Archive for love and relationships

Mar
05

King for the day

Posted by: lynn | Comments (4)

Steve does not like celebrating his birthday.

He told me this long ago, and I came to believe he does not like his birthday because he didn’t have many celebrations as a kid. So, I set about fixing it and changing his mind. I have made sure, for the past four birthdays we’ve been together, that he has had a great time. Each year has topped the previous year, with last year–his 40th–culminating in a trip to Napa. Hard to top that.

This year, I asked him to request March 11 and 12 as vacation days, and I started looking for a place for us to go within a few hours of Denver. Usually, I love trip planning–finding the perfect place to stay, searching for bargains, figuring out the right balance between scheduled activities and free time. This year the whole thing was a struggle. I was so frustrated I put out a Very Personal Ad here and got no responses. (Universe–trying to tell me something? Hmmm?) Steve’s boss owns a place in Summit County, and had offered it to us a no cost, so Steve said he’d ask if we could use it that weekend.

He didn’t. He didn’t even ask for the time off until this week. And when he told me he couldn’t have those days off next week, I freaked out, because I felt like he sabotaged the whole thing.

The energy in our house has been out of whack. Last weekend was fight central. Many shoes were hurled. The rain of shoes–some intentional–continued through Wednesday, culminating in much nastiness on my part and my husband evacuating the house for a couple of hours.

During the ugliness, he told me that he NEVER wanted another acknowledgment of his birthday. EVER. Not a card. Not a dinner. Not a present. Fine, I told him. And later, I cried. I was so frustrated and hurt.

Birthdays have always been important to me. Growing up, they were one of the few days of the year when my whole family, including grandparents, would come together. Birthdays meant feeling special and loved and it being OK to ask for what I wanted. I’ve always made a big deal about my birthday, taking the day off–last year, taking two weeks off. I planned elaborate dinner parties for my ex-husband’s birthday, some of my happiest memories with him. And Lauren’s birthdays, at least until the divorce after which her dad somehow took them over, were always a source of love and pride. I orchestrated huge celebrations for both of my parents’ 60th birthdays, ensuring that far-away friends and relatives attended.

In other words, birthdays allow me to express my love for someone in a special way. And today, it hit me that Steve’s rejection of his birthday and his sabotage of my plans for it this year feels like rejection of ME. Rejection of my love. It’s like I’m a child who’s made a special art blob for a parent and the parent threw it in the trash before my eyes.

And yet, I now understand he is rejecting acknowledgment and celebration of his birthday … not me. Huh.

Bloggers and coaches Havi Brooks and Hiro Boga talk about the concept of sovereignty–the quality of owning your own space, of being so safe being you that nothing can shake you, of not giving a damn what anyone thinks because you are king/queen of your own realm (quote/endquote). I’m working on getting to sovereignty. Today I realized that Steve is also allowed to work toward his own sovereignty … or not. When I do things like force unwanted birthday celebrations on him I am not allowing him to be who he is. I am letting my stuff try to run his stuff. And that doesn’t work for either of us.

That’s why he sabotaged my plans–from my point of view–or didn’t do what I wanted him to do–from his point of view. His birthday and how he celebrates it (or not) is his sovereign choice.  And I should honor him perhaps by asking him what he wants to do (if anything) and respecting his wishes, even if it’s not what I want. Even if it feels wierd or uncomfortable. On that day especially, he should be king.

Comments (4)
Jan
27

Show and Tell: Our Wedding Video

Posted by: lynn | Comments (8)

On Oct. 3, 2009, Steve and I got married. On Jan. 23, 2010, my brother, who is a professional editor (william@guidedfilms.com), gave us our wedding gift: our wedding video! In our opinion, the best parts of this 20-minute video are

  • at 9:40, when I sing to Steve,
  • at 15:51, when the minister completely screws up the ring exchange and asks me to take myself to be my wife, then asks Steve to be his wife,
  • and the Woot! I let out as we leave, around 19:14.

Feel free to watch the whole wacky business, complete with laughter, turkey feathers, fidgeting children, dropped rings, and wonderful magical words, or to let it load and skip forward.

We are so grateful to have this video so we can actually remember our wedding, which was a complete blur of nerves and emotion and out-of-body-floating.

Join the Show & Tell Circle over on Mel’s Blog.

Lynn & Steve’s Wedding from Lynn @ human, being on Vimeo.

Categories : life, wedding
Comments (8)
Jan
18

The Last Decade: 2005

Posted by: lynn | Comments (2)

As I look back on my life over the past decade, I don’t recognize the woman I was 10 years ago: scared, unconscious, trapped. The past decade contained a series of events and mini-awakenings that have led me here. I know I am not fully conscious … yet. But unlike 10 years ago, I can imagine the fulfilled, happy, awakened woman I will be at the turn of the next decade. In an exercise that is almost purely selfish, in the next several posts I’ll be taking a snapshot-heavy look back and where I was each year during the past 10 years, and what my major achievements and losses were. It’s the losses, I believe, that move us forward the most.

2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004-1, 2004-2, 2004-3, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009

The first year of my separation and divorce had flown by so quickly. As the anniversary of the date my ex left me approached, I did everything I could to distract myself. Bad Boyfriend Joe helped me along that path, drugging me with sex and booze. He was shifty, never quite looking me in the eye, sometimes disappearing and leaving me anxious. I thought I was in love with him.

January

Laurel & me at my house blessing

In January, I held a house blessing party. I hired a shaman to smudge the house and remove all lingering energy from all the corners. When my closest friends arrived, we walked from room to room, lighting candles and blessing the space. Soon all of the guests arrived, each bringing a small token for the blessing altar I was setting up on my sideboard. My birthmother sent blessed sea salt from Maui, which I sprinkled along the doorways to keep out evil spirits. My friend Wendy gave me origami cranes. Everyone contributed to the Lynn’s New Stove fund. The party was immensely entertaining, and touching. My parents came, surprising me with some of the tenderest words I’d ever heard them say about me. My friend Jenny brought her newborn daughter, and we passed her around so people could rub her fuzzy head for good luck. At the end of the evening, My friend Helen’s now-ex pulled out my guitar and started playing. We were all drunk, but Joe was especially so, and he kept us laughing with blues riffs sung to Michael’s excellent guitar playing.

February

I continued to spend money I didn’t have. By February, I was asking Joe to contribute to the grocery and booze fund, since he was drinking my liquor cabinet empty every week and spending most of his time at my house. I volunteered for a charity Mardi Gras party, sitting on the decorations committee. When the party came around, Joe was my date. We were both wasted on hurricanes. I wore a beautiful turquoise ballgown I’d bought on sale at Jessica McClintock. He kept me laughing until he started embarrassing me with his loud stories and inappropriate use of the English language–everything was a ‘harbinger’ to him. I felt responsible not only for his behavior but for his idiocy. And yet, I clung to him.

