By far the hardest moment of my actual divorce hearing was when the judge asked me if I thought the marriage was irretrievably broken. I had to say yes, and it was hard not to cry.
In that moment, I relived a conversation, confounding at the time, that I'd had with one of my best friends when I had realized I was going to be divorced. I was sobbing, an aching, confused, emotionally bleeding mess heaped on the couch in my mom's living room. He looked kind of bewildered and was trying to help me make sense of what was happening, though to me it didn't seem like there was any sense to be made. I knew my marriage had its share of problems, but I didn't think they were "big" enough to merit divorcing. I thought our issues could be overcome, and I kept saying that. Eventually my friend pointed out that I was missing the biggest "issue" of all - Brian's unwillingness to work it out. That issue apparently could not be overcome, and it was in fact "big" enough to cause a divorce.
My friend's words did little to console me at the time, but a few days later, by the time I'd stopped hyperventilating and leaking from the eyeballs every five seconds, I could see that he was right. Brian wanted out, and there was nothing I could do to change his mind. And that meant that the relationship was not ok, that it wasn't working, and that it really was "that bad."
I have since heard other women echo my sentiments -- the ones suggesting that our problems weren't that bad, that we aren't too far off, that this can be fixed, etc. There's a lot of pain and frustration and fear in that feeling, because you didn't think it was all really going to fall apart and yet here it is, falling apart. There is possibly (at least in my case) an element of denial, of the bad-ness of the state of the relationship. I don't think I've heard a single one of these women (like me) reconciling with their long-gone husbands.
What I've come to realize is that in many of these cases, the other spouse, the leaving spouse, is dreadfully, miserably, terribly unhappy but has spent years, sometimes many many years, pretending that he isn't. There's only so much pretending he (or anyone) can do before it's just too difficult to keep up the act, to try to hide the frustration, to seek other outlets for satisfaction. So he quits. And she is shocked and hurting and has to realize that she's spent the past however many years loving (or trying very hard to love) what is, ultimately, a sham. It's when we come to grips with the fact that everything we thought was our life was in fact a lie that we can move forward.
I am very thankful that that shift came fairly early in the process for me. If it hadn't been for my friend's loving, truthful words, I'm not sure how long it would have taken for me to turn the corner.
Showing posts with label divorce. Show all posts
Showing posts with label divorce. Show all posts
7.31.2013
the long hug goodnight
Last night as I was coaxing my son to sleep, there was a moment that had a deep impact on me. It was about 30 minutes past his bedtime, and he was having some trouble getting to sleep. I'd gone in to respond to the latest wails, prepared to instruct him, firmly but lovingly, to lie down. Instead, I met him at the rail of his crib and asked him if he wanted a hug. He nodded yes, and I picked him up.
In that instant between placing my hands on his waist and lifting him to my shoulder, I felt a profoundly deep sense of being...
Alone.
The word grasped my throat with an iron fist and shook me to my core. You know that instantaneous, panic-induced ice-cold burst you get in the front of your chest that sends your head throbbing and your heart racing? It was like that, except instead of adrenaline it was just a sense.
I am alone.
As I stood with my child, his head on my shoulder and his body draped across mine, I thought about how I am the only one. I'm the only one who could tell by his little face that he needed a hug, not an authoritarian. I'm the only one who knows the full range of his vocabulary, or when he wants a graham cracker not an animal cracker, or whether he wants to "share" my food because he's bored or because he's hungry. It's my job, day in and day out, to teach him that he is worthy of respect, that we do not hurt the ones we love, that God is here.
Certainly there are others who know him and love him. And there are those who have stayed or come alongside me. So we aren't really alone, not really. But at 9 o'clock at night, I'm the only one who hears him sneezing on the baby monitor. No one else reads the parenting books, places a hand on his head to recite the evening's prayer, understands which insert goes with which cloth diaper. My thumb is the only one that marks the sign of the cross his little forehead every night.
So I stood there, hugging my son in the center of his room, well past bedtime and deep into my final reserves of energy for the day. Because he needed a long hug to end his day. And because I was the only one who was there to hug him.
In that instant between placing my hands on his waist and lifting him to my shoulder, I felt a profoundly deep sense of being...
Alone.
The word grasped my throat with an iron fist and shook me to my core. You know that instantaneous, panic-induced ice-cold burst you get in the front of your chest that sends your head throbbing and your heart racing? It was like that, except instead of adrenaline it was just a sense.
I am alone.
As I stood with my child, his head on my shoulder and his body draped across mine, I thought about how I am the only one. I'm the only one who could tell by his little face that he needed a hug, not an authoritarian. I'm the only one who knows the full range of his vocabulary, or when he wants a graham cracker not an animal cracker, or whether he wants to "share" my food because he's bored or because he's hungry. It's my job, day in and day out, to teach him that he is worthy of respect, that we do not hurt the ones we love, that God is here.
Certainly there are others who know him and love him. And there are those who have stayed or come alongside me. So we aren't really alone, not really. But at 9 o'clock at night, I'm the only one who hears him sneezing on the baby monitor. No one else reads the parenting books, places a hand on his head to recite the evening's prayer, understands which insert goes with which cloth diaper. My thumb is the only one that marks the sign of the cross his little forehead every night.
So I stood there, hugging my son in the center of his room, well past bedtime and deep into my final reserves of energy for the day. Because he needed a long hug to end his day. And because I was the only one who was there to hug him.
7.22.2013
catharsis
Closure is something we humans like to think we can achieve at the end of something significant, whether it's a relationship with another person (romantic or otherwise) or a job or project or hobby or something else -- anything that takes up a lot of our attention and energy. Having that great cathartic moment when you hear the other person's admission, or you turn off the lights and shut the door, or you burn the letters and abandon the ashes, is something we crave.
And yet, so often the catharsis never happens. You will never know why he fell in love with her when he was married to you, or which falling domino led to you losing your job, or whether your loved one knew that you had finally come around even though you'd never made time to tell her before she suddenly fell ill and died. At those times, and they are the majority of times, you just have to find a way to cope with your lack of information or understanding. There is no closure and no hope of ever having it.
