It doesn’t make it right

The day finally arrived, the day I have dreaded with anxiety and apprehension on behalf of my two younger boys mainly, the day they finally meet my ex’s live-in girlfriend (or as I prefer to call her, his whore) The divorce agreement stated pretty clearly that we (my ex and/or I) would wait at least six months, from the day our divorce was final. before introducing a new significant other to our children.

That day would be near the end of June.

As it turns out, my ex (so many names I could substitute here…) had already had her waiting in the wings during our divorce proceedings – or sooner for all we know. By the time we were finally divorced, within one year, he had already been with her for at least six months that he was willing to admit to. He took this newly released, or accidentally found piece of information, to mean that he could now instantly parade her in front of our kids to “move on with our lives” and “turn the page”.

They would love her and it would be wonderful!

This wasn’t a new relationship for him he told me, this was what he saw as a longterm meaningful relationship, so the kids should just accept it and “accept us as a couple”.

Nicely done, he hides major life information about himself for months from his family, but once it’s revealed he pushes full force to make it “normal”.  He practically insists that everyone be happy for him, or at least accepting of whatever he chooses to do and with who, regardless of how it affects anyone else.

Once again, trying to control how everyone is supposed to react and feel, for his benefit.

After a turbulent road of pushing back on this idea, even involving my attorney to make him abide by our legal agreement, he finally stopped pushing for this meeting and waited. He often claimed to want what was best for our boys, and that he would wait until they were ready like any good parent should, but during these last few months he let them know in subtle (and not so subtle) ways that they were disappointing him – and hurting his feelings.

Guilt was the flavor of the day during their visits when she was not around, the only time that he would spend time with the boys. And his availability became even more limited during this time, sometimes only allowing time for him to have a restaurant meal with them for an hour or two because he couldn’t bring her along. No, he needed to rush back to her, to attend to their new lives together, and to keep his dream life going with or without his children.

He doled out his love in slivers until they would play along. He eventually played the “Father’s Day card”, it would be only right to meet her over that weekend to make him happy, because, you know, it is Father’s Day. (Insert pouty, sad look here. Cue the violins.)

That day was a day filled with anxiety, fear, worry. For me.

It was the day before Father’s Day, and also the day before our middle son, the most emotionally charged of the three, left for the next seven weeks to work at a summer camp. There were so many ways this could be ugly and go wrong, go skidding off into a horrible nightmare, damaging our kids in ways that may take years of therapy to undo. Yes, that’s a bit dramatic, but nothing about this “journey” has been easy or surprisingly wonderful. Nothing.

So why expect that now?

But that’s my job, isn’t it? To worry for my children when they don’t have the sense, or the experience, to worry for themselves. I am the last guard on watch to protect them, to shelter them as long as need be, to wrap them up in my love like bubble wrap so that they never really have to hurt.

I have been hyper-vigilant these last few months, trying to contain our world and protect it from the ugliness that is right outside of our door – or actually just on the other side of town. I thought I was doing the right thing, truly I did. I thought I was giving them the space and time they needed to have the tools to work through all of it, to hopefully come out happy and well adjusted in the end. I wanted them to be ready, even if “ready” meant needing more time than my ex demanded. I wanted them to feel safe and secure, to know that they did have choices when it came to their feelings and their own lives, they could set boundaries and it would be okay.

And no matter what, I would always be there to protect them.

Turns out I may have been more right than I expected. I gave them the time, and even when I didn’t think it was enough time, they realized that it was for them. Or at least, they were willing to try.

It was only for one afternoon, for a barbecue and pool day, no real schedule given or agreed upon. I made certain that my middle son knew that he could leave at any time, if he felt uncomfortable or angry or any other deep emotion, and that it would be okay. And I instructed him to watch over his younger brother, and be ready to do the same for him, if he was feeling overwhelmed or uncomfortable. His dad should be a grown-up and accept the baby steps that they may need to adjust to all of this, I explained.