Me and Laurel, Mardi Gras 2005

I don’t remember feeling depressed that year, probably because if I was home and Lauren was with her dad, I was intoxicated.

I continued to take salsa lessons and go dancing once or twice a week. I ate as cleanly as possible to make up for the liquid calories I was taking in. I went to the gym, somehow motivating myself to do an hour of cardio plus an hour of lifting five or six days a week. I felt strong and sexy, desirable. Yet something was off. I was not happy.

Lauren came and went. When she was with me, we watched a lot of videos–Sleeping Beauty and Mary Poppins were her favorites. Her dad started dating a girl, who he introduced Lauren to right away. We fought about that. She had met Joe a couple of times, but he had never stayed over when she was with me. My ex’s girlfriend frequently slept over when Lauren was with him. We fought over how inappropriate it was. He’d call me and yell at me over the stupidest things; the conversations would end up with him threatening to fight me for custody, to stop paying my alimony and child support … and with me crying.

I decided the only way to keep him at bay was to communicate only through IM and email. That helped a bit. But I felt so terrified that he would go to court, that  I acquiesced to his every demand. I still believed that he was right: I was a terrible, selfish mother. He punished me by belittling me, making me ask for my checks every month, complaining about how poor he was as he traveled to the Caribbean, Mexico, and other places. He bought a second car “for fun”–a convertible BMW coupe–and rubbed it in my face as he complained about writing my child support check. When he and his girlfriend started talking about getting married, he told me that “someday, maybe you’ll experience love like what I have with her.”

March

Xpu-ha beach 2005

In March, I went to Mexico by myself to recharge by the beach. Joe had wanted to go, but I wasn’t willing to pay for his trip. I stayed at a run-down motel that sits on Xpu-Ha beach, about an hour south of Cancun. It was cheap, and my bungalow was 50 feet from the water. I brought my laptop and wrote. I discovered the beach was clothing optional, and after the first day kept my bikini top off most of the time so I didn’t stick out from the other guests. I got multiple massages. I did yoga every morning on the beach, and walked on the sand for an hour every night. I went to Playa del Carmen and danced from midnight until  5 in the morning at a salsa club with the best Cuban band I’d ever heard. I shopped and shopped, looking for souvenirs for Joe and Lauren. I took hundreds of photos. I felt lonely. I could feel something stirring inside of me, a hurricane of all the crap I hadn’t dealt with over the past 15 months, but I pushed it all down again. I was not ready to deal.

May

In May, as the Joe drama was winding down, another drama was winding up. My spending habits had caught up with me.

One day I opened a credit card statement to learn that the company had increased my interest rate from 9.99% to 29.99%. I had never been late making my minimum payment. Apparently, though, only making the minimum payment flagged me as someone dangerous to default. It made no sense: I couldn’t afford to make more than the minimum, so they jacked my rates and increased what that payment was. Within weeks, all five of my credit cards did the same thing. Suddenly, I realized I was about $30k in credit card debt, and my new monthly payments would be equal to nearly two-thirds of my take-home pay. My second mortgage increased again. I was terrified of losing everything again.

I visited a lawyer to inquire about bankruptcy. He counseled me that I made too much money to file Chapter 7 and wipe out all of my debts. Instead, he said, it would be better to settle with the creditors. First, I would have to stop making payments all together. I would have to brace myself for an onslaught of shaming correspondence, he said, but eventually I’d start getting settlement offers. I had never not paid my bills before. I was so embarrassed about the position I’d put myself into. I kept paying my mortgages and my car payments so I wouldn’t jeopardize my biggest assets.

June

Joe and I were through by my birthday. I broke it off with him and it felt like I was going through withdrawals. He was like heroin to me, and in retrospect I see that I was into him because of who he said he was: creative and successful. He was certainly creative, but he was also insane and unsuccessful. My addiction to him made me lose good judgment, and although it was painful to let him go, I had to for my own sanity. (Read all of the Joe chronicles: part 1 and part 2 and part 3.)

Then, I had a nervous breakdown. One day at work, I started crying and couldn’t stop. I had neglected my own health, and had become very hypothyroid due to forgetting to take my medication. My body could not go on until I dealt with all of the emotions that I had stuffed for the previous year and a half. I took a break from everything: work, dating, working out. I cried, and I cried, and I screamed and I punched my pillow. I sat with my therapist twice a week. I went to church. I journaled extensively. I had never before allowed myself to be utterly weak and messy. It felt wonderful to be a mess and not give a shit what anyone thought. I didn’t tell my mom, though, because I knew she wouldn’t approve.

July

By the end of July, I was feeling better. Then Dan called. He wanted to take me to lunch. I was in a serene place, totally in touch with who I am, so I agreed to meet him. At that lunch, I finally found what I had wanted from him for almost 18 years: closure. I learned he was moving to Houston, that he was unhappily married, that he did not believe he could have it all. And he finally answered my question: why did he never choose me? He had many chances, but he always picked someone else over me. His answer was as close to the truth as I think he could ever come: He never thought he could live up to being the man he knew he’d need to be to have me as his life partner. I was able to say goodbye then, for good.

Saying goodbye to Dan triggered something in my heart, a knowledge that I would not be able to fully love someone until all of my what-ifs were solved. So I systematically found every guy I still carried a torch for: my high school crush, my next-door neighbor, the bad boy in high school who I put off because I was too goody-two-shoes. I went out with a couple of them and discovered that everything I thought I liked about them was mere projection. By August, my heart was empty of all old entanglements. I entered into the online dating world again.

August

I read the book “Calling in the One” and did an exercise that helped me figure out exactly what qualities I wanted in my life partner. I wrote a list of 50 characteristics, then whittled it down to 5. I wrote those five characteristics on a card and kept it in my purse. After every date, if the guy did not have at least one of them, I wouldn’t see him again. I joined a meet-up group and began expanding my circle of friends. I went to church at least once a week. I kept dancing. It was one thing besides Lauren that brought me joy.

September

In September, I met a guy online who lived in Minneapolis. We hit it off on email and by phone, and he flew to Denver to spend the last weekend of the month with me. I had a great time showing him my hometown and some of my favorite close-by mountain spots. On Sunday, we went to Morrison and climbed around Red Rocks. Then we went to lunch at the Morrison Inn. A few hours later, as we were driving over the gorgeous and remote Guanella Pass, we both started to get sick. By the time I took him to the airport the next morning, we were both exhausted from food poisoning. I felt better on Tuesday, so I kept another date I’d made for drinks and a movie. But as I sat at a high-top bar table at the Hornet, a trendy bar in Denver’s South Broadway district, I began to shiver. I cut the date short, and by the time I got to my car my teeth were chattering. I turned the heater on full blast and drove home as quickly as I could.