Most of us learn to cope with this, some way or another. It can be tricky, and we tend to maybe go a little bit crazy for a while sometimes, but ultimately, eventually, we move on. Some people find self-help books to be helpful. Others will smash something in an effort to release the anger or frustration. I've also heard that pawning significant jewelry or items can be great catharsis, compounded by spending the money on something that replaces the bad memory with a good one, like a nice family dinner or a new pair of diamond earrings.
Lately I've been thinking about another way that people can sort of "manufacture" their own closure, by way of a physical release of some sort or other. I've been invited to a releasing ceremony, and I'm considering whether or not it would be something helpful.
One of the guiding voices through my divorce was Elisabeth Corcoran, who was going through hers around the same time. She and the other women in an online support group she founded encouraged me, among many other things, to keep my eyes on God and to do my best to be above reproach through the whole process. Good advice. Now, she's gently coordinating a releasing ceremony for those of us in her support networks to consider. We can choose to release whatever we want, in whatever way we want, whether it's throwing stones into the lake or burning old letters or something else. Or we can just skip it.
I think for many people, something like this could be an act of closure. A lot of the women in these groups are hurting, but I'm wondering if it'd be something useful for me. Astonishing as it is, I feel like I've healed from my divorce. It was a process that began back in November of 2011, so there's been a lot of time for me to get through it. I also recently realized that I brought myself real closure in June as I relived the final days of the charade of my marriage and marked, a year later, the very real, very big steps I took out of that marriage and into a new life. I had a bunch of dear friends over for Independence Day. The cookout was ostensibly to celebrate the holiday, but in my mind it was also a big celebration of this new life.
What I'm getting at with all of this, is that I have already found closure. I began to process some of it earlier, but more and more I'm learning just how far I've come. My divorce is no longer a living, breathing, active part of my life. I don't think of my ex anymore unless something specific comes up. I don't remember the last time I collapsed in angry, overwhelmed tears, fuming "how could he do this to me?" over and over. It barely even occurs to me to refer to myself as "divorced," rather than "single." There's peace and assuredness. I can do this on my own -- I'm doing it on my own -- and I am healed and ready for what's next, whatever that may be.
So as I consider this releasing ceremony, I'm wondering what exactly I need to release. There's still time, and I may participate after all, because I do want to join with my sisters around the world who are letting go of their pain. Maybe solidarity is a good enough reason to go through with it. What do you think? Have you ever done some great physical gesture to manifest closure for yourself? Was it helpful?
If you'd like information on the release, you can learn more here. And if you'd like to be a part of the support groups, leave me a comment or send me an email and I will get you plugged in.
And yet, so often the catharsis never happens. You will never know why he fell in love with her when he was married to you, or which falling domino led to you losing your job, or whether your loved one knew that you had finally come around even though you'd never made time to tell her before she suddenly fell ill and died. At those times, and they are the majority of times, you just have to find a way to cope with your lack of information or understanding. There is no closure and no hope of ever having it.
Most of us learn to cope with this, some way or another. It can be tricky, and we tend to maybe go a little bit crazy for a while sometimes, but ultimately, eventually, we move on. Some people find self-help books to be helpful. Others will smash something in an effort to release the anger or frustration. I've also heard that pawning significant jewelry or items can be great catharsis, compounded by spending the money on something that replaces the bad memory with a good one, like a nice family dinner or a new pair of diamond earrings.
Lately I've been thinking about another way that people can sort of "manufacture" their own closure, by way of a physical release of some sort or other. I've been invited to a releasing ceremony, and I'm considering whether or not it would be something helpful.
One of the guiding voices through my divorce was Elisabeth Corcoran, who was going through hers around the same time. She and the other women in an online support group she founded encouraged me, among many other things, to keep my eyes on God and to do my best to be above reproach through the whole process. Good advice. Now, she's gently coordinating a releasing ceremony for those of us in her support networks to consider. We can choose to release whatever we want, in whatever way we want, whether it's throwing stones into the lake or burning old letters or something else. Or we can just skip it.
I think for many people, something like this could be an act of closure. A lot of the women in these groups are hurting, but I'm wondering if it'd be something useful for me. Astonishing as it is, I feel like I've healed from my divorce. It was a process that began back in November of 2011, so there's been a lot of time for me to get through it. I also recently realized that I brought myself real closure in June as I relived the final days of the charade of my marriage and marked, a year later, the very real, very big steps I took out of that marriage and into a new life. I had a bunch of dear friends over for Independence Day. The cookout was ostensibly to celebrate the holiday, but in my mind it was also a big celebration of this new life.
What I'm getting at with all of this, is that I have already found closure. I began to process some of it earlier, but more and more I'm learning just how far I've come. My divorce is no longer a living, breathing, active part of my life. I don't think of my ex anymore unless something specific comes up. I don't remember the last time I collapsed in angry, overwhelmed tears, fuming "how could he do this to me?" over and over. It barely even occurs to me to refer to myself as "divorced," rather than "single." There's peace and assuredness. I can do this on my own -- I'm doing it on my own -- and I am healed and ready for what's next, whatever that may be.
So as I consider this releasing ceremony, I'm wondering what exactly I need to release. There's still time, and I may participate after all, because I do want to join with my sisters around the world who are letting go of their pain. Maybe solidarity is a good enough reason to go through with it. What do you think? Have you ever done some great physical gesture to manifest closure for yourself? Was it helpful?
If you'd like information on the release, you can learn more here. And if you'd like to be a part of the support groups, leave me a comment or send me an email and I will get you plugged in.
7.15.2013
single parenting autonomy
When coming out of a difficult marriage, a lot of women relish the thought of having a home to themselves, living peacefully in whatever ways they want. They don't have to hide from anyone, walk on eggshells, avoid being themselves, or share parenting decisions with someone whose primary concern seem to be "find the way to be the most combative."