And while they went to their “meet and greet” I went to my parents’ house, over an hour away from home, to see my dad for Father’s Day. I enjoyed the day with my family, but I felt a bit lost without my boys. It felt odd to be there without them and to know that I was so far away.

I worried. The entire time I was there, talking and eating with my family, I worried about what was happening back home in his house. I imagined ugly outbursts, sickeningly sweet attempts by her to woo them, tears or worse. I checked my phone almost every thirty minutes, expecting to see an angry text from one of them telling me they were going home and never going back.

But there was nothing.

I eventually went home, texting them to say I would be home soon, and surprisingly to me, they were still at his house. I expected them to stay a couple of hours, put in the face time and get out. But they stayed for over four hours. I was amazed.

And I will admit, a little disappointed.

Once we were all home together I heard a few comments about their day. Nothing negative. They swam, they ate, they had a good day. My youngest even went into some detail about how she was better than he expected, she didn’t talk too much, and she asked them questions about themselves, and made a funny joke about the wrapping paper, and she even attempted to play a video game with him…

Can you hear my heart breaking? Can you feel my brain freeze up, and notice the numbness that is spreading over my entire body? Yeah, he didn’t either.

He used her name, twice, as if she was just another family friend. It stung, like a hard slap to my face. She was moving into our lives, normalizing her part in this ugly drama, and there was nothing I could do to change it. It was as if she could slowly erase the ugly memories of the months of lies, disconnection and deception she played a part in with their dad. Gently pushing it all to the outskirts of their memory by creating new memories, making it all less clear and seemingly less important to the rest of the story. The new story would be happier with her involved now, creating a new-style nuclear family unit in his house, and for that to happen she was going to be the best version of the new character that she could be to win them over.

I should be glad. I should be relieved that my boys feel comfortable, and are working towards acceptance of this new normal, right?

But, I’m not completely glad, and I don’t feel bad about that, even if I should feel bad about not being glad. Even if it makes me sound bitter, resentful, or mean spirited. I accept those judgements and in response I say ‘you try accepting this idea after a twenty five year relationship, try handing off your family to the new-improved model taking your place with happy thoughts, a wave and a smile, then get back to me.’

I dare you.

Where is the outrage? Where is the hurt, confused, angry denial of this cliche debacle that I expected from my children, in defense of their mother? The same children that I worked almost half of my life to diligently protect and love, against anyone or anything that may hurt them? Why aren’t they circling the wagons to protect me, or calling out their father for his disgusting dismissal of a life that we built together?

Why aren’t they holding him accountable?

So many answers have been thrown my way by well-meaning friends and family, and I know that many of those suggested answers have some truth to them, and are most likely exactly the reason. They’re trying to protect themselves, they’re doing whatever it takes to keep their father in their lives, they trust your love so much that they can risk making you angry, or hurt, or even push back from you more than they can from him. They feel safe with you.

But that doesn’t make it hurt less. It doesn’t make it right.

And it surely doesn’t make me want to play nice and be happy like a TV movie, or weekly drama. Why is it always so easy for TV families to just roll with the dismantling of their family, and within the next episode they’re all having brunch together and planning a blended family vacation? Who writes this stuff?? Does that really happen somewhere in this universe? Is that reality and I’m the delusional one?

It must be a reality somewhere if my kids are any example, or represent any other “normal” divorced family. Not just made for TV, but for real life.

But I still don’t have to like it. And I don’t.



Revenge body

As part of my attempt to reclaim myself once again, I’ve returned to crossfit after being MIA for approximately one year. I had always read about other people’s experience with crossfit and they’re declarations of how it “saved my life” and other such testimonials. They were down on their luck, lost a loved one, depressed, obese, you name it.

When I was in the thick of my divorce haze, lost and wandering aimlessly from one day to the next, I wanted to be one of those people. I wanted it to keep me on track, give me a reason to get up in the morning, make me want to take care of myself like everyone was telling me to do. I wanted it to be my religion.

Basically, I wanted it to save me.