On Wednesday morning, my work colleagues came to my house as planned for our annual retreat. As I cowered in blankets on my couch, my boss insisted that we take my temperature because I looked very ill. It was 104 degrees. My low back ached. My whole body felt like a pincushion. I got an emergency appointment with my doctor, who took one look at me and sent me to the ER. When I arrived at Rose Hospital, I could not sit up. The only way I felt comfortable was curled in a ball on the dirty waiting room carpet. I could not think clearly. My pain was at a level 10. After what seemed like hours, but was probably 10 minutes, a nurse wheeled me back to a gurney. They started me on IV fluids and took my temperature again: 106. My brain hurt.

People poked me with needles and catheterized me since I couldn’t sit upright to pee in a cup. After what seemed to be hours, a doctor came by and told me I had a severe ecoli infection in my bladder, kidneys and blood. I was septic. The tests showed my kidneys were shutting down. My blood pressure was 80/40. I had a CT scan with contrast, and when the tech pushed the contrast through my IV my vein burst. I never knew pain like that before.

I was wheeled to a room. Nurses and doctors huddled around me. I heard the word ICU thrown about. I heard the word dialysis. They started me on three kinds of IV antibiotics and a morphine drip. I dozed in and out of consciousness, coming awake screaming in pain when the morphine wore off. I tried to force the clock forward with my thoughts so I could get another burst of morphine. A roommate came in, and her moans of pain sent me over the edge. I had a panic attack because I thought she was a monster who was going to kill me. I was moved into a private room, given heavy sedatives.

The morphine kept my blood pressure very low. The nurses would not let me see the monitor, but at one point my readings were 50/30.Vein after vein blew out and eventually they put my IV in my foot, which was incredibly uncomfortable.

My mom came. My dad came. My friend Barbie came. Laurel came. They brought me PJs and my pillow from home. They helped me sip broth. I called my ex and asked him to bring Lauren up to see me. I was not sure I was going to live, and I needed my daughter. He refused. I screamed at him. My dad got on the phone and threatened his life. Finally, Lauren was able to come, and I cried as I held her. She was only 4.

The next day I started to feel better. My pain had shrunk, and I stopped the morphine. My blood pressure improved. The nurses stopped looking at me with haunted eyes. Halfway through the third day, I started vomiting. The pain had shifted from a dull ache in my kidneys to a sharp ache in the middle of my stomach. A smart doctor did an abdominal ultrasound and found that my gall bladder had ruptured. Within an hour I was in the operating room. I stayed in the hospital for another two days.

My mom drove me home, and as she sat with me in my living room, I noticed that my hands were swollen. The waistband on my sweats seemed to be getting tighter by the minute. Within 90 minutes of being home, my whole body had swollen to the point that I could hardly distinguish my toes from my foot: everything was a big watery blob. She took me back to the ER, where I got on a scale to discover I had gained 37 pounds in a few hours, all edema. I was re-admitted and underwent a litany of tests, some very painful. I had another CT with contrast, and the pain of that substance being pushed into my vein was so excruciating that I came off the gurney and hit the tech in the face. They administered more sedatives. I was admitted for two more days until the edema subsided. The doctors never could explain what happened to me.

I went home. My friends and family pitched in to help me. Coworkers sent flowers. Lauren came back to me, and my mom stayed with us so she could care for her granddaughter while I slept.

October

I finished a 6-week course of Cipro. My digestive system was a mess, and I could only tolerate the blandest of foods: potatoes, rice, white bread. I lost 25 pounds, celebrating when I weighed a svelte 139 by buying a bunch of clothes in size 4. I was skinny again! I got back on the Internet Dating bandwagon.

The creditor phone calls were starting to reach me at work and on my cell phone. I changed my phone numbers and they found me again. I felt so lost and like a huge loser. I was saving what I would have been paying them in a separate account. I was tempted to start paying again just to end the abuse I was taking. I stopped answering the phone altogether. I was so scared that this scheme would not play out as the lawyer said it would.

I ignored the hospital bills.

November

The trials of dating continued. I went to work, and spent hours each day on match.com, Yahoo! Personals, lavalife.com. I was able to increase my hours to seven full days per pay period, and the extra money came in handy. My ex continued to be a dick, flaunting his love life and his money while crying poor to me when I asked for help paying for Lauren’s teeth cleaning. I was feeling better physically every day, and I returned to the gym. I still couldn’t eat meat or fibrous veggies without winding up in a ball on the floor from stomach pain. I saw a GI doctor who told me digestive issues were common after gall bladder removal, and that I just needed to wait it out. I would eventually get better.

The week before Thanksgiving, I received a letter in the mail from one of my creditors, signed by a real person. The letter was a settlement offer. I called the representative and negotiated a deal: I would pay 20 cents on the dollar of my debt if I could pay it off all at once within the next five business days. He gave me contacts at the other credit card companies, and I worked out similar deals with them as well. The Monday after Thanksgiving, I liquefied my retirement and savings accounts and paid off all of my creditors. I felt such a sense of relief that the ordeal was over.

December

My social life picked up. All of a sudden, I had a dozen new friends. I went to parties every weekend, out to dinner, skiing. I kept setting up dates from match.com. By the second week in December, a pattern had emerged: I’d set a date with a new guy at Starbucks and he’d no-show.

I complained diligently to Laurel, who was experiencing her own dating dilemmas. I thought perhaps the no-showing was unique to guys on match.com. I saw an ad for a new dating site called engage.com, and joined it. After building my profile, I did a quick search for men age 36-42 within 200 miles of Denver. The site was so new that my search returned two matches: a guy with no picture who lived in the mountains and a guy my own age who lived about 20 minutes away from me. By his pictures he was cute. By his profile, we had a few things in common, including a love of South Park and zombie movies. I sent him an email, and then noticed I had an email in my inbox … from him.

His name was Steve.

We chatted by email for a couple of weeks as I became more and more disillusioned by the guys who were standing me up at every turn. The week before Christmas, I told Laurel that I was done with dating. That same day, Steve asked me if I wanted to get lunch. I agreed, figuring it would be my last date for a while. On Dec. 29, 2005, I met him at an upscale Tech Center restaurant called Ya Ya’s Eurocafe. On first look, he was cute. He was about my height, sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, with an athletic runner’s body. We sat in a booth. I ordered the most expensive salad on the menu and a glass of wine. If this was going to be my last date for a while, then I was going out in style, poor sucker.

And then, we started talking. And talking. And laughing. The waiter kept coming by to see if we needed something else, but really trying to get rid of us. Three hours into our lunch date, he asked me for a second date. I agreed. He was fun. He walked me to my car, and as I hugged him goodbye, he went in for a kiss.

It was fast, warm lips pressed against mine, a caress of tongue, but enough to send a shiver down my body and almost cause my knees to buckle. It was the best kiss I’d ever had in my life.