(This is where I point out that I had a difficult marriage but that my circumstances weren't as scary as those in the link above.)
Being able to establish my home the best way I see fit is a heavy blessing. I do relish the freedom I have in this apartment and this new life. As I explained to a friend the other day, being a single mom isn't as hard (yet) as I thought it was going to be. I thought it would crush me. I thought I would be a basket-case most days, perpetually two seconds away from a meltdown. And the truth is, I'm not. The truth is, the challenges and responsibilities of caring for this child on my own are huge and unavoidable, but I find myself being grateful constantly that I have so much autonomy as a parent. I have the opportunity to create exactly the kind of home life, spiritual and otherwise, that I have always wanted for my children, and I have more freedom in doing so now than I ever would have while I was married. That is a gift, and it will be a blessing for my son.
I don't know that I will ever say I'm glad to be divorced, but there's redemption in this situation. My parenting is done on my terms, and my terms are good terms. I am a good mom, and my son is a good boy. The life we'll have -- that we're already having -- is hardly what I had ever imagined or hoped, but it's a good one. There is good here...bountiful good. Thanks be to God.
(This is where I point out that I had a difficult marriage but that my circumstances weren't as scary as those in the link above.)
Being able to establish my home the best way I see fit is a heavy blessing. I do relish the freedom I have in this apartment and this new life. As I explained to a friend the other day, being a single mom isn't as hard (yet) as I thought it was going to be. I thought it would crush me. I thought I would be a basket-case most days, perpetually two seconds away from a meltdown. And the truth is, I'm not. The truth is, the challenges and responsibilities of caring for this child on my own are huge and unavoidable, but I find myself being grateful constantly that I have so much autonomy as a parent. I have the opportunity to create exactly the kind of home life, spiritual and otherwise, that I have always wanted for my children, and I have more freedom in doing so now than I ever would have while I was married. That is a gift, and it will be a blessing for my son.
I don't know that I will ever say I'm glad to be divorced, but there's redemption in this situation. My parenting is done on my terms, and my terms are good terms. I am a good mom, and my son is a good boy. The life we'll have -- that we're already having -- is hardly what I had ever imagined or hoped, but it's a good one. There is good here...bountiful good. Thanks be to God.
5.03.2013
the turning point
In my line-a-day journal, I usually record the key points of the day. As I was reading through the day's entry from last year, I found the turning point in my stance on my marriage. I'd forgotten this moment -- something I could hardly believe after I read about it and then remembered. There was something inexplicable that my ex had done -- it was shocking and seemingly came out of nowhere and flew in complete contrast to the man he'd been before (and likely was also inconsistent with the man he presented himself as being).
Something in me broke, that moment. I knew he was different, and not in a good way, and I knew I needed to get away from him. I was stuck in a bog, sinking in quicksand, and I needed to escape the internal chaos and find some semblance of peace. Not long after, I asked my mom for a plane ticket to get me (and the baby) out of Denver for a few weeks, to clear my head and figure out exactly how to proceed. And by the time that month away was over, our marriage was over and I had two weeks to collect my things and find a new home.
That one little moment was hugely significant. I don't know how I ever forgot about it, but now that I've been reminded, it's not far from my consciousness. Maybe this isn't terribly uncommon, to block out the one thing that tips the scales and never think of it again. Or maybe most people actively remember the last straw, the specific moment when everything shifted.
Something in me broke, that moment. I knew he was different, and not in a good way, and I knew I needed to get away from him. I was stuck in a bog, sinking in quicksand, and I needed to escape the internal chaos and find some semblance of peace. Not long after, I asked my mom for a plane ticket to get me (and the baby) out of Denver for a few weeks, to clear my head and figure out exactly how to proceed. And by the time that month away was over, our marriage was over and I had two weeks to collect my things and find a new home.
That one little moment was hugely significant. I don't know how I ever forgot about it, but now that I've been reminded, it's not far from my consciousness. Maybe this isn't terribly uncommon, to block out the one thing that tips the scales and never think of it again. Or maybe most people actively remember the last straw, the specific moment when everything shifted.
4.26.2013
lessons learned from a line a day
In January of last year, I started keeping a 5-year journal. Each date of the year gets a page with five entry slots. Over the course of the year, you write your little entry in the current year's section. Eventually, you're writing on the same pages year after year.
I'd wanted to start the journal when my son was born, to serve as a little daily record where I could note our lives without feeling the "pressure" of recording everything or having to do long journal entries. There's only room for a couple of sentences in each entry -- just enough to capture the essence of each day. Most days I mention Gabriel and something he did, but this journal has been the repository for a lot more than mama memories.
Sometimes, it's really neat to read about what was going on last year at this same time. Right now, though, it's a little tough. I'm reading through, and to an extent reliving, a lot of the marital anguish that marred the spring of 2012. My journal notes involve things like anger, fear, and confusion. We were "going to counseling" (a sham, the purpose of which I may never know). We were coexisting, barely peacefully. He was working (or "working") long hours every single day, and/or not speaking to me for days on end, inviting his new social cohort of single college girls to hang out with us and being mean to me the whole time. I ask a lot of painful questions in this journal -- why is he still pretending he's not leaving me? is he trying to torture me? is it worth my sanity to keep trying to save this marriage when he is so clearly planning a future without me?
Now, a year later, I can look around and know that everything will work out. I can tell that scared, exhausted woman with a new baby that there is grace for her, that her worst fears won't come true. I can even go for strings of full days without thinking about my ex or feeling the "scarlet D" burning on my forehead. But when I sit down each evening to write in my journal, I am taken right back to that miserable place, full of rage and hurt and fear. It's hard, so hard to walk myself through that experience again. Even if it's just a line a day.
I'd wanted to start the journal when my son was born, to serve as a little daily record where I could note our lives without feeling the "pressure" of recording everything or having to do long journal entries. There's only room for a couple of sentences in each entry -- just enough to capture the essence of each day. Most days I mention Gabriel and something he did, but this journal has been the repository for a lot more than mama memories.