It didn’t. Plain and simple, it really didn’t. If anything, it became one more thing that I was failing to do well. Up until the Thanksgiving before everything disintegrated in my marriage, I had been pretty regular and worked hard enough to feel good about it. I looked forward to going, not only for the workouts but for the people that I saw and talked to. It was a sense of community that was all mine and I loved the feeling. I was never a truly committed crossfitter, eating strictly Paleo and working on my kipping pull-ups while I kept track of my time on Fran with determination to beat it, but I was “good enough”.  Enough to keep me coming back with the intention of someday getting better at some of the challenges or lifting heavier. I may not have been achieving washboard abs or a killer muscle up, but I was happy.

When my world turned sideways at that time, nothing looked or felt the same. The things that brought me joy, made me happy and feeling like I was accomplishing something each day, all seemed to melt into the background. There was a fuzzy haze surrounding my brain, making even the simple things overwhelming.

I couldn’t do the math.

It hit me one day as I slogged through a set of lifts, and realized that I could not figure out the weight percentages, or remember how many reps I had done. I just stared at the bar, and then at my phone app, willing them to tell me the answers. The math, simple fifth grade style math, was suddenly more than my brain would allow. It wasn’t just irritating, it was disappointing and depressing. I was trying so hard to focus, to take my mind off of my “real life” and escape for only one hour, and it was all remaining a blurry mess.

I went home and cried. Then I sent an email telling my trainer that I needed to take some time off and would hopefully be back in time for summer. I was gone for a year.

I worked on myself from the inside out during that year. First being turned inside out from the ugliness of my divorce and dealing with the deep depression that I could no longer ignore. Then, when I could think more clearly after the divorce was final, and I had moved into my own home, I was ready to go back and try it again.

I was more than ready this time, I was excited. I was looking forward to finding “me” once again. And that “me” loved crossfit, and the people in my gym, and the friends that accepted me as the “worlds okayest crossfitter” (I have the t-shirt to prove it) I was ready to do the math. And I was ready to do my best, to commit to the process, and just bring the best version of myself to the gym. No judgement, no expectations. I just wanted to be in my happy place.

The funny thing is how some people have perceived my intentions to return to crossfit. On a few occasions I’ve heard the comment, “oh you’re working on your revenge body”. My ‘revenge body’? I find that an odd way to describe my reasons for going back.

I have thought back to the times, many times in fact, that I worked my ass off to look good for my ex-husband over the years. Honestly, I don’t think I ever really did it for myself over the last twenty years. I told myself that I was at the time, but deep down there was more at stake. I was always hoping that if I could somehow be more of what he wanted, (mentally, socially and physically) our relationship would improve.

Maybe I just wasn’t sexy enough?

Maybe I was letting myself go and didn’t even realize it?

I did Atkins for over a year, lost twenty pounds and fielded compliments from various people – friends, family, neighbors – making me feel great about myself. I had to buy new clothes to fit my slimmer figure, I had more energy, and I thought I was on the right track to reclaiming that girl that he was attracted to years before. It went mostly unnoticed.

Other times I have worked my ass off doing bootcamp classes, running 5k and 10k races, keeping a diligent food diary and eating low carb – just to look good for someone who rarely ever made plans for a “date night” with me, much less took any real notice of my changing body or the effort I put into it. I was part of the scenery.

The last time that I worked diligently to be the best physical version of myself was before the spring that he was offered his latest promotion. We went on a spring break family vacation that coincided with his company convention for a week. I even went out and bought a stunning navy lace dress, the clerk said it fit me like it was made for me, just to wow him at the opening cocktail party, so sure that he would be blown away by my transformation from frumpy housewife to hot sexy wife that he would want to cut out early just to have hot hotel sex with me.

Instead, he barely remembered to introduce me at the cocktail party (as usual) and left me to my own devices over dinner, sitting at the opposite end of the table, to help him entertain his clients that attended. I smiled, made conversation to keep clients entertained, and did my supportive spousal duty for the duration of the night. And later that evening, when I asked him if he was ready to go upstairs to our room, he chose to stay in the hotel patio area drinking with his colleagues and clients until 2am.

