opportunity for me to say no, not at least without becoming the bad guy. !

First, I should take a breath and at least acknowledge the great relief that washed over me when I heard for myself Riaz’s voice on the phone recently, after so many post-surgery days of respirator, infections and fever. I kinda knew he’d make it, but a tinier voice continued to whisper to me “this is how they all go… admitted for one thing, they end up catching pneumonia and dying of it in the end…” We’ve all heard that story so many times that it’s hard to pretend we haven’t. So to know that he’s keeping alive on his own steam – and improving no less – is great news, and it positively lifts my heart. For as much as my former father-in-law may never see things from my side, he is still that beloved, goofy man I’ve known for so many years. The man with whom I’ve traveled around the world, the man from whom I’ve learned to cook Pakistani food, the man from whom I’ve learned so many things I can’t begin to recount them. A man who’s had a huge role in my life, regardless of the other, less fortunate crap that ended up happening with us all.

When things were dire for him over the past weeks, I began an emergency re-evaluation of how our lives would feel without him. First, I’m just not ready to see my ex experience that kind of heartbreak. I know he’s not my husband anymore, but nonetheless it will be very hard for me to witness his grief when that time comes. While it would be very hard on my son to be sure, my ex husband will be a profoundly changed man when his dad dies. They are two of the same cloth, and I’m sure it will feel like part of himself is gone. And speaking purely about the nuts and bolts of the family businesses, Riaz is the patriarch in charge. So upon his death one day, things will change in a big way. And I myself was not quite up to this big of a change – quite yet. (But is one ever really ready??) To know that Elihu is going to see his grandfather again allows my whole body to relax again. This is a great relief indeed.

So for the next four days Elihu will be with his father and his grandfather. All afternoon he was silly and bouncy, in a cheery mood just to know that soon he’d be with Daddy. And how happy I am for him. What doesn’t make me so happy are the cold starts and immediate goodbyes – the instant change with no time for emotional preparation. Here today, there in a few hours. Oops, sorry I didn’t confirm it with you, but you’ll roll with it, won’t you?... I always do. Friends tell me I’m a doormat to my ex. I say I’m only trying to maintain some feeling of love in the family. It’s not often a two-way street, however. I myself have had so little love or respect from my ex that sometimes I really do feel like being a bitch and just saying ‘no’. But if I back off, take a breath and re-assess things, although it still might piss me off, I’m able to handle the rescheduling and the added stress. Cuz I love my son, and want things to be the best for him.  I know that whatever shit goes down all around, the bottom line is that a child needs his parent, and the parent needs his child. There is no greater feeling of relief than to hold your child firmly within your arms after a long absence. It’s a gift I never want to refrain from giving, no matter how angry I might be. And just as it gives my mother’s heart relief to hold Elihu close, so it also gives my heart relief to know that father and son will be in each other’s arms again soon.

Heartfelt

Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Divorce Diary, Mommy Mind3 Comments

On days like this I feel bad for both my ex husband and my son that they don’t live closer to each other. My ex’s father suffered a heart attack a few days ago and tonight, post-surgery, he is on a respirator facing a couple of tough days ahead. Two days ago I was surprised to hear so little feeling in Fareed’s voice as he described the situation. Rather, he’d sounded almost as if he was trying to sell me on how bad his father was –  perhaps for the value of the drama itself. Even though he seemed to be trying to convince me things looked bleak, he still didn’t register much emotion as he spoke. And because of my take on it, I don’t think I responded as he would have liked. While I was trying to offer my help, maybe I wasn’t as tender as I should have been. I didn’t react with much emotion as I hadn’t sensed much present in him. Instead I matched facts with facts, words with words; I was trying to be positive and logical, and so chose to put the spin on how things would improve, and how it probably wasn’t as bad as it seemed. After all, Martha made routine visits to the hospital with heart-related problems (ironically she too had been admitted to the hospital just yesterday for more of the same). My mom lived with Afib and I had a friend who’d had a quadruple bypass and yet still both ran and played the trumpet professionally. it just seemed heart trouble was, while frightening, something that could potentially be managed.

After I’d first heard the news, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Fareed might have wished for me to have expressed more concern for his dad. It seemed like he wanted me to get that things were dire – and somehow I sensed that he had wanted more support from me. I took this in and thought about it for a minute. Should I make a point of letting him know I was truly there for him? Or was that even my job at all? I paused, remembering that while a few years ago this would have undeniably been my intensely personal family business, it might not be entirely my affair these days. If he needed deep emotional support, wasn’t that what his wife was for? Maybe Fareed was just fine. No way to know, he offered few clues. I know he was worried, but it didn’t truly register in his voice. And then Elihu, after getting off the phone with his father the other night said in a frustrated tone “he’s not letting me in”. All right. So it wasn’t just me. Ok. So what now?

Just this past hour Fareed called again. This time I heard it. The first real emotion I think I’ve heard in his voice since the day we got married and his voice cracked as he said his vows. I heard it – finally, I heard him. Not a sales pitch, not a list of facts that support some evidence – but real feeling. Not something I think I’ve witnessed too many times in our twenty-plus years together. For as much as we’ve been through, there’s always been a cards-to-the-chest quality about my ex. Same with his dad, too. They’re not much for letting folks in. (Which is ironic, in that as a musician – especially a classical guitar player – you’d think the guy would be full of it.) And Fareed’s dad is a sentimental sap about everything. (When Fareed and I told him we preferred a sweet table to a formal cake for our wedding, his father threw up his hands in profound disappointment and said “No cake? Why bother even getting married?” He had been, apparently, quite sentimental about the role of cake at our wedding.) Fareed’s father has always been very moved – sometimes to tears – by displays of affection, love and matters of family. Yet in spite of it, he seems unable to process gritty, and absolutely honest emotion – not merely sentiment. Once he expressed confusion as to why I chose to move to New York to live next door to my folks. Knowing his strong appreciation for family I thought he’d understand it immediately, but no. He also never understood – or registered in any way – why it was that this split from his son had hurt me so deeply. Both of his reactions (or lack thereof) have always puzzled me. In the same sort of way that Fareed’s words puzzled me just recently. It’s as if the pretense of the emotion and the actual feelings themselves aren’t taking place at the same time. But just now, I felt something different; I actually felt genuine emotion from Fareed. And so did Elihu. Finally. Sorry that it took his dad’s heart attack to get here, but it’s good to know he’s present. I think he’s staying by his dad’s side now, and that too is positive news. I’m sure it helps his dad’s spirit to have his son close by.