Sometimes, it's really neat to read about what was going on last year at this same time. Right now, though, it's a little tough. I'm reading through, and to an extent reliving, a lot of the marital anguish that marred the spring of 2012. My journal notes involve things like anger, fear, and confusion. We were "going to counseling" (a sham, the purpose of which I may never know). We were coexisting, barely peacefully. He was working (or "working") long hours every single day, and/or not speaking to me for days on end, inviting his new social cohort of single college girls to hang out with us and being mean to me the whole time. I ask a lot of painful questions in this journal -- why is he still pretending he's not leaving me? is he trying to torture me? is it worth my sanity to keep trying to save this marriage when he is so clearly planning a future without me?
Now, a year later, I can look around and know that everything will work out. I can tell that scared, exhausted woman with a new baby that there is grace for her, that her worst fears won't come true. I can even go for strings of full days without thinking about my ex or feeling the "scarlet D" burning on my forehead. But when I sit down each evening to write in my journal, I am taken right back to that miserable place, full of rage and hurt and fear. It's hard, so hard to walk myself through that experience again. Even if it's just a line a day.
3.04.2013
breaking the habit of "us"
As I get further out from being part of an "us" and I spend more time talking to new friends, I find myself not knowing what to do when there's a relevant reason for mentioning something from my past life, whether it's a story or what. I hate feeling like I am bringing up my dead marriage and all of that, but at the same time I don't want to NOT share aspects of myself just because they are, in my memory, inextricably linked with my ex.
For example, if I am talking about dog breeds with someone (which is something I do!) it might be relevant to mention the fact that I had a border collie when I was married. I don't have her now, and my ex doesn't either (she now lives with a family that has three young kids she can herd). Sometimes just saying I used to have a border collie is enough, but sometimes there are follow-up questions that would require me to mention my ex in some way or another. Is that weird? I can't decide; regardless, though, I don't like talking about him. But I haven't figured out a workaround.
There are some times when I can just say "when I lived in Denver" or "when I was going to the Presbyterian church" or whatever, but that doesn't always work. Talking about being a single-car family, for example. These days, it makes sense that I would be a "single car family" because I'm the only adult; there was a time, however, when I was part of a pair of adults sharing one car, and I don't know how to refer to that. It's weird if I say "when I lived in Richmond, we only had one car" because the pronouns don't match up and not everyone I talk to knows I'm divorced. Gah! This kind of thing doesn't happen often, but it happened a couple of times recently so it's niggling me.
I think the biggest issue is that I still feel compelled, at some level, to tell "the whole truth" all the time. It doesn't matter that I went to a firing range because it was something my husband and I did together; all that is significant is that I've been to one. There's a shift that needs to happen, somewhere in my mind and in my habits, but identifying exactly what needs to shift and how to make it happen has proven tricky.
Maybe it's just something that comes with time. Thank goodness there's plenty of that left.
For example, if I am talking about dog breeds with someone (which is something I do!) it might be relevant to mention the fact that I had a border collie when I was married. I don't have her now, and my ex doesn't either (she now lives with a family that has three young kids she can herd). Sometimes just saying I used to have a border collie is enough, but sometimes there are follow-up questions that would require me to mention my ex in some way or another. Is that weird? I can't decide; regardless, though, I don't like talking about him. But I haven't figured out a workaround.
There are some times when I can just say "when I lived in Denver" or "when I was going to the Presbyterian church" or whatever, but that doesn't always work. Talking about being a single-car family, for example. These days, it makes sense that I would be a "single car family" because I'm the only adult; there was a time, however, when I was part of a pair of adults sharing one car, and I don't know how to refer to that. It's weird if I say "when I lived in Richmond, we only had one car" because the pronouns don't match up and not everyone I talk to knows I'm divorced. Gah! This kind of thing doesn't happen often, but it happened a couple of times recently so it's niggling me.
I think the biggest issue is that I still feel compelled, at some level, to tell "the whole truth" all the time. It doesn't matter that I went to a firing range because it was something my husband and I did together; all that is significant is that I've been to one. There's a shift that needs to happen, somewhere in my mind and in my habits, but identifying exactly what needs to shift and how to make it happen has proven tricky.
Maybe it's just something that comes with time. Thank goodness there's plenty of that left.
2.04.2013
nouwen on forgiveness
Some stuff converged, my tired brain sputtered into gear, and I'm now on kind of a theology kick (in case the Bonhoeffer stuff didn't give that away). Part of my self-imposed theology overdose is a subscription to the daily meditation from the Henri Nouwen society. Each morning -- or maybe it's just weekday mornings...quite frankly, I'm too tired to notice -- I get a little email with a piece of Nouwen in it.
Have you read much Henri Nouwen? He's like totally dreamy. My friend Angie introduced him to me several years ago when I was going through a particularly rough patch, and he's been one of my besties ever since. He's always got something new and relevant to add, and he does it in a way that challenges you without scolding you or coddling you. You should meet him. Here, I'll introduce you! This is what he told me the other day:
Healing Our Memories
Forgiving does not mean forgetting. When we forgive a person, the memory of the wound might stay with us for a long time, even throughout our lives. Sometimes we carry the memory in our bodies as a visible sign. But forgiveness changes the way we remember. It converts the curse into a blessing. When we forgive our parents for their divorce, our children for their lack of attention, our friends for their unfaithfulness in crisis, our doctors for their ill advice, we no longer have to experience ourselves as the victims of events we had no control over.
Forgiveness allows us to claim our own power and not let these events destroy us; it enables them to become events that deepen the wisdom of our hearts. Forgiveness indeed heals memories.
See what I mean? Dreamy. And now I shall add my clunky thoughts and ruminations on my own navel.