I went up to our hotel room alone. Once again.

The remainder of the week was pretty much more of the same. The kids and I were an accessory for his trip, part of the window dressing for his many colleagues and clients to appreciate him as a family man. Nothing more.

So, a revenge body is not what I am going for by any stretch of the imagination. What revenge would I enjoy with a rockin’ hot body now that we’re divorced? I’ve had that body more often than I care to remember during our marriage, and it didn’t make a single ripple in our relationship. It didn’t bring me any more satisfaction, or love, than my regular body did. If anything, it made me more miserable because nothing really changed. All of that work, all of that effort, and nothing really changed in the end.

I had tried to do it for someone other than myself most times, assuming that I would reap the benefits, he would finally love me the way I truly wanted him to love me.

He would see me, notice me, appreciate me. But he never did.

Not this time. This time I am doing it all for myself, without worrying about who will notice or appreciate the work that I put in to get there. There is no one I am trying to impress, to lure, to attract. It makes me happy, that’s my only goal. I plan my days around my workouts now, I look forward to them and to seeing the friends I have there. I am ready to be the best version of myself for myself.

This time, it is only about me. And maybe that is the best revenge?


I was the problem

While I was stripping beds and gathering laundry today, in my very own house, I was thinking about where I was a year ago today. Not just physically, but mentally.

Deep down within myself.

It seems so odd, and distant, already. Almost dream like. The person that I was back then is almost someone I didn’t know, and never thought I would meet. But that person was very real. She was very scared, very defeated and very hurt. She was spinning her wheels in place, trying to find traction to prove she could keep moving forward, but she had no idea how to get out of the ditch she was in, and could not figure out how she got there in the first place. Her world had fallen apart, the wheels had come off of the wagon, and with it her self-esteem and her sense of self. She doubted everything. She didn’t trust herself, her instincts or her memory of the life she had before.

It was time to regroup, rewire and reclaim her self.

I had written at the beginning of 2016 that this would be my “Year of Yes”. I was so determined to move forward, bravely and forcefully, that I had to give it a name. And I had to blog about it – I made sure to let everyone that I knew know what my intentions were for 2016, so I could be held accountable. Not really a new year’s resolution, I assured myself, but a journey to self improvement.

I would push back against this force and I would be victorious!

It makes me sad now to read the desperation written into that blog entry. The way I wanted everyone to know that I could do this, I was stronger than anyone thought, and I would come out of it with few injuries and only a better version of myself.

Desperately wanting to ‘fix’ what was ‘wrong’ with me. Desperately wanting validation.

I took up sewing (thanks to a Groupon), decided to challenge myself to read 25 books in one year on Goodreads (even though I could barely finish a magazine article at the time), decided it was my life’s goal to take ballroom dance lessons, and agreed to the challenge to wear make-up everyday for thirty days to see if it changed my life. All with the mantra, “this is my year of yes!”

And I had to let the world know…or it wouldn’t count.

Looking back at it now, I panicked, plain and simple. I was borderline manic in my determination to recreate myself, to find out who I truly was and to become the best version of myself, if I am honest. And at the heart of it, without realizing it was there, was the idea that I was obviously not good enough.

If I was good enough, all of this would not be happening to me.

If I was good enough, my marriage would have been successful and we would have grown old together, happily. If I was good enough, he would have loved me unconditionally and treated me with love and respect. If I was good enough, I would have felt it in my heart and known it in my bones, and so would everyone else.

But I wasn’t. So, I had to fix it.

That’s what I do.

I look at a problem from all angles, I try to understand it almost clinically, and then I research for solutions. I take my research very seriously too, to the point that I will read every book, every blog, every magazine article and talk to all of my friends (and some of my family) to find the solution to my problem. It’s never easy, and it’s always a process, but the process is what keeps me going. The process is necessary. I need to understand the problem, to dissect it, before I can fix it.

But, in this case, I was the problem.