We met the next day to go ice skating in Cherry Creek North. The day was beautiful, in the 50s. We held hands as we hobbled around the small rink, laughing. Turned out that he’d never been skating before. I was impressed that he’d chance making a fool out of himself like that. We continued the date over wine, then he followed me home.

I didn’t want to sleep with him on the second date, and resisting him was difficult. We had a good old-fashioned makeout session before I sent him on his way. Before he left, we made a third date for New Year’s Day.

I spent New Year’s Eve with my friend Barbie, eating at the Trail Dust Steakhouse, then coming back to my place to do some year-end rituals. As we wrote down the beliefs we wanted to release then burned the papers in the fireplace, I found myself thinking about Steve. It had been a long time since I felt so excited about a guy. Our chemistry was palpable, and it went beyond the physical. I really liked him. I sent him a text at midnight: “You should be here, kissing me.”

Last night, as we sat down for dinner, Lauren asked, “Momma, why are we having ham for dinner?”

Steve piped right in: “Because it’s Ham Day.”  He grinned at me across the dining room table, our cue to let the fun begin. Usually, this kind of fun denigrates to stories about letting clowns jump on Lauren’s bed and try on her underwear.

Lauren gave us a quizzical look, not sure if we were teasing or serious. “No it’s not.”

“Yes it is,” I jumped in. “Ham Day is celebrated all over the world. Not by everybody though.”

“Like not everyone celebrates Christmas,” Steve said. “But we do, and we celebrate Ham Day by eating ham. And bacon, too.”

Steve did fix me bacon and eggs for breakfast yesterday morning.

“And by wearing our pajamas to work!” I said. She eyed my outfit. I was wearing brightly colored striped knee socks, red cropped pajama bottoms with white lace along the edge and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. With no bra. I pride myself on wearing the most mismatched outfits possible when at home, if I’m wearing clothes at all.

“You didn’t wear that to work, did you?” A slight twinge of horror coated her tone. Horror from the girl who wears plaids and stripes together.

“Of course I did!” I said. “Because on Ham Day, that’s what you do. Everybody at work was in their pajamas today. Didn’t you do that at school?”

“Well, we didn’t have Ham Day at school,” my daughter said, rolling her eyes like a practiced teenager, although just 8 years old. She’s precocious, I tell you. “Well Steve didn’t wear his pajamas to work …”

“Sure I did,” he said, lifting his blue-flannel-clad leg up over the table to show her. “It was great. I was comfortable all day. And I ate ham. And bacon! Mmm, bacon!”

She forked a bite of her ham, chewed pensively, grew a little smirk.

“I just don’t think anyone at my school knew it was National Ham Day. That’s all,” she finally replied after swallowing. Good. The kid was catching on.

“Well, it’s a rather new holiday, you know,”  Steve said. “New ones crop up every day. You should definitely go to school tomorrow and wish everyone a belated Happy Ham Day.”

“I think I’d die of embarrassment,” she said. “You guys are so weird.”

So, everyone, Happy Ham Day, belatedly. Next Jan. 8, be sure to eat lots of ham and wear your PJs to work. You’ll thank me. It’s fun. Especially because you get to tease the hell out of your children.

Jan
06

The Last Decade: 2004, part last

Posted by: lynn | Comments (0)

As I look back on my life over the past decade, I don’t recognize the woman I was 10 years ago: scared, unconscious, trapped. The past decade contained a series of events and mini-awakenings that have led me here. I know I am not fully conscious … yet. But unlike 10 years ago, I can imagine the fulfilled, happy, awakened woman I will be at the turn of the next decade. In an exercise that is almost purely selfish, in the next several posts I’ll be taking a snapshot-heavy look back and where I was each year during the past 10 years, and what my major achievements and losses were. It’s the losses, I believe, that move us forward the most.

2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004-1, 2004-2, 2004-3, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009

2004: The end of the end

July

Independence Pass

Still on my Hear Me Roar campaign, on July 4 I decided to go camping … by myself. I camped all through my childhood, usually in a trailer or a big platformed tent at Girl Scout camp. I bought a tent, and borrowed one of my parents’ sleeping bags, and headed up to Twin Falls at the base of Mount Elbert. I had an idea for a mystery story that would take place at a campground there, about a woman who goes camping with her husband and wakes up to find him dead next to her. I wanted to get a sense of place, and be alone since Lauren would be doing our traditional BBQ at her dad’s sister’s house without me for the first time in her life.

My parents were both slightly appalled and worried about me going camping by myself–bears, marauders and the like could be lurking about. I was more worried that I wouldn’t get my tent up or be able to start a fire. I stopped at the top of Independence Pass (so poetic, the woman in mid-divorce reaching that height as our nation celebrated its own independence … ha!) and took photos with my new Canon 8 megapixel digital camera, then tooled down the big hill to my reserved spot. In the next hour, I not only had my tent set up (rain fly 0, Lynn 1) but I had started a fire in the fire pit. Somehow, I forgot a chair, so I hunched next to the fire pit with my book, and remembered something else.

I set up a tent all by myself.

Camping is so fucking boring. And even more so when you’re camping all alone. Lucky for me, the sun went down not too soon after that, and I went to bed.

As the night insects began to sing, I felt this deep sorrow sneak into my tent to curl up beside me. I tried to push it away, but it was persistent. For the first time in months, I considered my sorrow and realized what I had lost: not just my husband, but my dream of what my life would be. Living in my dream house, driving a beautiful car, traveling when we wanted to, giving Lauren what she needed and what she wanted. I had lost my family, even if it had made me miserable. And, I had lost myself during the previous 12 years. I had no idea who I was, or what I wanted, or if I could even do this living on my own thing. I had never lived alone before. I cried myself to sleep.

In the morning, I got up early and decided to take a hike. I packed some rain gear, water, sandwiches, snacks and started up a trail. Four and a half hours later, I found myself nearing the top of Mt. Elbert, the tallest 14er in Colorado. I hadn’t set out to climb my first 14er, but I had.

Mt. Elbert Path

At the top of the world, I glanced at my phone and realized that I had exactly 5 hours to get back to my camp, pack, drive to Denver, shower and meet a friend to see the Cirque du Soleil. So I started to run. Back at the site, I tore down my camp and stuffed everything in my car. My Volvo’s speedometer pegs at 130 mph on the flats, I learned. I like to drive fast, and I made it home in the nick of time.

2004 was the year of easy mortgage money. Somehow, I got approved for a $200,000 loan with no documentation of income and started house shopping. I found a cute three-bedroom townhouse in the southeast Denver suburbs, and got so excited about it. I put in an offer, then took off to the Renaissance festival with Jimmy. As we strolled amongst the wenches, my realtor called to tell me I’d been outbid. I was crushed, and Jimmy was there to pick up the pieces.