Forgiveness is not something I think about often. It's one of those things that comes fairly easily to me, I think. Relationships are important to me, and I don't often find it hard to set aside past hurts, accept apologies, and move forward, restored. I do this maybe to a fault, becoming permissive and even complicit in really bad behavior, but ultimately my particular ability to forgive is something I see as a gift, and something for which I often thank God. Unforgiveness is destructive -- I've witnessed it, firsthand. It's destroyed families, it's ended friendships that once brought joy, and it killed my marriage.
Divorce goes hand-in-hand with unforgiveness. Unwillingness to forgive is what often leads to the decision to divorce, and then as two people move through the divorce process they tend to dredge up old pain and inflict new wounds. It's just part of the process. Two people make vows, and then one or both of them breaks those vows. The act of divorce, in itself, creates a wound; bad behavior and clouded judgment just worsen it.
As I was reading about forgiveness, I entertained this brief thought of "I'm so glad I don't struggle with this. I don't need to forgive anyone -- I've already done it." Come on, Ashley. And then it hit me: I haven't forgiven myself for my divorce.
I don't really cry over my marriage anymore. Really the only time I get particularly emotional is when I think about my son, and how this divorce will affect him for the rest of his life. Being divorced feels like a failure -- specifically it feels like I've failed Gabriel, in the biggest of ways, before he was even born. It's been a hard thing to get past.
As I tried to share the depth of this feeling to a new friend the other day, I was met with encouragement. I don't remember the exact words (self-loathing makes it hard to hear, sometimes) but the message was something like this: "You aren't a failure. You're a person who's had some bad things happen, and look where you are now." And that's something I apparently needed to hear, judging by how it reached me. But there was something more, something left unaddressed. This little bit from Nouwen showed me what.
"We no longer have to experience ourselves as the victims of events we had no control over."
Divorce isn't what I wanted, and because of that, it's felt like getting divorced is something that "happened to me" instead of something I specifically did. There's a deep feeling of failure in that. Maybe it's the sense of powerlessness that comes from being divorced. Maybe it has to do with my ultimate failure of choosing a partner*. Either way, feeling like a victim -- in this case, of my own stupidity -- is hand-in-hand with feeling like a failure.
But if I take all of three seconds to look around, it becomes obvious that I'm not a failure. My son is healthy. He is happy. He's growing and engaging and he even pees on the potty occasionally (a fact I managed not to share with my friend at dinner but have not managed to excise from this blog post). I keep both of us fed, and 98% of the time it's not junk food. I dredge up enough work each month to get the bills paid. We have a small but beautiful place to live that is slowly...slowly...becoming our home.
Clearly I am not a failure.
I don't really cry over my marriage anymore. Really the only time I get particularly emotional is when I think about my son, and how this divorce will affect him for the rest of his life. Being divorced feels like a failure -- specifically it feels like I've failed Gabriel, in the biggest of ways, before he was even born. It's been a hard thing to get past.
As I tried to share the depth of this feeling to a new friend the other day, I was met with encouragement. I don't remember the exact words (self-loathing makes it hard to hear, sometimes) but the message was something like this: "You aren't a failure. You're a person who's had some bad things happen, and look where you are now." And that's something I apparently needed to hear, judging by how it reached me. But there was something more, something left unaddressed. This little bit from Nouwen showed me what.
"We no longer have to experience ourselves as the victims of events we had no control over."
Divorce isn't what I wanted, and because of that, it's felt like getting divorced is something that "happened to me" instead of something I specifically did. There's a deep feeling of failure in that. Maybe it's the sense of powerlessness that comes from being divorced. Maybe it has to do with my ultimate failure of choosing a partner*. Either way, feeling like a victim -- in this case, of my own stupidity -- is hand-in-hand with feeling like a failure.
But if I take all of three seconds to look around, it becomes obvious that I'm not a failure. My son is healthy. He is happy. He's growing and engaging and he even pees on the potty occasionally (a fact I managed not to share with my friend at dinner but have not managed to excise from this blog post). I keep both of us fed, and 98% of the time it's not junk food. I dredge up enough work each month to get the bills paid. We have a small but beautiful place to live that is slowly...slowly...becoming our home.
Clearly I am not a failure.
"Forgiveness allows us to claim our own power and not let these events destroy us; it enables them to become events that deepen the wisdom of our hearts."
Now I've got some work to do.
Now I've got some work to do.
Have you ever been surprised by how hard it was to forgive someone or something? Is reconciliation important to you, or would you rather just cut and run? Who's your favorite theologian/philosopher/great thinker?
*Some people have criticized me for marrying so quickly, but the truth as far as I can see it is that we could have dated for years and I still would have chosen him -- the things that would have been red flags to me were a direct result of marriage and probably wouldn't have shown up beforehand. Maybe he would have chosen differently, but I don't know. We were both poor judges back then.
*Some people have criticized me for marrying so quickly, but the truth as far as I can see it is that we could have dated for years and I still would have chosen him -- the things that would have been red flags to me were a direct result of marriage and probably wouldn't have shown up beforehand. Maybe he would have chosen differently, but I don't know. We were both poor judges back then.
1.14.2013
telling my story
Most people say there are two sides to every story. I don't agree. I once heard someone say that the truth is like a coin. There's one side - heads - and the other side, tails - and then there's the edge around the coin, the third "side." That third side is the truth. Here, you'll find my side with what I hope is a reasonable allowance for the edge of the coin.
A dear friend last month encouraged her blog readers to keep telling their stories. That message from her reached me when I was feeling particularly sensitive to the fact that I have not felt very free to tell my own story - the one about my marriage. Becoming the former spouse of a pastor has been a little weird to navigate, and there's been a lot of internal and external pressure to keep things neat and tidy.
It occurred to me at some point in November that I have more or less allowed myself to be put in a box (or maybe I put myself there?) as far as what I do and don't say about Brian and how things got to where they did. At first, I (mostly) felt the need to restrain myself from going on a "smear campaign" against him. I was hurting, and I didn't want to become that angry woman who flames her ex everywhere. In a (mostly successful) effort not to say too much, I think I basically stopped saying anything.