That was so clear to me. I was the problem. If only I was more fun, more interesting, more outgoing. Prettier, younger, smarter, more positive. This isn’t a new theme in my life, that voice of doubt has been playing in my head almost since I can remember, and maybe that’s exactly the problem. I have been listening to that voice in my head for so long that I tend to find – no, seek out – people who agree with it.

It’s so much easier that way. And comfortable. And so familiar.

Over the past year, I’ve come to realize that this is what I have been doing all along. I have been self-sabotaging, trying to live up to other people’s expectations and desires, in the hopes of feeling fulfilled…and enough.

But something has changed this past year, something coming from deep inside.

I have come to the conclusion that I am indeed enough, at least for me. Honestly, most of the time, I am more than enough. I can even be too much, if you’re not the right person, in the right moment. And I’m good with that.

I’ve cut ties with the people who have made me feel less than over the years, with ideas that have made me unhappy, and with expectations that only limit who I am.

I don’t need a “year of yes” to prove it.

It has taken the better part of a year, with all of it’s ups and downs and sharp turns, to take a long hard look at myself under a magnifying lens, and to forgive myself for doubting who I am all along. I have had to push through, with gritted teeth and white knuckled grip sometimes, to make it to the other side of this crazy mess – all the while trying to protect my kids, my family and sometimes my sanity. But in the end, I’ve done it and I keep on improving on it. I’ve proven that I am strong enough, smart enough, pretty enough. I am learning to accept and appreciate myself in ways that I never imagined because I was alway made to believe that I shouldn’t. I’ve finally opened up the door, and let in my true self.

And she’s pretty freaking awesome.



Remember that time when…?

The number of times I have heard that phrase, over the last twenty five years of my life, is immeasurable. The number of times it included me were few and far between.

In the beginning of our relationship, the courting and dating era, I began to hear the  stories from my ex’s friends. They were adventurous, funny, embarrassing, coming of age type of stories. I enjoyed them, it was a way for me to get to know him better through the eyes of his friends, and to get an idea of what type of friend he was to others. It’s part of the normal progression of discovery in a new relationship. They had all been together since the beginning of high school, so they knew him much better than I did, and I was eager to learn more about him.

Most of the stories and memories came from high school, some from college and after, but mainly from their teen years. We all have those “crazy” stories that we share with our friends, and even our families, we even use them sometimes to slightly embarrass each other in front of a new love interest. Like showing naked baby pictures, or school pictures from that period of your life when your teeth were too big for your mouth and your hair was a crazy mop of bad decisions. Those are the experiences, embarrassing or otherwise, that make us the people we are today.

Experiences that have shaped, added color to and created the tapestry of our life.

As time went on, the stories still continued, but began to be repeated. Let’s be honest, there are only so many memories you can collectively share, that you have from any period of your life, that you can relate and retell. Eventually, you begin to recycle them.

It was usually during a night out with “the gang”; at a party, during a holiday celebration, at a wedding, a reunion or even a funeral. Sometimes it was just having a beer together with one or more of his friends in a bar or restaurant or in our home, it was a conversation filler, a way to reconnect. I listened and smiled, laughed at the right parts, and looked just as entertained as they all seemed to be with themselves.

After more than a few years of us being a couple I began to notice that the stories never got updated. They worked on a certain timeline.

And that timeline didn’t include me.

That’s not to say that we didn’t have some life-changing, scratch your head, laugh out loud funny, do you believe that happened? kind of memories. Or that they happened in a vacuum. No, we did many things with his group of friends – actually most of our time together was with his group of friends usually – and I assumed, over time, that would make them my friends too, and we would all have shared memories to reminisce over.

That’s not how it works, I guess.

In the beginning, I accepted that they didn’t include me, because I was new to the group and hadn’t grown up with any of them, or in their town for that matter. I was originally from the same town, but had moved in grade school, so my opinions and observations of the area really didn’t count. I’m not really “from” there then.

I eventually mentioned it to my ex, after about seven years of hearing “remember that time” for the umpteenth time. I wondered out loud if any of them had made any new memories, maybe something interesting had happened since they turned 21?