I was so fragile then, the slightest thing shattered me. I wouldn’t cry, but I’d grouse and get really mad, then try to philosophize whatever happened away.

closing day

At the end of the month, I found another townhouse–this one with a little garden that backed onto a greenbelt, an attached one-car garage, two master suites and a full, unfinished basement. Oh, and a fireplace and a community pool! I put in an offer before it was on the market, and the seller accepted. I was so happy! My new townhouse was all mine. It had been a rental for 15 years and was not very updated, which is why I could afford it. I wound up with a fixed first and a adjustable second–the broker told me it would be less expensive that way.

August

On August 4, my husband and I visited the courthouse together for the last time, and stood holding hands in the lobby. We sat next to each other and listened as the judge approved our divorce. I was so sad. We both cried. And, we were both relieved to be done with it.

I closed on my new house on August 20, with Lauren (and teddy bear Clover) by my side. I called in my girlfriends for a painting party. For the first time, I got to pick every single color in my house without anyone else’s opinion. The majority of the walls went manilla envelope. My bedroom: the deepest aubergine. Lauren picked the princess/bubblegum pink for her walls. The far living room wall and the kitchen walls went  burnt orange, And my favorite deep sea blue went up in the front foyer and half-bath.

Lauren dances in her new room

My piano found its perfect home on a long wall, and I hung an antique chandelier I’d converted to electricity all by myself over my dining room table. I spray painted all the ceilings, covering up a decade of renter’s smoke stains. Thanks to my friends Jenny and Kim–who braved trimming the ceiling lines at the top of a 16-foot ladder in both bedrooms, which have cathedral ceilings–and especially Laurel, my entire house was painted in three days. My parents and sister and Laurel and even my ex helped me move in. My new mattress sat in my new bed next to my new nightstands and covered in my new fuscia bedding. My room felt like a boudoir.  I loved it.

On the third day, as I painted the living room wall, Dan called me, out of the blue. I was glad to hear from him. He came over and we spent a long time talking. He was happy to see me free. I asked him, again, if he’d leave his wife for me and he once again said no. This time, it didn’t hurt as badly, because I was getting excited about what my life might look like. I could almost let him go. Almost.

September

Excited to be off the tram

Once we were in our own house, Lauren started to settle down. The night terrors diminished, then stopped. Right before Labor Day, she fell off her bike and broke her wrist, earning a bright pink cast for 8 weeks. We took a trip to Glenwood Springs and Aspen for Labor Day–our first of many Mommy-Daughter trips. We got stuck in an aerial tram during a huge lightning storm with four terrified French tourists, and she had me sing to everyone because “Momma your pretty voice makes me so calm.” My sweet, precocious daughter, for whom I had zero patience. She easily fell victim to my moods, and got used to comforting me as I apologized for snapping at her again, and again.

I went to the Social Security office to take back my maiden name. When I looked at the transaction receipt, I had to laugh out loud: the time stamp was 2 pm on Sept. 16, 2004. Exactly 9 years to the minute of my wedding day. I was me again, at least on paper.

October

In the fall, my employer allowed me to increase my hours to three days a week, and the extra money helped. I was still spending way too much. I kept getting my hair professionally colored, and kept up my twice monthly mani/pedis because I deserved it, damnit. I paid the minimum on my four credit cards every month, but not much more. In November, I made my first payment on my very own ALL MINE house, and I cheered when I wrote the check. Then, a shocker: in December the payment on my second mortgage went up by 15%. All of a sudden, money was really, really tight. So tight that I started charging food and gas, something I’d never done before without paying the card off at the end of the month.

Bachelor Bob's Reject with John Kerry

Lauren and I fell into a pattern: I was Momma three or four nights a week, doing everything she needed, playing games, reading to her, watching princess movie after princess movie. Then I was Lynn the single girl with a full social life the rest of the week. Jimmy went to Brazil to be with his family, and I went back to the online dating sites. I was a mess, but I was having a lot of fun too.

On Halloween, my second-favorite holiday, I convinced Laurel to get dressed up and go out with me. I had a blast with my costume; it was the year of Bachelor Bob, and I dressed up as Mary Jo, one of his jilted lovers. She was a tearful one, that girl, and I figured out how to cry real tears on cue when someone mentioned Bob’s name. We both had too much cheap beer, and somehow I wound up with a guy who almost convinced me to go to Burning Man with him the next year. Then, I forgot his name and lost his phone number. It was great to feel young and sexy and DESIRABLE. After so many years of wondering if I was frigid, I figured out I was anything but. However, in the back of my mind, I heard echoes of cruel voices calling me a whore. Any pleasure I took in my escapades was diminished by shame and guilt.

November

Carriage Ride

We spent Thanksgiving with my family at my aunt’s house.I took Lauren to see the Nutcracker, and we took a carriage ride through downtown Denver. She was amazed by the dancers for the first hour, then not so much. Afterward, we went for hot chocolate at the Market, a kitchy Denver coffeehouse on Larimer Square. We had so much fun that she remembers it, five years later. So do I.

After Thanksgiving, I met Bad Boyfriend Joe. My seasonal depression sneaked in, and I began focusing more on my new boyfriend, the TV, reading–anything–to numb the pain. I continued to shop too much, buying an entire new wardrobe to celebrate my new svelte 155-pound figure. I was drugging myself with spending and sex and booze. I knew at some level that I was hurting myself, squandering precious time I could use to figure out who I was now. But I couldn’t bring myself to be truly alone, to be silent. To hear god. I felt closer to the universal mind I believe connects all energy in existence than I ever had before, but I still held it at arm’s distance.

December

Christmas was rough. Lauren spent Christmas Eve and morning with me then went to be with her dad for the rest of the day. Not having my daughter with me almost broke me in two. Wine helped hold me together.

Skiing with Laurel, New Year's Day 2005

On New Year’s Eve, I went to Frasier with Laurel to stay in her new condo. We had a great lobster dinner–neither of us wanting to be the lobster murderer–and drank great wine. Just before midnight we tromped through the frozen night under a blanket of stars. It was a glorious evening. The next day, we skiied at Winter Park.

I was so glad to see the end of 2004, the year from hell. The year where I lost everything I thought I was. Or so I believed.

Jan
06

The Last Decade: 2004, part two

Posted by: lynn | Comments (0)

As I look back on my life over the past decade, I don’t recognize the woman I was 10 years ago: scared, unconscious, trapped. The past decade contained a series of events and mini-awakenings that have led me here. I know I am not fully conscious … yet. But unlike 10 years ago, I can imagine the fulfilled, happy, awakened woman I will be at the turn of the next decade. In an exercise that is almost purely selfish, in the next several posts I’ll be taking a snapshot-heavy look back and where I was each year during the past 10 years, and what my major achievements and losses were. It’s the losses, I believe, that move us forward the most.

