Wanted: Instructions for navigating life

There should be a manual for the post-divorce life.  Everyone offers all sorts of advice on divorce while you're trudging through the slop of the process, but I've found that the after-life has been as difficult as the process itself, but without the glut of advisers.

The first gut punch came when my ex-husband moved in with his girlfriend last fall.  It was a reality check: he's really moved on.  As much as I had moved on too, there was a small part of me--however ridiculous--that was hurt that he was over me.  Call it foolish pride.

In the ensuing months, there have been other difficult moments: my kids talking about their "new" grandparents (the girlfriend's parents), the call that came from the girlfriend that my daughter had to have stitches, my ex-husband coaching her son's basketball team.  All small matters, but weighty despite their size.

Yesterday, when I picked up my seven-year-old daughter from her dad's house, she was bursting with news.

"Guess what!" she exclaimed, her eyes shining.  "Terri got engaged!  To Dad!"

I blinked hard, not quite sure I had heard her right.  "Dad asked Terri to marry him?" I asked incredulously.

"Yep!  And Dad says we could call Terri 'Mom' now," she reported importantly.

"No.  Absolutely not," I tartly responded, more harshly than I had intended.  I tried again: "I don't think that's appropriate, honey.  You have a mom; Terri's more like a bonus caring adult in your life."  We attempted to talk this through, but the moment was wrong--and so was my attitude.

Because what wasn't being said, what I couldn't tell my young daughter, was that I was sad.  But I couldn't wrap my mind around why.  I swallowed hard over the unpleasant emotional bile, changed the topic of conversation, and drove on to her softball game.

Later that night, as I settled into bed, my mind returned to my ex and his girlfriend.  Fiancee, I corrected myself.  Why did that feel so uncomfortable?  Why was my mouth twisted  into a grimace at the thought?  Even now, a day later, my face is still contorted as I sit here writing.

I finally realized that I am resentful because he has achieved success....and I am struggling.  Since our separation over three years ago, I have lost my job, moved three times, and floundered in relationships. He has kept his job, moved up in housing conditions, and found a steady love.  While I don't aspire for the things he does--a house in the suburbs, teeming with children (hers and ours)--I do have goals that have yet to be realized, and I'm frustrated.  His success underscores my own failures.

Navigating change is tricky.  Accepting change is even harder.  There is no book on how to interact with your ex-spouse, or at least none that I'm aware of.  All of us have different relationships with our exes--even among my circle of girlfriends.  Some of my friends' relationships are highly antagonistic, some are superficially polite, and still others have maintained a friendship of sorts.  But the thread of commonality is that change has occurred--a divorce--and a new set of circumstances has arisen, one that  requires us to be emotionally adaptable.

I know I shouldn't compare my life to anyone else's, but when the chips are down, it's hard not to look around and covet what I see.  The last few years haven't been for naught: I am almost done with a Master's degree and I have been a part of my children's lives in ways that I couldn't be if I was working full-time.  Still, I'm ready for the next phase of my life--ready for the challenges and the joys of a career, a love, and a home.

Broken Hearts Club, Vol. II

"Can I ask you a question?"

Through clenched teeth he responded, guarded: "Okay...."

We were in his kitchen, the third location that night for an argument that had spanned an hour, maybe more. With these bouts, there was no bell and time became uncountable. 

I tightly closed my eyes and mustered up my courage, feeling a pit in my stomach and a lump in my throat.  I opened my eyes, and forced a steady voice: "At least tell me what your emotions are right now. Name them."

His eyes softened for a moment as he met my stare. I saw a tenderness hiding behind the harsh glare of anger. 

"Mad. Frustrated. Angry," he responded in a tone that was as hard as it was dishonest. 

"And hurt?" I softly asked. 

He scoffed.  "Hurt? What is that? I don't get hurt," he bitterly responded. It was a defense mechanism, and he knew I knew. 

He took a long swig of his beer, buying both of us a moment of quiet. He'd been slamming beers angrily now for twenty minutes, choosing to dump poison into his liver rather than speak poisonous, angry  words.

I met his flashing eyes with sudden equal anger. Two could play this game, I thought. I opened the refrigerator and reached for a bottle of wine. I poured a long pour into a wine glass and greedily drank it in one gulp. He stared, surprised.

Seizing the moment, I took the cool silver can from his hands and set it on the counter. I leaned in and kissed him, tasting the beer and the utter shock on his lips. Then I stared hard and spoke:

"I will be damned if I let you go. I'm fighting for us, for you. Stop fighting against us and start working for us. We have come too God-damned far to just give up now.  I fucking love you," I fervently whispered into his face. "I know you know hurt. I do, too. Be. Human. Right now, right in this space."

His Atlantic blue eyes searched my face, looking intently for safety and love. The air was still and hung heavy with my declaration for a long minute. 

He grabbed my face with both of his hands, pulling me in abruptly for a kiss. I felt a tear brush my cheek--I don't know if it was his or mine. Gathering me in his arms tightly, he fiercely whispered: 

"Okay."

Broken Hearts Club

The thing about broken hearts is this: you never know when it's going to happen. Because if you knew, you would take every precaution to stop it from happening--to suspend the action in mid-air like a movie. But this isn't Hollywood.

I am current sitting at a bar patio in a dismal suburb, listening to the traffic on the busy county road and the desperately emotional 90's music blaring, sipping tepid Chardonnay. I am waiting for you with a pit in my stomach, My mind racing.  Wondering if you would call it over. Wondering if you would hug me when you came in. Wondering if you would notice my carefully selected outfit, makeup, and perfume. Wondering. 

Three days ago, we were happy. Two nights ago, we cussed each other out like sailors and hung up on one another. We have barely spoken since. This meeting, arranged under strained terms with strained voices, is full of questions and--I hope--maybe even a promise of healing. 

I find myself wondering about who I am: stupidly optimistic, or just a glutton for punishment? What parts of our fight were mine to own, and what were yours? I know I'm the person who always says I'm sorry first...is that a flaw or a beauty mark?

While I think, my eye strays and I spy a nearby couple, hands intertwined, praying over their food. As quick as I am the scoff at them and figuratively roll my eyes, I mentally apologize and turn my attention to appreciate their graceful tie. She's blonde--as everyone in this Scandinavian-American outpost is--and he sports an olive-drab tshirt, the kind available in any department store across the country. There is nothing remarkable about them physically, but their bond is unmistakeable: they're the couple that will grow old together. I watch him sip his amber-colored brew and smile at her over the top of his glass, his adoration for her apparent. I smile in spite of myself. 

I don't know what you'll say when you come in here. But I believe in love like that.