Why didn’t they ever talk about the camping trips we took together, when the raccoons stole fruit out of our coolers and we put up heavy cotton tents in the dark in 90 degree heat? Or relive the time it was so cold that a neighbor camper slept in their truck and ran the engine all night – much to the irritation of one of our guys, who let them know in very colorful language around 2am – and we all decided that to stay warm that night we should all sleep naked? (the guys obviously came up with that idea)

Or how about the vacation we took with one of the couples and the creepy hotel room in Memphis, with the scuzzy pool, and we arrived too early to check in after driving all night to get there? Maybe even the party where I first hung out with my ex, the night we both went along with most of the people from the bar that were part of a wedding earlier in the day, to one of the couples’ house to keep the party rolling, and the crazy fight that ensued later where furniture went flying through the front window (along with one or two people), and I slept on the floor of a bedroom so I wouldn’t disturb anyone?

It’s not as if I wasn’t around, or didn’t participate in a life that they were all currently living, for the last twenty or more years. I just didn’t count. I didn’t make the cut.

I wasn’t an original player, or a “founding member” of his fan club. And looking back on it all now, they were all part of their own fan club – the “popular kids” from high school, all grown up now, but still living in the past.

A collective fantasy of forever high school.

The fact that most of his friends had married someone from their high school, and he didn’t, wasn’t lost on me. It made me uncomfortable at first, the feeling that I had to try harder to be accepted, and yet I never got it quite right. I went to the wrong school, in the wrong town, and at the wrong time – I had graduated two years before most of them.

No, I was never part of the “remember that time” conversations, I was just the captive audience, and eventually I stopped playing the game. I stopped participating in the peanut gallery to cheer, laugh and be amazed by them all. I finally made it clear to my ex after a long while, that I was over the whole tired practice of it all, and had no desire to attend another class reunion alongside him to re-meet his old school friends – not only do I get to stand there, smiling like an idiot listening to the same stories over again while they puff out their chests and slap each other on the back or laugh hysterically at their own antics, but I get the added bonus of him most likely ignoring me the entire night, and often times, not even bothering to introduce me to the his fringe fan club.

That’s a fun time, who wouldn’t want to miss that??

My ex would even go out of his way sometimes to point out that I had no idea what was so funny, or interesting, or great about whatever story because I wasn’t there to experience it.

And many times he would recount a story that involved me – maybe I was even at the center of the action – and still manage to leave me out of it entirely. Somehow he or another friend had saved the day, found the answer, had the great idea or made the hysterical comment. I would honestly sit there and wonder how that was even possible…how did I remember being there, at the heart of the story, and not make the final version? How could he leave me out of it entirely? It would make me question my own memory, searching back to recall details to reassure myself, only to think that maybe I wasn’t there at all or it didn’t really happen the way I remembered it.

But I do remember when…even if they never remember me.




She tried to tell me

I can still hear her British voice in my head today. My dear friend, Alexia.

We became friends while my ex and I were living in Germany, and stayed friends afterward. We met at the international playgroup in the city, a very diverse international mix of mothers and children showing up to sing songs, dance and make crafts while we drank coffee and exchanged new mom stories. We had only lived in Germany for about six months when I first tried the playgroup, and it was the most glorious connection I had made since moving to a foreign country!

It was my life line and my escape.

Alexia led the playgroup at the time that I began to attend. She was warm and friendly and welcoming. I loved her immediately. I truly admired her for her strength, her wit, her laugh, her way of directing people without being overbearing, and her straightforward style of telling you exactly what she thought without crushing you. She was like a movie star in the theater of my mind.

I wanted to be just like her someday, when I grew up.

We became friends over the course of many cups of strong coffee and many versus of  “Wind the Bobbin Up”. This led to dinners together, on our own and with our husbands sometimes, and playdates with our children to play together in the back garden or race Bobby Cars down the slanting driveway. She became a constant in my world. A beacon of light. I turned toward her like a flower reaching for the sun.

She was the epitome of “having it together” in my mind.