So where will things go now? In an instant, grudges and bad tastes leftover from unresolved conflicts seem so much easier to set aside when the prospect of death emerges. There, I said it. Yeah, it seems that the threat of death forces our hands in matters of the heart. The threat of possible death makes us reveal our true fears, hastens us to let go matters of the ego, and helps us to finally express our love to each other. When I heard how serious things were, I did a quick check – had I told Riaz that I loved him when I saw him last? Yes, I had. Also I had made an effort to be present with them and enjoy their company when I visited them this past summer in Chicago. It was Riaz who’d driven me to the train station. Yes, we’d had a very sweet visit and goodbye. Ok. That made me feel better. We’d parted in a loving way. And I knew Elihu’d had a nice long stay with his grandpa this summer too. They had a fish tank together and had spent many hours stocking and enjoying it. So there’d been some good grandpa time recently. I confess I made this inventory partly in preparation for that potential sad ending – the one of course we’re hoping against – but the one I sense Fareed wants to emotionally prepare for in some way. This is his one and only, take-charge, get things done, keeper-of-the-curry-chicken recipe dad. His dad. He and his dad are two peas in a pod. Ok, so maybe two peas that don’t really communicate their deep and true feelings very well, but they are father and son, and so that makes this time a very difficult one. It’s a tricky time for grandson too, as he will not accept a sugar-coated version of his grandpa’s condition and must know where things stand.

And for right now the only place we can stand is all together, waiting, with our hearts wide open, in hopes that grandpa’s own heart will heal itself soon.

Connected

Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Farm Life, Mommy Mind, Waldorf Life2 Comments

Elihu’d been asking me frequently over the past few days if I was unusually stressed. It was easy for me to think I lived in my own world, my thoughts entirely private and unnoticeable as I marched forward through my days… In the car, driving us here, there and all points in between, running out to tend to the chickens, standing at the counter making supper, and then not long after standing at the sink washing dishes, even later on in the evening sitting at the piano, concentrating on the page before me. True, we spent a lot of time together, but these days, I agreed with his observation that we’d gotten suddenly very busy – and we hadn’t been living together as much as we had been living side by side. My focus was seldom on him, but more on the task at hand. We were now at the end of our day and enjoying a quiet moment’s conversation before bedtime. We’d been so busy doing, doing, doing…. but yet we hadn’t checked in with each other in a while. We ‘needed to connect’, he’d said to me quietly. “Mommy, please tell me, are you stressed these days?” I stopped, turned to face him, looked straight into his eyes, and gave him my full attention as I answered his question.

Yes, I admitted to being stressed these days. There was a lot of new music to learn for the fall, there were other classes to prepare for and students too, plus the never-ending list of farm and home-related work. There was a new string bass to move around now, and lessons to pay for. Doctors appointments and house repairs. Grandparents that continued to age and change. While there’d never been an absence of things to think about and plan for here at the Hillhouse, this recent spell was indeed a bit heavier than many. So yes, I was stressed. He too admitted to being a bit pooped with our non-stop life. There was a moment of quiet. It was not quite 7 pm, and we were attempting an early bedtime in order to catch up. I’d already read to him from the current favorite book about a pair of wild Golden Eagles. But tonite it hadn’t done the trick. Elihu was still just as wide awake as moments before.  And he felt needy as I put the book away and then moved in to kiss his cheek and leave. He pulled me back down with his still-small arms and asked me to stay for a bit. Oh well. Ok. Things – all those stupid things on my never-ending list – they can wait. They can. Elihu needed me, and I probably needed him too. So I stayed, and we talked by the hallway light that streamed in through his half-closed bedroom door.

Elihu asked me about the House Cafe, and for me to tell him what was going on with it now. He asked me why daddy doesn’t just sell it. I explained that he had too much invested to let it go. Kinda like us and our chickens. Kinda. I could tell that sleep wasn’t coming any time soon, and both of us had a head full of concerns and queries…. so I let him continue. “If you and daddy had never bought it, would I have been a city boy? Would I have been living in Evanston and playing video games and going to a regular school? I nodded. “Pretty good chance of that.” We sat in silence for a moment and took that in. I began to remind him – to remind us both, really – of all the things we’d have known nothing about had we not come here to this place…. “No homing pigeons. No geese. No garden. No chickens, eggs, butchering. No Jonah, no Phoenix, no Ms. Reid… no Waldorf. You wouldn’t be playing recorder, or knitting, or playing string bass… singing in rounds, bringing fresh baked bread in for lunch, playing your djembe on the street… everything would have been different. Maybe all of it would have been just fine, but certainly very different.” I looked into his face with a slight smile for emphasis. “So. Do you think you’re doin ok here?” I ask him gently. He smiles. He tells me yeah, he knows he is. I probably don’t need to go on, but I do. “I know it’s still not the same without having your daddy actually live with us, and you know I’m really sorry about that, but in the end, there’s just so much that factors into it. I dunno, it’s kinda like I just can’t even consider regretting it. Cuz it’s how it is.”

Without a second’s pause, he asks me “So are you happy?” He was sincere, and his face waited for my appraisal of things. He wanted to know. Heck, I wanted to know! Yeah, so, was I happy? I can’t deny I feel stress sometimes, but hmm… I did a little scan of my feelings. I was surprised to feel the confidence, the lack of hesitation in my answer. “Yes. Yes, I would definitely say that I am happy!”I answered him, smiling wide and true. But then I looked at my knobby fingers which are just this past month beginning to hurt in earnest. “But I’m also kinda bummed that just when I am feeling so good about things that these start popping up. And the sad thing is, they’ll probably never go back to the way they used to be even just a month ago”. Elihu takes my largest, most arthritic finger in his cool thin hands and gently kisses it. “Never say that, Mommy. Say ‘they will be better, and they are better now and I can feel how well they’re working…” he is not joking, not being ironic, sarcastic or clever. My son is coaching me to employ a little more loving and positive ‘self-talk’. Oh how I wish I could share his hope, but I fear that I must find a way to incorporate this new mild handicap into my life and hope that before long it just blends into the landscape. Least that’s what I tell myself for now. Ok, so it’s a stressor, to be sure. But it’s not the larger point here. What is rather remarkable, is that Elihu has had me realize something that I wasn’t quite sure I even believed myself! Don’t think I’d ever really committed to the feeling of being happy with my life.  I was happy with my life. Forgetting the fingers for the moment, my quick internal assessment confirmed it once again. Yup. I loved our life. Wow. We both waited in the darkness for a minute, each of us recounting past adventures and feeling proud of all we’d learned. Yeah, there was no point to worry about what we might have been if we’d never come here. Obviously, that was not the future that served us best. This was.

