The Christian Girl's Guide to Divorce

Oct 30 2015

Bravery, Grace, Healing, Hope, Love, Marriage, Moving Forward, New beginnings

16th UNiversary

Moments before I walked down the aisle, sixteen years ago.

Sixteen years ago today, I got married.

My dad walked his 22-year-old daughter down the aisle to a majestic organ in a beautiful sanctuary on a hot afternoon. I carefully recited my vows and promised my fresh-faced groom I would love and honor him until death did us part.

I meant it.

The reception was small: held in a petite garden area next to the church parking lot. We served sparkling apple cider and charcuterie from Costco. A jazz band comprised of fellow college students played quietly and a budding filmmaker captured moments on Hi8 tape. Due to the unseasonable warmth of the day, the homemade wedding cake melted before my new husband and I could ceremoniously cut it. He proceeded to smash a piece all over my face, anyway.

There was some confusion over the remaining few hundred dollars of the wedding bill, which caused the last of my makeup to be cried off. We left for our honeymoon in my 1997 Toyota pickup truck; the remnants of the fallen cake streaked all over the vehicle. The back window jokingly read, “Mr. and Mrs. Spencer”.

It wasn’t the wedding I wanted, but it was the best I could do.

We were so young.

Today, the sanctuary has been torn down and made new. The garden has been replaced with church offices, where I spent almost five solid months in marriage counseling after discovering my husband’s infidelity.

The organist recently received a heart transplant, the musicians all have steady, successful careers and the videographer became a widely recognized director and won a million dollar Superbowl commercial contest.

And I am happily divorced.

*****

“It’s not the wedding, but the marriage that counts,” they say. If my wedding was any indication of the sort of marriage that followed, I should have bolted the opposite direction down the aisle at the very first note of the processional.

But I believe in marriage. I think it’s amazing, difficult and utterly courageous to make that kind of commitment to another person. Certainly, I was young. Perhaps too young. But I wasn’t afraid. And when my marriage went to complete shit, I held on and fought for the concept – and the person – as long as I could.

I admire that girl. I’m proud of her.

The person and the girl are now gone. But I do not regret the commitment, if only for the role it played in giving birth to the woman I have become.

So today, on my 16^th Universary, I do not mourn the loss of a marriage, but cheer for forgiveness and the freedom that accompanies it. I honor growth, wisdom, vulnerability and true, selfless, mature love.

I celebrate the gift of a second chance.

Tagged Healing, Hope, Marriage

Oct 20 2015

8 Comments

Hope, Humanity

Today

I went to the gynecologist for an ultrasound today.

I’ve never had an ultrasound before, so I was actually excited. I got undressed from the waist down, left on my purple, cheetah print socks and laid on the table.

The technician entered the room, gave me a big smile and got down to business.

“It’s going to be cold,” she kindly warned, as she squirted blue gel all over my belly. She pressed the handle firmly onto my lower abdomen and peered at the screen.

“Let’s see here…oooh, okay!” she exclaimed. “I want to take a closer look.”

Me, too! Me, too! I screamed inside.

She lubed up a condom (yep!), placed it over a very large, long wand with a camera at its end, and inserted it into my body.

I took in a short breath.

“Well, having a camera shoved up my vagina is certainly an interesting way to start the day,” I joked.

My technician smirked.

“I’m going to switch over into 3D mode,” she said, as she maneuvered the camera like a joystick. She pressed buttons on the keyboard, took some pictures and printed out a few. I lifted my head to catch a glimpse at the screen, to no avail.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of a heartbeat.

“Wow! That’s amazing!” I gasped, as tears formed in my eyes.

“I’m going to move over to the left side now,” the technician informed me. “Sorry if it’s uncomfortable. It’s going to be a bit noisy again. I want to check blood flow.”

“No problem,” I replied, and continued to crane my neck towards the screen. The sound of the heartbeat was getting louder; faster.

I heard the printer again. More pictures.

And then it was over.

She left me in the room to get dressed. Still pantless, I grabbed the phone from my purse to take a snapshot of the images left on the screen.

There, I saw it: my 38-year-old uterus. And what I suspected was growing inside of me for quite some time.

Fibroids.