As was my habit in our marriage, I became complicit in a cover-up, in an unspoken acknowledgement that the illusion of "good"ness is more important than the truth of broken-ness. The general audience of our lives was shocked when we split, because we'd both done a decent enough job of pretending that things were good between us and we let the banner of "pastor and wife and new baby" fill in the gaps.
There are certainly things I would do differently, if now-Ashley could talk to then-Ashley. I would approach counseling with more honesty. I would keep my mouth shut a little more, assume a little less. I would make the desperate phone calls to wise friends before it was too late. There are a thousand other things.
I still struggle emotionally with my choice to leave Denver, though I know it was the best thing I could do for Gabriel given the options of "bad, terrible, and even worse." But it's been hard, selfishly. I know it has been all too easy for people to "come to their own conclusions" about what happened between us, and I'm not foolish enough to think that those conclusions would favor me. It's taken some real work to embrace the fact that I cannot control what goes on in the "ether" (and any attempts to do so would be unbecoming of me). I was the one who suddenly moved away with the baby, you know, and he's the one who's an ordained minister of word and sacrament. Pastors don't divorce their wives and leave their brand new babies. But the truth is, sometimes they do. Sometimes people are so full of pain, fear, and insecurity that they make terrible decisions. You aren't exempt, I'm not exempt, and pastors aren't exempt. We are all broken.
So this is my story. A month before my first baby was born, my husband and I separated; a year later, we were divorced. It wasn't my idea and it wasn't what I wanted. Ultimately, however, I didn't have a choice. I moved back to where our families live, knowing I would need the support and wanting an alternative to job-hunting and daycare. And now we are a broken family of sad statistics, preparing for lifetimes of consequences and finding ever-increasing pockets of joy.
A dear friend last month encouraged her blog readers to keep telling their stories. That message from her reached me when I was feeling particularly sensitive to the fact that I have not felt very free to tell my own story - the one about my marriage. Becoming the former spouse of a pastor has been a little weird to navigate, and there's been a lot of internal and external pressure to keep things neat and tidy.
It occurred to me at some point in November that I have more or less allowed myself to be put in a box (or maybe I put myself there?) as far as what I do and don't say about Brian and how things got to where they did. At first, I (mostly) felt the need to restrain myself from going on a "smear campaign" against him. I was hurting, and I didn't want to become that angry woman who flames her ex everywhere. In a (mostly successful) effort not to say too much, I think I basically stopped saying anything.
As was my habit in our marriage, I became complicit in a cover-up, in an unspoken acknowledgement that the illusion of "good"ness is more important than the truth of broken-ness. The general audience of our lives was shocked when we split, because we'd both done a decent enough job of pretending that things were good between us and we let the banner of "pastor and wife and new baby" fill in the gaps.
There are certainly things I would do differently, if now-Ashley could talk to then-Ashley. I would approach counseling with more honesty. I would keep my mouth shut a little more, assume a little less. I would make the desperate phone calls to wise friends before it was too late. There are a thousand other things.
I still struggle emotionally with my choice to leave Denver, though I know it was the best thing I could do for Gabriel given the options of "bad, terrible, and even worse." But it's been hard, selfishly. I know it has been all too easy for people to "come to their own conclusions" about what happened between us, and I'm not foolish enough to think that those conclusions would favor me. It's taken some real work to embrace the fact that I cannot control what goes on in the "ether" (and any attempts to do so would be unbecoming of me). I was the one who suddenly moved away with the baby, you know, and he's the one who's an ordained minister of word and sacrament. Pastors don't divorce their wives and leave their brand new babies. But the truth is, sometimes they do. Sometimes people are so full of pain, fear, and insecurity that they make terrible decisions. You aren't exempt, I'm not exempt, and pastors aren't exempt. We are all broken.
So this is my story. A month before my first baby was born, my husband and I separated; a year later, we were divorced. It wasn't my idea and it wasn't what I wanted. Ultimately, however, I didn't have a choice. I moved back to where our families live, knowing I would need the support and wanting an alternative to job-hunting and daycare. And now we are a broken family of sad statistics, preparing for lifetimes of consequences and finding ever-increasing pockets of joy.
11.14.2012
on spouses and getting needs met
One of the ongoing conversations I had with my husband in our final months "together" was a discussion of needs, whether and how they were being met, and what role they should play in his decisions about our future. It probably goes without saying that we brought different opinions to that discussion, and it also goes without saying that we never got on the same page.
I've recommended the Assume Love blog here before, and I couldn't recommend it more highly to anyone who is interested in doing the hard work of creating, or maintaining, a healthy and loving marriage relationship. The author of the blog, Patty Newbold, has helped me continue understanding my own needs and the role that they play in my relationships, marital and otherwise, even after my own marriage ended. In short, she maintains that a person's needs are that person's responsibility to meet, and a spouse could and maybe should do what he or she can to help out, but ultimately it is not that spouse's responsibility; I couldn't agree more.
Something Patty wrote recently about needs and marriages resonated with me. It probably would have struck me any time, but I ended up reading this particular post on a "low" day when I was too busy and depressed to get anything accomplished but still managed to find the time to wallow and cry a little bit. I thought I'd share it with you (emphasis mine).
Getting unmarried does not get your needs met. Your needs are your own, whether you are married or not, and you deal with them or not. Getting unmarried does not make things more fair. It just takes away the source of help that deludes you into thinking you deserve less of a burden than an unmarried parent. Getting unmarried does not make you feel any less unloved or unappreciated. It only accentuates these feelings.
There is some context in the rest of the post that is worth reading, if you're inclined. I would recommend doing so.
Personal growth is hard, especially when it means accepting things about yourself that are maybe not so acceptable. It's easier to abdicate your personal responsibility to get your own needs met and convince yourself that you'll be better off without this person you used to love. But that selfish thought process is nothing but destructive. A marriage can't survive supreme selfishness; mine is one of millions to tell that story.