I sometimes wonder how it is that I can accurately convey the nature and nuance of the relationship exists between Elihu and me. Adults caution parents – and especially single parents – not to treat their children as peers – as their buddies. But I’m not so sure I’m completely down with that approach. My son still knows I’m mom, and certain things are ok, certain things aren’t. There’s not a lot of protestation, because I feel I have a fairly intelligent, loving and well-reasoned kid. For the most part he accepts the few rules I lay down. To be truthful, a single child in a one parent household is going to have a different sort of relationship with the parent he or she lives with. It’s going to be unique. It’s going to be what it is. And in our case, our relationship, if I may borrow from the current vernacular of the fifth grade boys, is awesome. It’s all good. Even the bad. And thankfully, these days there’s not a whole lot of that. Thanks to my beautiful boy for checking in with me and reminding me of what’s important.

Staying connected like that helps remind us how good things are.

Woman of Oz

Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Divorce Diary, Farm Life, Mommy Mind4 Comments

When I write my posts, I sometimes remind myself of the Wizard of Oz. Or rather, the man behind the curtain pulling the levers and speaking into a mic. It’s an interesting feeling to sit in my comfy chair, alone in my room, ‘talking’ into the box on my lap. Feeling quite alone as I do (except for the constant crowing of roosters outside my window), it’s nearly impossible to realize I’m speaking to a group. And yet, luckily for me, I’m still able to do my thing, relatively unaffected by my growing and invisible audience. I had wondered recently if this might become challenging as time went on, but I’m happy to find that I can still tap into that universal mind and enjoy a line free of outside interference. As those who create will know, when things are going good and stuff is just coming to you, that’s a spiritual sweet spot. It’s kinda like getting in a canoe and joining the already moving water. Off you go… The trick here is not only knowing that I’m not exactly alone in my thoughts (nor would I want to be; the point of a blog is to share ideas), but that everyone in my life’s wake is privy to these thoughts and observations. Because of this, there are sometimes repercussions. But this is my life’s art for now, so on I go, broadcasting from my little chair behind the curtain.

Keeping one’s voice the same, without modifying its tone or exaggerating the day’s events when they seem a little too common, these are some of the challenges that face me. Thankfully, they aren’t affecting me at present, nor are they really concerning me. I’m surprised at this. Thought by now things might be getting trickier. You know, running out of ideas, becoming bored with what I already got goin. But I’m alright. My mind rolls up and down all day long as I tend to my outdoor work and I make mental notes to examine things more closely when my work is done. The biggest hitch in all of this is just remembering ideas later on. Guess that’s why writers take notes. I have a dry erase board in the kitchen, and a small pad in the car. If I’m lucky I’ll be near enough to one or the other that I’ll get something down in time. And while it aint Alzheimer’s yet, I forget far more than actually occurs to me – and this has me wondering sometimes if it’s not a foreshadowing of the fate awaiting me. But I’ll no doubt write about that chapter too when it descends on me. Cuz no matter how my aged years present themselves, whether it be memory loss or the inability to get around (hopefully neither!), that will be an entirely new adventure that will bring with it its own observations. And as long as I’m able to write, I’ll probably be letting you know exactly how I feel about things.

It seems that from the observations and ruminations I’ve published through these last few and difficult years, I have actually concluded the makings of what might be my first book. In this particular moment, my life has come to something of a stopping – and starting – point. Divorced, the ex married off, small farm chugging away, son just about in his pre-teen years… All of that, plus a recent little explosion of reaction to the blog on Facebook, and I think things are fairly tidily wrapped up. A period has been placed at the end of a long sentence. Life is by no means a static thing, and I am still grappling with some of the same challenges, but I feel a bit more confident these days, thanks to the most supportive readers and loving friends a gal could have. It strikes me as a bit ironic that at the ‘dreaded’ age of 50 my life is beginning again! I feel possibility now. As I watch the new garden outside my door begin to take shape and become real – all from the birth of my simple imaginings – so too I feel the birth of whole new future taking shape. I feel a little relief with the onset of this new chapter, too. A friend had suggested to me recently that this was the start of Elizabeth 2.0. I really like that. Nice way to welcome the new into my life, in all the forms it may yet assume. And with that, I’m think I’m done for now. Off to work in the garden. Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain! The great Oz has spoken…

Hitched

Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Divorce Diary, Mommy Mind11 Comments

Well, kinda thought it was coming. When I heard on my ex’s last visit that his girlfriend had recently “lost a ton of weight”, I thought I smelled a big day ahead. Women don’t usually just lose “a ton of weight” for no good reason. It’s most likely in preparation for some landmark event. Like turning 50. Or getting married. Whichever. So the idea had been spinning around in my head for a couple months. Not a new idea. But it’s funny how unceremoniously it was that I learned it had “just” happened. Whatever just means.

Elihu and I had finally caught up with each other yesterday, and tonite he called as I was making supper. As we usually do when we we’re apart, after all the urgent news has been shared, we default to a sort of ‘what are you doing right now’ sort of conversation. It’s more a means to keep the tunnel open to each other, more a way just to be with each other in the same room than to say anything new. He was telling me all sorts of little things about his day, and about how many hours they’d been on the road so far – nothing much of anything to tell – when he added, “oh, just so you know, it’s a little thing, but daddy and Jill had to get married. For a technical reason.” A year ago I might have reacted more acutely, but now, a year out, it didn’t quite knock the wind out of me. Didn’t even elicit a tear. But I can admit that I looked over to the microwave clock to note the time I was first given the big news, and I felt my chest contract just a bit. Elihu went on to say that he wasn’t sure of the details – and repeated that they’d done it because “technically they had to.” (I felt myself wondering why they didn’t “technically” need my husband and me to get divorced before they had two kids.)  Elihu told me they didn’t make it a big deal, it wasn’t a fancy ceremony with lots of people (I did manage to ascertain that Elihu had not been present for the big day) but that they were going to have a party later on. He just kept talking and talking, moving on to the next item on his mind, leaving me behind… silent , stuck in my thoughts, just the slightest bit dazed.