We would talk about our children, our families, our history, and of course our marriages and husbands. How we met, what our courting/dating was like, our weddings, etc. That’s what women do to bond and to get to know each other. You can tell a lot about a person from the way they describe their relationship.

I lived in Germany for six years, and over the course of that time, I am certain that I filled her ears with my many trials and tribulations of life abroad as an American. The challenges and the struggles. Alexia was British and married to a German man, that was a common pairing in Europe. My husband and I were pretty much the exception to the expat rule at the time. We were both American and didn’t speak a word of German when we arrived.

During all of this female bonding time I am sure that I told her some of my most annoying, and disturbing, stories about my husband and our marriage. I thought it was the thing that girlfriends did, we shared and commiserated, it was a way to blow off steam so you didn’t blow off your husband’s head!

After a few years of confiding in her, one day she looked me in the eye and said, “It doesn’t sound like you’re happily married.”

I was stunned. Not happily married? I asked her what gave her that idea, of course I’m happily married! Why wouldn’t I be? Her explanation was simply that most of my stories about my husband and marriage weren’t very positive, they were sad, frustrating and negative types of stories. I didn’t really have anything good to say about our relationship, or our marriage, for the most part.

I stayed the course of defending my ‘happy marriage’, “What do you mean? Those are things that all wives talk about with their friends, it’s an outlet to share it with someone else. Everyone has their issues and annoyances with their husbands. We all do it.” Alexia didn’t miss a beat, she looked at me with her head slightly tilted and said, “I never talk about my husband that way.” And, she was right. She really didn’t.

I was quiet.

I should have taken that as a sign, a nudge, to take a hard look at my marriage and what I wanted out of it. That was over fifteen years ago. But instead, I decided not to share anymore of those negative stories with her, plus I became more aware of what I shared with most people. I covered it up, left it at the door when I came in, and only shared the good stuff.

Now that I am divorced, I can look back and search for clues, look at my mistakes as well as his, basically armchair quarterback during the replays of our entire relationship. What I should have, what I could have, done differently. I can almost pinpoint when it had started to sour, when I had begun to feel invisible and unimportant to him. I remember telling him how I felt so many times, usually in tears, and still nothing changed. I can remember the big, blowout arguments as well as all of our little disagreements, that led us to this place.

She was right. I was not happily married.

I should have looked more closely at it all at the time that she shared this epiphany with me, but instead I chose to hide it more, to bury it down deeper inside. I began to keep my attitude in check and stay positive in most public instances, not just playgroup anymore.  Even with my own family. I wanted to make certain that everyone thought, that everyone knew, that I was happy. We were happy.

They could all say that we were happy, and truly loved each other, with conviction.

But we weren’t. We were functional most of the time. Of course, we had some really great times together, and loved each other most of the time, but there were long spells of that not being the case over our twenty years together.

He had come from a widowed mother early on in his childhood, and I from a divorced family, we didn’t really know how it was supposed to work or what marriage  should look like. But we were determined and willing to go the distance, at almost any cost, to prove that we were good people with a good, solid marriage. We could live up to the American dream that escapes so many other couples and keep an intact family. We would prove it with each passing year, with each celebrated anniversary. But we weren’t really happy with each other, and it showed in some of the smallest, simplest details.

It’s not always the big stuff.

At the time, it’s hard to admit that it’s really not going the way you had hoped, that your promise to stay with each other for a lifetime may have been an overreach for both of you. We each had our own expectations of how marriage worked, how to raise kids, even how to love each other. It wasn’t very similar in most areas, any areas to be honest, and that created the first crack in our trust of each other and our love for each other that grew with each passing year. A crack that created a small valley in the early years, would eventually lead to a gaping hole between us after many years of ignoring the obvious signs.

She tried to tell me. I should have listened.




But, I can’t…

This is the first weekend that my boys are going to stay with my ex…for an entire weekend. At least, that’s the expectation.

And honestly, I want them to want to go and hang out with their dad. To do cool things that only a dad can make happen, especially with boys. I want them to be excited to see him and to have his full attention for an entire weekend.