Ultimately, there's a better way. Patty is one of those beacons who is helping people find it.
What do you think? Should spouses be accountable for meeting the needs of each other? If so, is divorce an appropriate response?
I've recommended the Assume Love blog here before, and I couldn't recommend it more highly to anyone who is interested in doing the hard work of creating, or maintaining, a healthy and loving marriage relationship. The author of the blog, Patty Newbold, has helped me continue understanding my own needs and the role that they play in my relationships, marital and otherwise, even after my own marriage ended. In short, she maintains that a person's needs are that person's responsibility to meet, and a spouse could and maybe should do what he or she can to help out, but ultimately it is not that spouse's responsibility; I couldn't agree more.
Something Patty wrote recently about needs and marriages resonated with me. It probably would have struck me any time, but I ended up reading this particular post on a "low" day when I was too busy and depressed to get anything accomplished but still managed to find the time to wallow and cry a little bit. I thought I'd share it with you (emphasis mine).
Getting unmarried does not get your needs met. Your needs are your own, whether you are married or not, and you deal with them or not. Getting unmarried does not make things more fair. It just takes away the source of help that deludes you into thinking you deserve less of a burden than an unmarried parent. Getting unmarried does not make you feel any less unloved or unappreciated. It only accentuates these feelings.
There is some context in the rest of the post that is worth reading, if you're inclined. I would recommend doing so.
Personal growth is hard, especially when it means accepting things about yourself that are maybe not so acceptable. It's easier to abdicate your personal responsibility to get your own needs met and convince yourself that you'll be better off without this person you used to love. But that selfish thought process is nothing but destructive. A marriage can't survive supreme selfishness; mine is one of millions to tell that story.
Ultimately, there's a better way. Patty is one of those beacons who is helping people find it.
What do you think? Should spouses be accountable for meeting the needs of each other? If so, is divorce an appropriate response?
10.08.2012
this post is kind of a downer
I've had a hard time keeping my head up lately. Too many things just aren't going the way I'd planned, meta to micro. I'm feeling thwarted, disappointed, and let down. Everywhere I turn, I see a "yes, but." Yes, this divorce is about as "easy" as a divorce-with-children can be, but it's by no means easy. Yes, the baby's very healthy, but he's not eating real food or sleeping, and that is becoming a real challenge for this single mama. Yes, I've got enough work to get us through the end of the year, but my bank account is frightfully low and January's calendar is bare. Yes, we're going to have a beautiful new home, but it's been 4 months and we're still living in the guest room. (And yes, the guest room is better than most hotel rooms I've been in, but it's not quite home.)
I've been unsettled and "in transition" for 5 weeks shy of a year, now. That's a long time not to feel like I have a real home. There's no rhythm to our days right now. I haven't found an easy routine. Not having regular naps or a reliable bedtime has made it more challenging to keep my wits. Gabriel is starting to stand on his own, and this house is good for visits but a little too adult-y to be the ideal full-time, full-access baby wonderland. But it's not my home, so I'll just keep vigilant and pray the apartment is ready soon.
This is not how I ever would have envisioned Gabriel's first year. And while there's been some tremendous good, right now, in this particular moment, I'm feeling the weight of the challenges.
I've been unsettled and "in transition" for 5 weeks shy of a year, now. That's a long time not to feel like I have a real home. There's no rhythm to our days right now. I haven't found an easy routine. Not having regular naps or a reliable bedtime has made it more challenging to keep my wits. Gabriel is starting to stand on his own, and this house is good for visits but a little too adult-y to be the ideal full-time, full-access baby wonderland. But it's not my home, so I'll just keep vigilant and pray the apartment is ready soon.
This is not how I ever would have envisioned Gabriel's first year. And while there's been some tremendous good, right now, in this particular moment, I'm feeling the weight of the challenges.
8.17.2012
insomnia
(written July 1, 2012)
It's right around midnight, and I'm not sleeping. I haven't had a truly good night's sleep since the night of November 9, 2011. November 10 was the turning point. It marked first night I went to bed alone. That night, I stopped looking at the clock at some point past 4am, and I haven't fared a whole lot better on all but maybe 3 of the nights since then. Even now, eight months into this separation, there's somebody missing. I still feel noticeably, strangely, uncomfortably alone.
Well, alone-plus-baby. Gabriel wasn't quite born yet when Brian moved to a different room, so I wasn't technically alone, and after Gabriel was born, I began sleeping with him in his nursery. I think I've had two nights that I didn't share a bed with him.
I never expected to be a bed-sharing kind of parent, but Gabriel's earliest days were hard for me. He was (and remains) perfect, but the environment he was born into was (and remains) decidedly imperfect. I was exhausted, I was alone, and I was not physically capable of getting up every two hours to haul my baby out of the crib, so I just kept him in my bed.
Not only was I dealing with the fears, insecurities, and worries that every brand-new mom feels, but I was doing it more or less isolated, in pain, and living on the opposite side of my house from a here-but-gone husband who wouldn't be in the picture much longer - a truth I knew but refused to acknowledge. I was staring down the barrel of single motherhood while simultaneously learning to nurse my son, trying to heal from giving birth, keeping up pretenses around the church and the 8 relatives who had come to Denver, andtrying not to sob my way through Christmas making Christmas merriment.
I barely noticed Christmas last year. It's always been a huge deal for my family, and I like to revel in the holidays, but 2011 is not one I would like to remember (and I basically don't, thanks to a magical combination of mind-numbing exhaustion, my brain's habit of not storing painful memories as a coping mechanism, and "bigger things going on" crowding out any real experiences to begin with). It was a three-pronged anxious misery for me: newborn baby and recent childbirth pain/insecurity/worry angst, recent separation and impending divorce and single motherhood fear/anger/grief/shame angst, and a righteously indignant "it's my baby's first Christmas and it's not supposed to be like this" type of angst, which I guess is a secondary angst generated by the first two.