After nearly a quarter century together, and Fareed couldn’t have at least communicated this to me in some way? If not before, then maybe right after? Wow. If having children with two other women during our marriage wasn’t enough to show me the true colors of this man, guess this should pretty much seal it, huh. But bad behavior or not, I know that it is precisely because Fareed left that our lives have become so magical now. As our lives were destroyed, so too were they improved. A queer mix, but true. I realize that none of our wonderful new life would have been possible if Fareed hadn’t left. I remind myself this, because I can feel sorrow beginning to grow in my chest. Stop, Elizabeth…remember our new life here… We would never have known our blessed Waldorf School, we would never, ever have known what it was to have homing pigeons, to release them into the air and watch them return to us again…. We wouldn’t have known dear Timothy, our red golden pheasant, the chukkar partridges, ducks Joseph and Josephina, the many chickens, our dear button quail King George – or even our beloved goose Maximus – none of this would be part of our story today if Fareed hadn’t decided that he needed out of this marriage. Yeah, I know. But it still feels unjust, somewhere in my heart I still want answers; I want my husband, and the family that never really was – back. Tears come now. Seems the last time I cried it was over him too. That last, blow up of a visit. Wasn’t this done already? Guess not. More tears. More disbelief. I try to reconcile the dream of us in our Evanston home with this beautiful new life here in the country. We have a wonderful and full life here! We have grandma and grandpa next door…. So why am I still so sad? I certainly can’t say that I didn’t see it coming! Maybe this is why he didn’t tell me himself. Cuz he knew I’d cry. Asshole.

I already had a cold, so when I called my mom up to tell her the news, my stuffy nose didn’t give me away. As I’d expected, first I heard her initial expression of outrage and anger, but then she surprised me – as her tone uncharacteristically softened. She expressed sympathy. She became tender for a moment, as we both silently considered it all over again. Yeah, even with everything that’s happened, it was still sad. But we shook ourselves out of our lull by reminding ourselves that even if things were different, I would not want him back. Absolutely not. So. There it was. We both sighed a “whatcha gonna do?” sort of lament, and a beat passed.

I wonder about the two of them. They seem to have a good relationship. Certainly not the lustful, magical thing it might have once been, but they’ve managed to handle their two kids – plus two ‘others’ – as well as her going to school and his insane schedule – and they’ve logged some seven years now. (That includes two years I thought he was still my husband. !) Who knows. I have lots of friends tell me they’d put money on it not lasting ten years. Some think five, tops. Some speculate he’s cheating on her already. I don’t go there, cuz I just don’t know. And even though I am saddened that my old friend chose not to tell me about his marrying, I still don’t wish him any ill. In fact, I pray she’s still around to tend to him as he becomes an old man, because I can’t do that now. But someone has to. I hope she’ll stay on for the job.

Once, shortly after Fareed had come clean about having a pregnant mistress and wanting to be with her instead of me, we stood in the kitchen drinking gin and talking about things we’d hardly ever talked about before in our twenty-two years together. I asked him how he saw things now. Could he see himself with Jill at the end? I mean, we’d been together long enough that I’d always known how we two would die; one in the company of the other. But now, that sacred plan had been changed. I wanted to make sure he wouldn’t be alone. I told him he could always call me. But he shrugged me off and laughed. He told me that he fully expected himself to be alone as an old man, living in a fifth floor walkup in Manhattan somewhere, practicing his guitar. And he said he’d probably end up dying alone – of AIDS, he added rather dramatically – and no one would care, but he’d be happy. Yeah, he probably would be. In a perfect world, a spouse and family are probably the last thing Fareed would ever need or want. Instead, the life that would suit him would be one of privacy; hours and hours spent playing his guitar, hours in which to write, to read, to enjoy a meal alone, a glass of wine alone, to do all this in the coziest of apartments, while far below the bustle of the street continues on, oblivious to the old man playing guitar in the window….

But for now my ex has hitched his wagon up to his lady’s for the long haul, and it doesn’t appear he’ll be living the life of a classical-guitar playing hermit anytime soon. But ya never know. After all, this was a man who told me in no uncertain terms that “divorce was not an option.”  Yup, plans change sometimes. We’ll just have to wait and see….

Day of Dads

Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Divorce Diary, Mommy Mind, Pics3 Comments

In my family we never celebrated Mother’s or Father’s day. In fact, we were discouraged from really talking much about it. My mother, the clear captain of our familial ship, would always tell us it was a Hallmark-created holiday (subtext: not real or worthy) and that she didn’t need a card on one particular day of the year because, as she would so enigmatically add, “everyday is mother’s day”. You can imagine how confusing this sounded to a young girl. I got her gist, that the holiday was somehow inferior and unnecessary, but what about that ‘every day is mother’s day‘ bit? Did that mean she knew we loved and appreciated her every day of the year? Because we were not a household that ever said ‘I love you’ to each other. And we certainly never thanked her for all the things she did for us – we were kids, after all. Her statement always felt a bit dark, even a bit angry. Young though I was, I was definitely aware of my mom going through life with a certain mother-as-martyr sort of attitude. (I too share this tendency at times, but hope that I counteract it by apologizing to my son when I do express a similar sentiment; I always assure him it’s my greatest joy – albeit exhausting sometimes – to provide him the things he needs.) So was she being sarcastic? Did she actually want some props on her day? Or did she truly feel contempt for the whole thing? Each year I’d feel a strange sort of dread at the two holidays. My father himself was simply silent on the subject of his own day. We never mentioned it, never uttered the words “Happy Father’s Day” to him, never gave him a card that I can remember. It just was not what we did. But in that it was what the rest of the world seemed to be doing, deep inside I was always very conflicted about these two holidays.

It was five years ago this week that my ex husband’s third child, and second son, was born. I had made plans to be here in New York around his girlfriend’s due date, as it was just too much to bear to remain in town for the birth. My ex was still living in our home then, staying some nights with me, some with her. By June he still had made no plans for his future living arrangements, so I began to make my own. I’d come here in part to escape the birthday of that new child, and also to convince myself that a move to this place was the next necessary step in my life. As planned, his son was born while we were here in Greenfield. I felt as if I were in some bizarre, waking dream when he called me moments after the birth and excitedly recounted all the details. (See “Birth and Baptism”, a post from June 13th of 2011.) I just sat there, in my car, cell phone to my ear, feeling almost dizzy. Almost in my body, almost floating. Adrenaline filled my veins and my body felt cold with shock. I had known it was coming, why did this hurt so much? Why didn’t I stop him from talking? Why was he saying all this to me? Was I truly hearing this? I don’t think I said much back to him. I just remember thinking, my husband has two sons now. And a daughter, older than our son. How could any of  this possibly be? This was my son’s father. My husband. Our Daddy. He belonged with us, his real family.