2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004-1, 2004-2, 2004-3, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009

2004, part two: living with my parents, divorce prep, Maui, skydiving and turning 35

Lauren and me on the zoo train, spring 2004

Lauren and me on the zoo train, spring 2004

Once I’d solved the problem of who got the house–no one got it–my husband and I decided not to spend $10k each on lawyers and use an mediator instead. We painstakingly created a divorce agreement that spelled out everything we could think of in order to ward off future arguments. Putting the document together was easier than we both expected. It was a project, and we always were good at those. The one aspect we didn’t tackle was child support and maintenance. We knew it would be touchy and needed a mediator to help us through it.

I sadly put my old cat, Tyson, to sleep. He had gone from being a fat, happy 15-year-old cat to skinny, arthritic and toothless in the previous six months. Had I been paying attention to his suffering, I would have acted out of kindness much sooner, but my own suffering blinded me to anyone else’s. I’m still ashamed of myself for letting him hurt for so long.

At the end of March, we packed up our house, leaving a  few items behind to stage it. My parents agreed to take in me, Lauren, our dog Sunny and cat Percy, and store my stuff in the single-car garage next to their house.

The weekend before I moved in with my parents, I bought myself a new bed. A virgin bed, a queen. Never again, I swore, would I buy a king bed. My husband and I slept on a full bed for the first three years of our relationship; when we bought our king mattress, we stopped having sex as often. Soon, a ridge had built up between us, physically and emotionally. I had even written a poem about us clinging to our opposite coasts. I negotiated an excellent price on a high-end bed. I think my ample cleavage helped the salesman throw in the frame and delivery.

I also bought a silver Tiffany ring shaped like an O to signify my connection with myself. I called it my divorce ring. I paid for it from our joint account. These purchases were just the beginning of a spending spree that would leave me in deep water a year later. I definitely had moving from joint salary of about $150k to solo salary of about $45k. I’m not sure I’ve completely learned that lesson.

April

My dad was furious with my husband. My mom, who had considered him her friend, tried as usual not to take sides, which also hurt me. Now was the time for her not to be neutral. She didn’t need to disparage him, but she didn’t need to help me see his side of things either. My therapist helped keep me upright. I refused psych drugs, even Valium. I drank a lot of wine.

I moved into my parents’ large suburban house, carefully pushing my grandmother’s antique piano into the garage and setting up my bedroom in my sister’s old room. For the first month, my folks went on two cruises, and I had the house to myself when Lauren wasn’t with me. It felt like a vacation. My disintegration slowed, not because I was working through it, but because I was stuffing it.

I went to the gym almost every day. I stopped eating all sugar. I began growing my hair out. My appetite diminished to nothing, and I learned that while I eat to ease stress and depression, at their highest intensities I stop eating. The pounds dropped off–20, to be exact, in 7 weeks. Nothing beats the divorce weight loss plan. I wanted to be sexy.

Lauren began having night terrors almost immediately upon moving–but only when she was with me. She’d wake up screaming for her daddy, and nothing would soothe her. I was so angry, and hurt. I pushed her away, leaving my mom to care for her while I vegged in my room with the door closed.

Every night Lauren was with me, her dad called to say goodnight at 8 pm. And every night she was with him, I called her at 8 to say goodnight. The ritual was important for all of us–still is. I simultaneously missed her and didn’t miss her at all, hated him and regretted him and loved him and wanted to kill him. I felt like I was trapped inside a giant bowl of sloshing water, forever seasick and unable to see where I was.

We put our house on the market, priced about $20,000 more than what we paid for it. We were used to houses selling in days for big profits (ah, those were the days), and we started getting nervous when we’d had lots of showings but no offers. Our Realtor told us to hold tight, so we did.

By the end of April, my husband and I had met with the mediator and filed for divorce. Money was an issue: we settled on a generous amount of child support until I began working full-time (if I could at my job–I’d asked and been turned down), then an amount based upon the state’s worksheet, and four-and-a-half years of a small amount of maintenance. Although my husband made more than double my salary, because he would both be paying for Lauren’s childcare and her health insurance, he didn’t technically owe me as much support as he eventually offered. In return for his generosity, I took on more of the credit card debt, a decision I would later regret.

My work was definitely suffering. I was distracted not only by all of these emotions I couldn’t name, but also by match.com and Yahoo! personals. By the end of the first month living at my parents’, I had built my online dating profile.

Sadly, I realized that I didn’t have interests to speak of outside of reading and scrapbooking. “And who wants to date a girl who does nothing but that?” I lamented to my sister over a glass of wine.

My 35th birthday was fast approaching, and I decided that this was the year of the Strong Woman. I would prove to myself, and to the world, that I could do anything I put my mind to. I would create New Interests so I wouldn’t be this crazy single mom with a ton of baggage dragging behind her. At least not until date number 4.

Counseling continued as I learned to name the muddle of emotions that coursed through my body–something I didn’t learn growing up. I went on my first date, meeting a history professor a few years my senior for dinner. We had a second date, at which I learned was  a nutjob, but what’s a better to break your dating cherry with after 12 years than someone completely unsuitable for you?

I had a psychic reading in which I learned that my ex would always be an ass about money (boy was she right) and that our house would sell in June (she was right again). She said I would be alone for a few years, then would fall in love again. This new relationship would last about five years; she wouldn’t say how it would end, but said that nothing is written in stone. She’d previously (and accurately) told me my birthmother spent half of her time in the mountains and half by the ocean, and that I wouldn’t get pregnant until  tried to find her. She suggested that I would benefit from a trip to visit Laura.

May

On the edge of the world in Maui

Laura welcomed the idea of my visiting her for a while. I had only spent a few hours with her in the three years I’d known her. I felt in my heart that I needed to be near the ocean, which always heals me, and with someone who didn’t know my past. I cashed in 60,000 frequent flier miles and flew first class to Hawaii, with an overnight in LA to see my brother on the way. It was fun to hang out with him in his adopted city for a day, to have drinks at a swank rooftop hotel bar, to see Venice Beach for the first time.

When I arrived on Maui, I met my brother Eric for the first time. Within the first 30 minutes he had convinced me to buy this special anti-EMF medallion for $100 (a family discount) by proving its effectiveness using muscle testing. I had to admit that wearing it made me feel better.I still wear it on bad days. It helps me balance.

I spent the first few days writing, doing yoga, getting massages and Reiki from Laura, a Reiki master, and sitting on the beach.

I fell in love with Big Beach, the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. I slept, and slept some more. Laura returned my rental car, insisting I drive hers. She gave me the tapes for Eckhardt Tolle’s The Power of Now, which I listened to as I drove her Jeep to Lahaina and Kana’pali.

We went hiking together. I was so afraid of saying the wrong thing I wasn’t my chatty self. I took pictures, but was afraid to ask her if we could take a picture together.