Plus, I would love to have the divorce ‘perk’ of having weekends to myself…what mom wouldn’t?!

But I know that it’s not like that. And it may never be that way.

I know that they haven’t missed a thing, over the last year, while he made himself mostly unavailable to them every weekend. They kept count of the hours that he “put in”, it didn’t go unnoticed. I know that they are rocked to their core over the changes that he has forced upon us all – his long term girlfriend moving into our house to eventually be his wife, without any introduction or warning, kind of changes. I know that they don’t really trust him to think of how they feel, or care what they want. on a weekend or otherwise. He hasn’t so far, why expect anything different?

I know that I should let it go and let it play out. Let them discover who he really is.

But, I can’t.

I worry too much, I think too much, I hurt too much for everyone else. I want to protect them, to make it better, to take away the pain and the hurt.

But I can’t.

I wanted it to play out the way that we had agreed upon, with the normal divorce expectations, the slow build up to leading separate lives and bringing in new players, but that hasn’t happened. I wanted our kids to get used to a new normal first, to feel safe and protected by both of their parents wanting only what’s best for them, but that hasn’t happened.

I want him to be better than he is right now. I want him to think of someone else, other than himself – or his new cool life – and to see how he’s trampling on their feelings and trust. I want him to realize that he’s the reason that they don’t feel safe to trust him, and it’s nothing that I did or said, it’s his actions or lack of that are holding them back.  I want him to know that he created this divide between himself and his boys.

But I can’t.

I can’t change who he is, I can’t rewrite the script. I can’t make him more accountable. I can’t make him a better dad. I can’t turn back the hands of time and get a do-over, not that that would help.

I can’t change it. I can’t change him.

This is new territory for all of us, new territory that we didn’t expect to have to traverse. We are winding our way along a path with too many forks, too many hills, and all the while we are hoping that we will come to a flat meadow full of peace and promise, and finally be able to relax. We are thirsty, tired and frustrated. And we want it to be over. I want to get to that place for all of us, to make it better, carry the burden to save them the heartache and disappointment.

But I can’t.



Live, learn and read

“We’re amazing people – after all – no one robs an empty house.”

– Becoming the Narcissists Nightmare, by Shahida Arabi 

I have begun reading a variety of books, and blogs, on divorce, narcissism (NPD) and depression in the last few months. That’s how I deal with things usually, I tackle problems and challenges in a somewhat clinical way. I do my research and due diligence to get the answers I need, the answers that help me not only understand my circumstances, but accept them and eventually move on. So, I read. 

A lot.

I read to make sense of things. I not only want to know what it is, or how it happened, but why it happened to me. What did I do, or not do, to attract this treatment or reaction? How did I allow myself to give up my true self and get mentally beaten down, while convincing myself that I was being loved, for so long?

Is it normal, common, typical?

Or is it just me? Am I broken, different?

I can talk about it until my head hurts, and I’ve cried until I’m depleted, but most of my friends and family are tired of listening to me, or will be soon. I still need to understand the why’s and how’s, though. I need to know what my part was in it all, how to avoid it in the future, possibly even how to help someone else eventually. 

I’m a researcher. It’s what I do.

I want to rebuild my armor with a new security system, I suppose. Adding in a new checkpoint, with a safety switch.

The phrase “live and learn” has been running through my mind on a continuous loop, for most of my life, if I am honest. From love relationships, to family disagreements and friendships gone sour, to career decisions. The problem appears to be that I’m not putting the idea of learning from experience into practice quite as often as I should. I am not only living, but more often than I care to admit, reliving these lessons without completely learning from them.

My own personal “Groundhog Day”. (I feel you, Bill Murray.)

So, in the hopes of learning from a truly painful lesson this time around, I am reading. I am reading everything I can find and searching for more. I am building a community for understanding. This way I can label it, learn about it, know the signs and feel stronger in the end.

Empowered. Protected. Prepared.

I think I read about doing this in a book one time…