Father’s Day was a couple of days later. I was out doing some errands on that beautiful, sunny day when I pulled into the huge parking lot of a local box store. I had NPR on the radio, and some music came on. Not just some music, but nylon string guitar. I knew that sound immediately. Two decades with a guy who pretty much lives only for the ‘sound’ and you just know. I stopped driving. I remember pausing, looking up at the huge, white cumulus clouds. Thinking how small I was in the world, how far I’d run, and yet… here he was again, sharing my tiny bubble of personal space. But I couldn’t turn it off, I was curious. Was it just an anonymous sound bed? I held my breath… Then a familiar male voice, one of the regular NPR guys came on. Said who it was we’d been listening to. Said he was a dad, too. Then, in a smiling and warm tone wished Fareed a very happy Father’s Day. Again, that cold feeling shot through me. Would they have been so gushing if they knew? Fuck this! Fuck him! He’s just changed forever the life of his one, true son and here he is being lauded as a great dad! They forgot to say “father of three, but only one by his wife!”. It all still felt unreal. I was a thousand miles away from him and yet still – here he was, in my face, keeping the hurt as fresh as possible. It was the single hardest decision I have ever made, but in that moment I knew that Elihu and I could no longer live in Illinois. I finally knew on that Father’s Day that our lives had truly changed, and so had our home.

Back in Chicago we’d known a guy who’d had two families. At the same time. I never got how it worked. I had been told that he was not with the mother of his first four kids, but still, you’d see them together at his concerts – and their relationship wasn’t quite clear… He had two children with a younger gal, essentially the gal he was currently ‘with’, however there seemed to be an overlap in ages, or at least a very small window between the ages of the kids from the two families. Sometimes you’d see both families – all six kids and the two moms – sitting not very far from each other at one of dad’s shows. I’d watch them, looking for clues, for something… I couldn’t fathom how this was tolerable, especially when I’d heard that the first – and older – mother had not been part of the decision. Back then it was stuff of another world altogether, but now it’s my reality. I do understand that plenty of folks separate, divorce and then go on to make new families, but this overlapping thing still just feels creepy. I also know that mistakes happen, that we all lose our thinking selves when passion and physical desire overwhelm us – yeah, I know. I get it. And strangely, my heart goes out in some way to those poor guys who discover they’ve left an unexpected child behind – cuz that has got to suck. And also, I’m pleased to see these dads of multiple families try to step up as best they can. But seriously, how can one give oneself fully to more than one young family at a time? I can better understand having different families at different life stages – but having several sets of small kids at one time that all need their dad – I just don’t think anyone’s gonna win in that situation.

Thankfully, I think my son’s fared pretty well in spite of his less-than-favorable dad situation. As I write, they’re Skyping. (Dad had to take a break moments ago to Skype his daughter in London – it’s a busy holiday for him. !) I don’t flinch anymore though. It’s become our life. And while I’d still like to speak one day with that ‘other original mother’ of that Chicago fellow to better understand how she deals with it, I have enough of my own experience at this point to feel at home in our unique family situation.

As to my own father, he’s not even aware of what day it is. Doesn’t mean Elihu won’t make a card and we won’t stop by for a visit. But just yesterday dad greeted me with a “Happy Thanksgiving”, then cheerfully acquiesced when I told him it was actually a fine Spring day. He always easily adjusts to being corrected, then seems to forget all about it seconds later. But he still retains memories of his life, and he does know he’s my dad, and in spite of his having once called Elihu ‘his favorite nephew’, in spirit, at least, he recognizes Elihu with his heart. Yesterday I had my own sudden and unexpected memory of my father pop up… The wild roses had just burst into bloom and every breeze carried their scent. The perfume brought back a snapshot image of my dad from years ago… One Spring, when I was about twelve or so, I played Edward MacDowell’s “To A Wild Rose” as part of my end of year piano recital. When I rejoined my parents afterward, I saw that my father was crying. It stunned me, that my playing could move him so. It also shocked me because until that moment I’d never seen my father cry. Or show much emotion. I’d seen him happy or mad, but not much else. As I said before, we were not an ‘I love you’ sort of family. That was a moment that changed me in some way, and changed the way in which I saw my father. He was touched, and so was I. And I knew for sure then that he loved me.

My son is lucky that he has his dad in his life, and that he absolutely knows his father loves him. I also feel lucky that I’m still able to see my own father and tell him that I love him too. And a little later today, that’s what we’ll do. Because no matter what some may feel about the artifice of the holiday, I think the idea of celebrating our parents on one special day out of the year is a good one. Happy Father’s day to all you dads.

Elihu plus kidsCharlie, Brigitta, Erie & Elihu

Atkins Winds Down

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When I started on my weight loss campaign back in February, I’d hoped to use this forum as a substitute for the famous Weight Watchers weigh-in. I had enjoyed some good successes on Weight Watchers in the past, and I attributed it mainly to the element of witness that it provided. (I realize this is perhaps the ‘down’ side of WW for many; I can remember my mother herself complaining bitterly about it.) Personally, I needed it. I needed the accountability. Weight Watchers online? Not so much. Why? No accountability! Hey – if it’s one thing overweight folks usually have a problem with – it’s the truth! Sneaking something here, downplaying the significance of repeatedly over-sized portions, justifying it all in the name of comfort, or some such reasonable excuse…. Isn’t this one of the reasons we’re there to begin with? Doing in online means weighing yourself at home – rounding up a half pound cuz your scale isn’t accurate enough – rounding down cuz you just know the scale can’t be right… I can even see one giving up before too long if going it alone. I know I can’t be entirely right about this – but even so, I think some will know what I mean. Anyway, doing it on my own is not for me. I like the weigh in. Only I was clever – speaking of evading the whole truth, did you notice? – I never actually mentioned my weight. Only the amounts I lost. Ha!