Those were hard days, but I had my sweet baby and the determination to keep hoping my marriage would be restored. Every day I prayed that something would change, but most nights I would spend the hours between midnight and sunrise grappling with the fear, and increasing certainty, that my life as I'd known it was over. It was as if my hope had been fueled by daylight. I could keep hoping when the facts weren't staring me in the face, but going to bed in my son's room instead of the room I'd shared with my husband was devastating and unavoidable.
Now I'm living 1700 miles away, putting together that new life I spent so many hours praying against. I still dread night time. It's no longer jarring. The ache is duller. But it's still there. And I still can't sleep.
It's right around midnight, and I'm not sleeping. I haven't had a truly good night's sleep since the night of November 9, 2011. November 10 was the turning point. It marked first night I went to bed alone. That night, I stopped looking at the clock at some point past 4am, and I haven't fared a whole lot better on all but maybe 3 of the nights since then. Even now, eight months into this separation, there's somebody missing. I still feel noticeably, strangely, uncomfortably alone.
Well, alone-plus-baby. Gabriel wasn't quite born yet when Brian moved to a different room, so I wasn't technically alone, and after Gabriel was born, I began sleeping with him in his nursery. I think I've had two nights that I didn't share a bed with him.
I never expected to be a bed-sharing kind of parent, but Gabriel's earliest days were hard for me. He was (and remains) perfect, but the environment he was born into was (and remains) decidedly imperfect. I was exhausted, I was alone, and I was not physically capable of getting up every two hours to haul my baby out of the crib, so I just kept him in my bed.
Not only was I dealing with the fears, insecurities, and worries that every brand-new mom feels, but I was doing it more or less isolated, in pain, and living on the opposite side of my house from a here-but-gone husband who wouldn't be in the picture much longer - a truth I knew but refused to acknowledge. I was staring down the barrel of single motherhood while simultaneously learning to nurse my son, trying to heal from giving birth, keeping up pretenses around the church and the 8 relatives who had come to Denver, and
I barely noticed Christmas last year. It's always been a huge deal for my family, and I like to revel in the holidays, but 2011 is not one I would like to remember (and I basically don't, thanks to a magical combination of mind-numbing exhaustion, my brain's habit of not storing painful memories as a coping mechanism, and "bigger things going on" crowding out any real experiences to begin with). It was a three-pronged anxious misery for me: newborn baby and recent childbirth pain/insecurity/worry angst, recent separation and impending divorce and single motherhood fear/anger/grief/shame angst, and a righteously indignant "it's my baby's first Christmas and it's not supposed to be like this" type of angst, which I guess is a secondary angst generated by the first two.
Those were hard days, but I had my sweet baby and the determination to keep hoping my marriage would be restored. Every day I prayed that something would change, but most nights I would spend the hours between midnight and sunrise grappling with the fear, and increasing certainty, that my life as I'd known it was over. It was as if my hope had been fueled by daylight. I could keep hoping when the facts weren't staring me in the face, but going to bed in my son's room instead of the room I'd shared with my husband was devastating and unavoidable.
Now I'm living 1700 miles away, putting together that new life I spent so many hours praying against. I still dread night time. It's no longer jarring. The ache is duller. But it's still there. And I still can't sleep.
7.06.2012
the state of the ashley (again)
My super-awesome friend Angie keeps listing Sidetracked in her blogroll. Because her blog has actual substance and is actually read by real people, I think it's probably time to resurrect this moribund blog here. What follows is an odd, early-morning attempt.
So things are different, now. I'm living back in North Carolina, now. I'm not married anymore (well, technically I still am, but it's just a matter of time until that changes, too). I'm still very much a mom, pretty much 365 days a year. I'm still writing and editing. So...big changes and big not-changes.
I think I'm in one of those places where most people would just get a new blog and "start fresh" or whatever. I'm not really planning to do that, although I've done it before and I probably "should" do it now. This little catblog is just a log of what I'm doing, though - a disheveled, incomplete personal history of sorts. I am not interested in collecting a mass of links to my blogging history, so I'm probably here to stay, at least for a while.
I'm expecting this will more or less become a log of what Gabriel and I are up to. I'm not really aspiring to be a "mommy blogger" and I don't have much confidence that any insights I might put here will be of interest to anybody. I DO know that I now have friends and family all across the country who are interested in the baby, and this is an easy way to share what's up.
But because it's a personal blog first and foremost, I will probably do a little bit of "processing" my divorce here. (So, former family-in-law and congregants, be aware!) This isn't going to become a Brian-bashing forum to air dirty laundry, and I do think I've already come through the hard, uncontrollable-tears, fist-in-the-wall, wailing-in-the-night part of the journey, but it won't be a feelings-free zone, either. Just so you know!
So. With all that said, off we go!
So things are different, now. I'm living back in North Carolina, now. I'm not married anymore (well, technically I still am, but it's just a matter of time until that changes, too). I'm still very much a mom, pretty much 365 days a year. I'm still writing and editing. So...big changes and big not-changes.
I think I'm in one of those places where most people would just get a new blog and "start fresh" or whatever. I'm not really planning to do that, although I've done it before and I probably "should" do it now. This little catblog is just a log of what I'm doing, though - a disheveled, incomplete personal history of sorts. I am not interested in collecting a mass of links to my blogging history, so I'm probably here to stay, at least for a while.
I'm expecting this will more or less become a log of what Gabriel and I are up to. I'm not really aspiring to be a "mommy blogger" and I don't have much confidence that any insights I might put here will be of interest to anybody. I DO know that I now have friends and family all across the country who are interested in the baby, and this is an easy way to share what's up.
But because it's a personal blog first and foremost, I will probably do a little bit of "processing" my divorce here. (So, former family-in-law and congregants, be aware!) This isn't going to become a Brian-bashing forum to air dirty laundry, and I do think I've already come through the hard, uncontrollable-tears, fist-in-the-wall, wailing-in-the-night part of the journey, but it won't be a feelings-free zone, either. Just so you know!
So. With all that said, off we go!
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