I drove alone up to the windward side of the island, with its steep cliffs and crashing surf. I found myself drawn to the edge of the world, following a path strewn with hundreds of rock cairns. The air was electric with god. I took off my flip flops and climbed to the edge of a cliff and began to scream into the wind. I threw rocks at the water several hundred feet below me. I popped the poisonous blister that festered inside my chest and let out as much yuck as I could. After about 30 minutes, I stopped and looked around me, and noticed a man, shirtless and in red shorts, standing about 1,000 yards away from me, shaking his fists into the wind.

At the weekend, Laura, Eric and I went camping on the Road to Hana. We hiked up the Pipiwai Trail, passing the Seven Sacred Pools. Eric kept daring me to jump off the tall cliffs into the pools below. I was chicken. The trail led us to a bamboo forest, which ate all sound other than the otherworldly clicking of the tall reeds. We celebrated our two-hour trek with the view of Waimoku Falls, falling 400-feet down a solid lava wall. It seemed that everywhere I turned I felt god there, wrapping me in hope and healing. On the way back down, I took Eric’s dare and jumped off a 20-foot cliff into a deep pool of water. I felt like I would never again reach the surface and the air, and realized that was exactly how I had felt for the previous six years of my life.The next morning, we drove to the top of Haleakala. Stunning doesn’t begin to describe that view.

Over the next week, I relaxed more. I snorkeled with turtles and got seasick from the buffeting waves. I spent hours on Big Beach reading and listening to Tolle and writing the first several chapters of a novel and doing nothing.

One night, Laura and I went to see a movie. It was disaster movie–we both like them–and at one tense moment, I looked over at her. To my shock, she and I were sitting in the exact same position: left ankle crossed over right, left fist tucked under right elbow, right hand near the mouth. I began to cry. I had never before seen anyone with my exact same body language. Laura and I don’t look much alike. I look like my birthfather, but with my mother’s coloring and temperament. When you are adopted, it’s hard to know who you are when you can’t see who you belong to. Finally, at that moment, I felt like I was a part of her.

Skydiving, June 5, 2004

June

I returned from Maui two weeks before my 35th birthday. I was determined to do something remarkable to mark the occasion and continue to grow New Interests and Roar.

A colleague was a professional skydiver, and she told me about a “boogie”–a gathering of a large group of skydivers–that would happen the first weekend in June at the Longmont airport. I was fascinated and terrified by the idea of jumping out of a perfectly good airplane. Anne promised me the time of my life, so I took her up on an offer to join her.

June 5 was clear and chilly and a bit windy. I spent about 20 minutes in a class learning how to position my body in the air, then waited 2 hours for my turn in the airplane. I had no idea it would take so long to get to an altitude of about 12,000 feet. I went from psyched to nervous to  “fuck Fuck FUCK FUCK FUUUUCCK!” (I know this because it was all caught on video). My tandem coach made us do a somersault out of the plane.

Being in free fall was one of the most mind blowing experiences of my life. The air was LOUD! The world opened up beneath me like a map: here the Flatirons, there Boulder reservoir, and in the distance to the south, Pike’s Peak. It didn’t feel so much like falling as standing in a hurricane. I saw a dark figure soaring toward me: Anne! She flew close and grabbed my hands. For a brief moment, we flew in a formation, then she let go and shot off. A few seconds later, my instructor pulled the chute. Noise became silence. I could hear the blood rushing through my veins. We floated for many minutes–10? 15? I lost track. The adrenaline pooled in my stomach and I became nauseous. Then the ground was approaching, and we hit a dead spot of air, and I landed flat on my ass. Ouch.

My mother was pissed that I would do something as reckless as skydiving when I had a toddler at home. When I called her to tell her I survived, she yelled at me. But I needed it to make me feel alive. And boy did it ever.

Laurel and me, the photo we used on our party invite

The next weekend, Laurel and I turned 35. We celebrated our birthdays, which are three days apart (she’s older), by throwing ourselves a party on the deck at the Emerald Isle, a dive bar with a great deck overlooking Cherry Creek Reservoir and the Front Range. We drank margaritas and ate nachos and had our palms read and talked with our friends as the sun set. I flirted with a guy who turned out to be engaged (bummer) and no one called me a slut. It was one of the best birthdays I’ve ever had.

The next day at 1:30, I arrived at a tattoo parlor and got my third tattoo: a large motif of two dragonflies with their tails twisted into the Gemini symbol on my lower back. The ink symbolized my freedom, taking flight to be the person I was supposed to be, the girl who was trapped inside a woman married to a man she settled for because she never believed anyone could really love her as she was.

The following week, I met Bad Boyfriend Jimmy on lavalife.com. We had great conversations, and for the first time in a very long time, I had sex. And liked it. A lot. He was wrong for me in so many ways–the ultimate bad boy, with a prison record, and married to boot to a woman who lived in another country. But he was exactly what I needed at the time. He didn’t like my baggage, but I got to work a little of it out on a guy who ultimately, wouldn’t matter. I still like him for that.

Dad and me, summer 2004

Dad & me, summer 2004

By mid-June, we still had no offers on the house. I went to pick up some tools from the basement and heard light footsteps on the floor above me. When I went up to investigate, no one was there. That’s when I felt it: Duncan’s energy. His happy, ball-chasing, crazy, golden retriever spirit.  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I realized our beloved dog was haunting our house, keeping buyers away. I told my husband, and he immediately went to the house and dug up Duncan’s ashes, which we’d buried in the front garden.

Two days later, we got an offer, slightly under full price. We accepted, each netting less than $5,000 on a house we’d initially invested almost $70,000 in. The $60k we lost included the amount we took out in equity in 2003, thinking we’d be in the house forever, and of course, Realtor fees.

I began looking for a place to live. As much as I love my parents, I learned that our relationship regressed when I lived with them. First, they treated me like I was an adult, then a young adult, then a teenager. By the time July rolled around, I felt (and was probably acting) like I was 15. After figuring out that it would be very difficult and quite expensive to find a rental that would accept me and my pets, I talked to a mortgage broker. I had been a homeowner since 1997, and my husband and I had owned three homes during that time. I didn’t want to rent. I started looking for a house to buy.

I didn’t want to be “that” girl who moves in with her parents and never moves out. Besides, in my own place I could have a social life instead of using Laurel’s spare room like a brothel. Kind of.

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Jan
05

The Last Decade: 2004, part one

Posted by: lynn | Comments (1)

As I look back on my life over the past decade, I don’t recognize the woman I was 10 years ago: scared, unconscious, trapped. The past decade contained a series of events and mini-awakenings that have led me here. I know I am not fully conscious … yet. But unlike 10 years ago, I can imagine the fulfilled, happy, awakened woman I will be at the turn of the next decade. In an exercise that is almost purely selfish, in the next several posts I’ll be taking a snapshot-heavy look back and where I was each year during the past 10 years, and what my major achievements and losses were. It’s the losses, I believe, that move us forward the most.