Since I’d also had success once upon a time with Atkins (just how many diets have I been on? you may wonder), and knew it to be more ‘fun’ than WW (lots of salt and fat), I thought I’d go the no carb, low carb route this time. Plus, in my experience, I’ve made progress faster with Dr. Atkins’ method. The down side of this trendy diet is, however, that if you go right back to your pre-Atkins life as usual, it’s likely you’ll find all that weight back on your frame after a while. This time, I have taken a different tack. I don’t intend to live a carb-free life, but in that I certainly don’t need all that quick energy – and in that carbs are far more prevalent than they ought to be in our grab-and-go culture, I’m simply opting not to go looking for them. First, I don’t eat fast food. I don’t prepare rice or pasta at home. Don’t eat bread, pancakes or bagels. In ongoing, everyday life, that is. But I am not going to avoid them to the point of being a lifelong carb martyr! Forget it! When life presents its little moments – like eggs benedict one Sunday out of many, or a rare dinner out – I am not going to whine about carb counts. But in terms of everyday life – it actually works out well. I must admit, that it is a little pricier to eat so many vegetables and so much meat, but in that I no longer make wine a regular part of my life (carbs), the money I saved there goes into the food budget. Ich, there’s never a perfect plan. Ya just gotta figure out what’s really important. If I have to cut back on something else in my world so that I can maintain a size 10, that’s ok.

Years ago, when I’d hear people complain about the inevitable weight gain that came with aging, I’d thought they were idiots. Yes, there was a time when I worked out seven days a week, when I race walked miles every day, when I just knew that would never be my story. I was way too aware for that. But now, as my life has changed, as my time thins out and I must settle for a to-do list half done, now that I am no longer one person in the world, I have had to – finally – accept that there might be a bit of truth to this change-of-life-weight idea. Sure, I suppose one could keep it up, but as I’ve said before, you can’t do it all, and if you’re to keep some things in your life, other things have to go. If my weight is to go up, this is a good time I suppose. My body has changed over the past five years, and it’s got me crying uncle. My thighs have that crazy crinkly skin that looks all dried out in spite of being perfectly moisturized. My hands have been transformed by arthritis. The silver on my head has found its way to other parts of my body, and regular readers may remember that my neck is no longer behaving as it once did. So I suppose it figures that my weight too might settle into a new groove. It certainly seems to have. While in years past I’ve lost as much as 55 pounds on a diet (the post-baby, WW success) and have always, always been good at knocking off ten pounds as needed here and there – I just cannot seem to budge past the weight I am now. Maybe I go down a pound, up a pound, but here I hover.

For years I remember 123 being my resting adult weight. I can also remember in those days becoming extremely upset if I should migrate up one single pound. On my 5’4″ frame I do know that it’s possible to see the effects of weight gain or loss fairly quickly, but in my younger days I had absolutely no perspective. Man, when I think back on the emotional energy I gave to that shit, it makes me shake my head. If only I could tell myself back then not to worry so deeply. Not to tie up my emotional health like that… But I realize my frame of reference was different. All things in their time and place, I guess. Some time in my early thirties my base weight snuck up to 126, where it stayed for a few more years (that’s what I weighed when I got pregnant. It jumped to 188 just before I had the kid!!). Post-baby WW loss my ‘resting’ weight landed at about 135. In the wake of my move to New York and separation from my husband, naturally I went back up again. Topped off at around 163 pounds some time last year. That was deflating. Or inflating, as it were.

I’ve landed at 140. A hundred and thirty-nine on a good day, 141 on a not-as-good one. I’m pretty sure I could bust it down to 135 again, maybe even 130, and I might give it a go in the future, but for now I’m not in high diet gear. There have been so many parties lately – my mother’s retirement, birthday parties, end of school events – not to mention fresh fruit. Seems crazy that such a healthy carb as fruit should be such a no-no, but it is. So when cherries hit the stores recently, I knew my full-on Atkins thing was going on hold. I refuse to feel that eating fresh fruit is bad. Sheesh. I do understand the theory and the science, but at the end of the day, a cherry’s simply got to be better for you than a cheddar cheese stick, ya know?

So fellow dieters, I can report success, albeit on a different ‘scale’ (!) as at one time in my life. While I’m not a fan of the overly-used phrase ‘to be comfortable in one’s own skin’, it does describe the phenomenon that’s taken place in my life these days. Probably a combination of physical age, of experience and shifting priorities. I do enjoy feeling good in clothes again, but I also realize that the look I’m sporting would have been entirely unacceptable to my twenty-something self. But I’m not twenty-something. It’s taken me awhile to get it, much less to make peace with it, but I’m much further along in the process than just a year ago. I complained once in a recent post that I don’t know what the hell happened to my forties. Now I think I have a good idea – I raised a child from baby to young boy, I learned what it was to live life on my own, and I became acquainted with a new body. As long as I can continue to understand that I am not who I was two decades ago, and as long as I can adjust my expectations accordingly, I think I can proclaim that this most recent dieting chapter has been a success.

Post Script: While on the subject of numbers, we’ve just reached 23,000 visitors to this blog! I remember when Elihu and I jumped up and down and danced around the house for joy when we reached 1000. Ah numbers, we’re so attached to them, huh? But this number is truly significant because it helps to remind us that we’re not alone and that we have friends somewhere out there in the world. Hello to all of you, and thanks for being with us! We send you all our love and gratitude…

Blow Up

Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Divorce Diary, Mommy Mind, Pics4 Comments

father and sonit started out so sweetly…

The last item I remember on the table for consideration regarding ‘possible scenarios for this coming summer’ was that Fareed, his girlfriend and their two young boys were making tentative plans about driving out here for a visit at the Hillhouse (yes, you heard right) in the RV on their way to visit his extended family in Montreal. It would likely be the end of July. Wow – that was sooner than I could wrap my brain around. I’d always figured this would come one day, I guess I just didn’t figure on that day being so soon. Man, did that get me thinking. How would I deal with this? How should I deal with this? Need I even deal with this at all? This little bomb had me stopped in my tracks. Yes, we’ve all managed ok so far, but then again that was probably because we never saw each other. We knew about each other’s life to some extent, but that was it. Wait, was he honestly serious? Did he really feel comfortable with all of them driving here in that megalith, dropping anchor, plugging in… Having his girlfriend and their two small boys jump out and be cheerfully invited into our modest home for a casual visit? As in a ‘come on in, have some tea and see what we’ve done with the place oh look how well the boys all play together’ kind of thing? Really? Wow. Where to start? Really, where? I told him I wasn’t really comfortable with the idea. But I didn’t say no. Told him I’d have to think on it. And so I began to work on it…

Some four years ago I did in fact have short visions of welcoming Jill here… I realized that there would one day come a time when Charlie would be old enough to want to see for himself where exactly his half brother came from – and maybe even, become slightly curious as to who his brother’s mother was. And by ‘that time’ the mother of Elihu’s half brothers and I would have become somehow able to greet each other properly, civilly. In that first strange year after their son was born – some of you may gasp at this admission – I even had envisioned opening my arms to embrace her, and through that gesture letting her know that I no longer wished to hold all these bad feelings about what had happened… After all, didn’t we both know what it was to love – and live with – the same man? Were not our children siblings? I’m fairly sure that it was the antidepressants that enabled me to function in those early years, but more to the point the drugs were tempering my thoughts and making it possible for me to actually envision positive scenes like that unfolding so naturally… (They also helped with the mundane stuff too, like just plain getting out of bed.) It’s probably why I can no longer retrieve that same visualization these days; I weaned myself off of the medicine a couple of years ago. I’ve made attempts at reviving those first benevolent visions, but without the help of the antidepressants, I just can’t get there again. In fact just trying to makes me feel rather weak and ill. And sometimes quite angry, too.

I remember attending baby Charlie’s baptism, my five year old son sitting a pew ahead of me, next to his father, who sat beside his young girlfriend. I was in a heavy, heartbroken daze that day, but had decided to go to the service in order to show my son that all was ok. Yeah, right. I began sobbing within minutes, sitting there in that foreign church, knowing no one there save my in-laws (who have never shown me any compassion throughout this ordeal and continue to have a strangely ‘Stepford wives’ air about them) and staring with absolute disbelief at the back of my husband’s head. I saw him take his girlfriend’s hand and give it a squeeze. He put an arm around Elihu. Jill’s own mother must have seen this too, for strange as it might seem, at that moment she turned around and handed me a tissue. This tiny gesture told me a lot. She knew what torture this was for me. She got it. But her daughter seemed light years away from any similar comprehension. My tears fell uncontrollably throughout the ceremony. My son returned briefly to my side afterward, but then trotted off to be with the celebrating family. Not mine. Not his either, really. Or was it? Who the hell knew anything? For God’s sake her parents were our peers! Nothing felt right at all. In the church lobby, Jill’s dad agreed with me that he’d be up for breaking away for a sanity-restoring cigarette outside. Only time I’d ever spoken to him. But as kind a gesture as it was, it didn’t end up happening. Like his wife’s offering of a tissue – his loose invitation for a smoke also told me that he too got it. That he felt bad for me, for the situation. For the way things ended up. I remember both of us agreeing, as we looked towards our shoes and shook our heads, that it certainly wasn’t the baby’s fault, but still, just so not the way any of use would have wanted things to be.

Fast forward to now. I had just spent several weeks in deep contemplation of the proposed visit by my ex’s ‘other family’. I’d been greatly stressed by it, greatly at odds. I spent morning quiet time thinking it over from all sides, trying to get myself into that moment when I finally saw her… and of all places on the planet…here. Why was it just so, hard? Why? I was just about to post something about the process itself, when I learned that it would turn out to be worry wasted: At dinner last night, Fareed casually said those plans were now not happening. Instead, he would be taking Elihu on a nearly six week (and nearly ten thousand mile!) tour in the middle of his summer – a trip that would take the local county fair off the summer’s list (a top priority item, year after year, but missed each year on account of dad’s plans). Things, once again, have changed radically – from the already radical plans they’d originally been. Without so much as a heads up. Or email. Or phone call.

So, imagine what’s going on inside me. First, I’m pissed that he posed this incredibly awkward possibility, had me agonize over it for a while, then just drops it. Granted, HUGE relief. But then instead, he has his time with his child occuring on a hippie jam band tour? Late nights, long boring drives, unknown babysitters, not to mention the partying that takes place along the line…. I’ve dealt with this culture since my son was 5, so it does not freak me out for the many and obvious reasons it might another mom… and at the age of 10 he’s certainly much more able to handle himself safely. But six weeks in a friggin RV with grown men? That’ll get old soon enough. I do get that he’s old enough to play music with them – he’s been doing that all his life, and that’s an amazing experience that will be with him always – but there’s a down side to this too: he misses summer vacation at home with his friends, his farm, his free time. The past three summers have ended in tears because Elihu felt he did not have enough time at home just to do nothing. Just to be a kid, agenda-free. And his days just to be a kid are fast coming to a close! Three times now he’s missed the county fair. (Tears always result.) His dad says to suck it up – and reminds me that the court says he should have two whole months with his father. What to do? Fareed tours much of summer. So if Elihu should visit his dad at his home, that will be interrupted by absences here and there – and they certainly won’t get two months of visiting in. And from what I understand, Jill doesn’t feel comfortable taking care of Elihu when his father’s gone. (Why, after five years and two sons of her own, she should feel this way – I don’t really understand. But as Elihu says, ‘she’s family, but she’s not family’.) So, in order for father and son to be together, the ‘best’ way to accomplish that is pack the kid on the bus and join the tour. Sigh.

I will admit that I should have researched the dates of the county fair and sent them to dad long before today’s conversation. I know Fareed’s priorities, and I should have carved out ours months ago and put them in black and white. Fareed is crazy busy, and I know he can’t just keep dates and overall objectives in his mind with all that’s going on in his world. He needs them on paper. I get that. But I will not retract my opinion that the way Fareed handled the summer plans sucked. Abruptly announcing the current plans have simply changed, and that they have been replaced by another new and challenging scenario is supremely lame and selfish. Look, I’m so much more sympathetic to his side of this than most can understand. I cannot imagine the heartbreak Fareed lives with, and while he may not know it (but my friends all do and think I’m crazy for it) I worry about him still. (As I write this I fret that he’s not sleeping well or isn’t comfortable enough on the train ride back.) I don’t want him separated from his son anymore than possible. It positively grieves me to know how deeply he misses Elihu, it does! But not to give any consideration to his son’s expectations of the summer, to think only of getting in his ‘court appointed time’ against all odds – that is a lame and selfish approach. I wish Fareed could try and imagine summer vacation from his son’s perspective: un-planned days on the farm, long days spent with friends… empty, sunny days expanding into the future… I know Fareed’s busy, I realize he misses his son terribly and that we must all make this work, but I just wish Fareed would think of his son before he thinks of himself. But that’s not the way he rolls.