2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004-1, 2004-2, 2004-3, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009

2004: Separation, counseling, liberation

January

Saturday night. Four days before my husband, daughter and I were scheduled to travel across the country to Atlanta by plane, then spend five hours in a car driving to a small beach town, my husband turned off Trading Spaces and stood in front of me.

“I don’t love you anymore,” he started. He is a big man, 6-2 and at that time about 245. And he was shaking like a leaf. I sat on our beige couch, my Entertainment Weekly open on my lap. “I am going to my sister’s house to stay for a few days. I’ll come get Lauren for an overnight in a couple of days. We’ll have to figure things out.”

I remember being stunned. A sense of un-reality enveloped me. Time sped by and stood still simultaneously. My mouth went dry. I tried to speak, but my tongue wouldn’t cooperate. I looked at the tawny-painted walls, the charcoal textured carpet, the fireplace, the blank stare of the TV.

“This has been coming for a long time,” he said, standing in front of me.

I had come home a few nights earlier to find he had rearranged the living room without even consulting me. It was astounding, like a slap in the face. We had always decided everything together. And now this.

“I want a divorce,” he said. It was 10:30 pm.

I only remember crying, and breathing, then driving. My car, with its fast engine and safe airbags and loud stereo, was my haven. I didn’t think about Lauren. I just left, and drove. I did not have a single friend I felt I could call in the middle of the night. My mom would try to fix it, or tell me it was my fault. My sister and I were not close. My brother was as emotionally distant as he was physically absent in LA. So I drove. And then, the sun was coming up, and I was in the parking lot of Mile Hi Church. Our church, a slightly weird, New Age church that most first-time observers said reminded them of a space ship.  I wandered in to the 8 am service. Sat, sobbing quietly among 500 strangers. People to my right and left offered me tissue. Then a woman behind me said my name.

She was a member of my organization’s board of directors. Molly led me out of the sanctuary and to a small office. She told me about her divorce, and how she felt, and how she got through it.

“You will get through this,” she said. “It’s going to hurt like hell, but you will get through.”

I was numb and burning at the same time. And just around the corner from the pain was small glimmer of YES! that made me ashamed.

I called my friend Jennifer and drove to her house in the foothills. We talked for several hours, then I went home. My husband had a bag packed. He left, and I cried again. Lauren did not understand. She was 2 and a half.

I went to work and tried to hold it together. My colleagues and employers had been very understanding of me for the past six months, with my injuries and grief about Duncan and scare with my mother’s heart. And they were kind to me that week.

I didn’t want to lose the money we’d invested in our trip, so I said I’d take Lauren alone. My husband agreed to go, somewhat cowed by living with his sister and her family for a few days. We barely talked on that trip, then the second night, wound up making love more passionately than we had in years. The neutral venue and the fact that pressure had been released made me cling to him. And then, the next morning, he was back to being a bully, calling me names, telling me in so many words and actions that I was a horrible mother.

When we got home, he went back to his sister’s. A week later, I’d been to church every chance I could get. I was seeing a pastoral counselor, doing affirmations, meditating. As much as I missed my husband–the idea of him, if nothing else–I also felt a huge sense of relief under the hurt and mild terror. I began wondering if his pulling the plug on us was a blessing for me.

Then, he came back. With flowers. And apologies. He said he wanted to work it out. I was stunned, and angry. I told him we needed to go to counseling, and for the first time ever, he agreed. I let him come home, but I moved into the guest bedroom. At night I would lay in my bed–the double bed I grew up sleeping in–and think about what life would be like without him. I was terrified that I could not make it financially. I made decent part-time money, but he was the main breadwinner. There was no way I could afford our house on my own. I stayed up late on my computer doing spreadsheet after spreadsheet, trying to make the numbers work.

February

In the middle of February, after our second marriage counseling session, I attended a weekend retreat called the Inner Child Journey at Mile Hi. Based on the work of John Bradshaw, the weekend was set up to introduce you to your wounded inner kid and help her down the road to healing. It changed everything for me. Everything.

I had several realizations during that weekend:

  • I did not believe I was good enough for God, and had always felt like I was on the outside looking in when it came to having a spiritual life.
  • I had never had a soft place to fall–a place where I could completely be myself and fall apart and still feel safe.
  • My marriage was over, but it wasn’t done. Over and over I heard the saying: “When it’s done, it’s done, but it’s not done until it’s done.”

We did a lot of small group work that weekend. My best friend Laurel was in my group. We clicked instantly. She was my other epiphany. I did not know it then, but I know now that I could not have survived the coming two years without her. We are so alike that I hardly had to explain anything, and yet when I did (and I did) she listened so intently and didn’t try to fix it. We laughed and cried together (and still do).

On the second day, I came home to find my husband had painted the kitchen and was working on the living room. The year before, I had painstakingly painted a beautiful faux finish in the kitchen (I’d taken classes and done two paid jobs) and a color-block treatment in the living room. These were expressions of my art, and his painting over them without even mentioning it to me felt like a last straw. We screamed at each other with Lauren standing between us in the office. She clung to my leg, then to his. I have only been that furious a few times in my life. My words were scathing.

I went back to my workshop on Sunday morning, unsettled and devastated. The weekend was meant to be transformative, but we were not supposed to make drastic changes in our lives for 30 days. I made a pact to sit tight.

My husband and I went to counseling, which felt useless to me. I bit my tongue, watching the calendar go by. At one session, the counselor asked us to write down three things we wanted the other person to do for us to show love and a commitment to working things out. I asked my husband to give me a love note or romantic card, to kiss me without insinuating the kiss would lead to sex and to surprise me with flowers. He asked me to unload the dishwasher, give Lauren a bath and clean the cat box. Over the next week, I did all he asked. He did nothing. It told me all I needed to know. If I stayed, nothing would change

March

We had a counseling session one month to the day after the Inner Child Journey. As soon as we sat on the couch, I pulled a round throw pillow into my lap as if it could protect me. I listened to him make excuses for why he couldn’t do anything I needed to feel loved, even over a week, as I stared through the blinds at a high-rise apartment building. I wondered how much rent was, if I could have a grill on the balcony, if they accepted cats. When he finished speaking, I took a deep breath and looked at him.

“S, I am done with this marriage. I cannot imagine ever having sex with you again. I do not want to be with you any more. I want a divorce,” I said. My voice was strong and clear. I was never more certain of anything in my life.

Our counselor helped him through his shock. The bully for once was not getting his way. We began talking about how to dismantle our lives, and agreed  to meet for lunch at California Pizza Kitchen at Cherry Creek Mall. Neither of us wanted the house. Neither of us wanted the other to have the house. I couldn’t afford to rent a place and pay the mortgage. By the time he arrived at the restaurant, I had the solution:

He would move into an apartment. I would move in with my parents. We would split custody of Lauren 50/50. And we would sell the house.

It all seemed so simple. And I felt on the verge of a freedom I’d never experienced before.

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