Not sure how it happened, but I’m guessing the wine and beer musta helped loosen me up (don’t drink much these days). Cuz I was fuming. Fuming that he should once again just Lord His Way over us. Tell us the plan without any input from Elihu beforehand. I have been through enough tears from this child over summers in which he feels he has NO control, and NO audience with his dad. I have had it. Plus, I’ve had it with Fareed acting like this is all life as usual for a normal family. Acting as if nothing is wrong. Or different. He has never apologized to me for any of this new life – nor has Jill for that matter (as an olive branch of sorts I once emailed her to say thank you for taking good care of Elihu. Heard nothing back. Fareed said she was scared of me. Geez.). Only recently did Fareed offer a letter of apology to Elihu – and that was only in response to having read a blog post here! Instantly, things begin to tumble around in my head. In my mind I replay his words just before we married: “Remember, no matter WHAT happens, divorce is NOT an option”. I remember that so well. So well. They were words of true and lifelong committment and I took them seriously. I think of this and it makes me madder. Now my head is buzzing. I am livid and still gaining. In this moment I remember too my miscarriage, and how he’d knocked up his girlfriend shortly after… I remember that he did her on the same couch where I had once nursed our baby… I remember that he does voice and guitar duo gigs with her now too, the very sacred thing that he and I had shared for so many years… I remember that he pays his lawn guys the same money he pays in support… I thought of our days without heat, mixing powdered milk with water while his kids ate pricey gluten-free crap… All of this and more swirled about in my head in one hot, horrible, raging mess and as he left the room I screamed at him just to go home to his slut and her illegitimate kids and leave us alone. Although I’m sure there were moments before that had come close, I cannot remember feeling such acute betrayal and rage as I did in that moment. I walked outside looking for an outlet for my rage, but nothing felt right. I needed to keep busy. I was spinning. Inside the house again, I sunk my hands into the dishwater; at least I could use this surge of white-hot energy to get the stupid dishes done. I picked up a knife and paused; for an instant, I could see how good it would feel…. And I understood much better how crimes of passion come to be. I finished the dishes, and as my anger subsided I began to feel sick about what I’d said. Sick. God damn it – this whole fucking thing was sick. I so wish I could just escape from it, but there’s nothing to do but take a breath, exhale, then keep going.

Shortly before we dropped Fareed off at the train station tonite, we stopped in a little Indian restaurant because I’d had a taste for some gulab jamun. The owner had a small rack of kurtas there, and I made a beeline to them. After perusing the options, I settled on a turquoise blue choice, and Elihu found a handsome one in black – just his size and right for wearing on stage. Yeah, it was all pretty perfect. Then Fareed spied a gorgeous deep red kurta, one I too had thought of taking – but not wanting to be greedy had left it be… He looked it over once, then rolled it up. “I’ll take this one too” he said. It was bagged separately. Walking back to the station I laughed to myself. It just didn’t ever seem to end. He asked me what I was laughing about. I told him. “She gets to have the second baby, she does the duo gigs with you now, plus she gets a kurta.” I paused. Wasn’t sure if I should continue, but hey, he asked… “She’s got bigger boobs and she’s younger too – she’ll last you a lot longer. Yeah, you’ve done a good job in replacing me. You got yourself a pretty good deal.” Really, I was smiling. It just seemed so crazy. Scripted, almost. Kinda like Reba’s show, only not. Kinda, but… While he has a good sense of humor and will sometimes join me in acknowledging how insane this all is, he wasn’t joining me this time. In fact, I think he probably thought it was too much. Too insensitive or sarcastic maybe. Oh well. Still seems kinda funny to me. Hey, if I don’t laugh about it, I’ll cry. And when I cry, there’s a good chance I might just blow up.

sadbut it ended with a bang.

Dream Tears

Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Divorce Diary1 Comment

Guess I’m still workin it out. Every now and again I’ll wake up in the night, racked with sobbing. It’s the physicality of it that wakes me, and I always stop and spend a few minutes trying to piece together the events of the dream that led up to it. In the ‘beginning’, that is to say within the first few months of my ex’s news, I’d find myself waking in tears several times a week. In the years that followed, it only happened every other month or so. This past year it’s happened only a handful of times, so even in my groggy state I was rather surprised at it. Even more surprised to remember the situation surrounding it. Last night was a brand new theme; usually it was me begging him not to go, or being surprised once again at his news, but this time it was quite the opposite; I had just told Fareed I couldn’t marry him. Everything was in place for our ‘second’ marriage; somehow he’d left the anonymous other woman he’d been with, somehow things were all set to begin again. His uncle had even come to my house to discuss some plans… But I couldn’t. I remember it being the hardest decision I had ever made. In some ways I could think of no greater relief than to be reunited with this person with whom I’d shared so many years of my life. His company was agreeable, he was an intelligent person, we shared a common knowledge of things musical; there were a lot of reasons to make him the simple, easy answer for a life partner. But something in me knew, and finally I had the balls to face it. And in the eleventh hour, I informed him, his parents (and his uncle), that I was not going forward with the plans. This dream was long and involved, and as I lay there trying to calm my breathing, reconstructing the events of the dream, I surprised myself at the number of details I was able to recall. Fascinating. I had been the one to end things this time, not him. Guess deep down I needed to reclaim the power I must have felt I lost in being the partner ‘left’. The right decision, but a tough one, and it still involved enough conflict to break my heart once again.

A friend suggested on my recent birthday that I look back over my old posts so that I might fully appreciate where I am today. Sometimes – most times, I think – distance from life events is required to formulate perspective on what’s happened. Understanding and insight cannot be rushed, they are organic and need to grow and evolve before their ultimate lesson can be recognized. My friend’s idea was a good and fitting one for such a landmark birthday, and it reminded me of an experience I had back in the beginning of this blog regarding perspective… I recall writing the very first post here, entitled “Snowflakes”, and in it saying something about knowing that things had happened as they were supposed to; that my situation had actually served me well in some ways. Immediately upon writing it, it occurred to me that although I was certain it was true, it didn’t feel true yet. I wondered if I might edit it out – because honestly, my heart hadn’t caught up to the platitude. But some two and a half years later, I finally feel it. Makes me wonder how my current experiences will resonate with the me two years down the line. Funny how some things can’t be rushed. They just need to happen on their own timeline, no matter how much you wish things would hurry up and resolve themselves.

Some five years later, it comforts me to learn that my sleeping self is still tending to its healing. Woulda thought that was all history, a done deal by now. But apparently not. Guess that’s what dreams and tears are for.