*****

I’m not the first – nor last – childless woman who will deal with fibroids. They’re pretty common, mostly harmless, and don’t actually cause infertility. I have dealt with lady parts problems for years, first dating back to age 16 when I had an ovarian cyst rupture in the middle of my AP History class.

Embarrassing and excruciating.

But no one really knows I deal with this stuff because I’m strong and brave and can endure all kinds of shit. Right?

Not today. As soon as I left the doctor’s office, I burst into tears.

“It isn’t fair!” I cried out loud, as I stomped back home amidst a sea of yellow cabs and groaning fire trucks.

“The first time I have an ultrasound is supposed to be because a baby is growing inside of me, not some possible cancerous shit!” I sobbed. “I should hear two heartbeats, not just my own. My body was made to do this. And it isn’t happening. So why do I still have this desire to have a child and be a mom, God? Why won’t You take it away?! It’s just cruel!”

Funny thing: God’s silence is more deafening than any New York City street corner.

I quickly burrowed down the rabbit hole of self-pity and anger. My thoughts immediately turned to my ex-husband.

“Why the fuck does that guy get to have kids and not me? What did I ever do to deserve this? Mr. Peter Pan Syndrome cheats on me, finds an older woman with money, marries her while he’s still married to me and has a baby a year later, while I’m still mopping up my bleeding heart from our stupid, dragged-out divorce? Where is the justice in that? How is that fair, at all? Why does he, of all people, get to be a parent and not me? I would be a great mother!”

On and on goes the narrative.

I wish I could paint a better picture of myself in the moment, but I got angry. Upset. Frustrated. I’m sad. And I mourn the loss of the children I probably will never have.

I know I’m not alone. So many people – not just women! – have walked this path.

But it’s not about X. He’s just a cheap and easy target. In fact, I’ll bet he’s a great dad. I always saw that potential in him. Hopefully having that sweet little baby in his life will help him mature and ultimately become a better man. I certainly hope he is a better husband to Sister Wife than he was to me.

You know that super annoying verse in the Bible where Jesus addresses the “life is unfair” business?

But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? ~Matthew 5:44-46

That’s the one that gets me, every time. It’s almost like Jesus is saying, “Listen, people. Quit whining. Life isn’t fair. You know why? Because we don’t always get everything we want this side of heaven. Also, I love everyone, not just the good, obedient, loyal soldiers. I love the people who have hurt you. You should probably get to work on that, too.”

There Jesus goes, being all Jesus-y, perfect and shit, speaking truth that cuts straight to the heart.

So, no, I cannot be angry with X. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: It’s a good thing he and I never had children together. I have a clean slate. I get to live a re-written ending. A better ending to the story of my life, in that I have already experienced deeper, truer love with a partner. Additionally, I hope to have learned how to forgive and accept life for what it is, not what I want (or wanted) it to be.

As Sara Bareilles sings,

It’s not what I asked for
sometimes life just slips in through a back door
and carves out a person
and makes you believe it’s all true.

I really don’t want to be that jaded, sad, bitter, jealous woman in her late thirties who gives up because she got a raw deal due to life and circumstance. I refuse to marinate in the delusion that I deserve everything I ever wanted. But there are some days I cannot stomach the unending social media newsfeeds of happy, smiling, couples in love. Partnership. Marriage. Babies. Marriage and babies. Marriage, babies and more babies. Marriage, babies, more babies and puppies.

Guess what? Marriages and babies aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Marriage is hard. It’s disappointing. It can easily crumble, without anyone even realizing it, until it’s too late. Child-rearing is not without its own set of harrowing difficulties. All babies grow up. Some leave the nest too soon, and others don’t leave soon enough. A lot of cute babies turn out to be real assholes.

Just give me a puppy.

The bottom line is, we’ve got to put our hopes, desires, faith and identity in something other than today’s wish list.

This is where I’m glad God is God, and I’m not. I’m ridiculous; just a speck on an atom of a molecule of humanity. With uterine fibroids and — as I discovered later today at the eye doc — astigmatism in both eyes.

What I do know is that my life is really good. I love it. Focusing on what I don’t have is an obnoxious waste of time. Why not focus on what I do have? Why not try putting my hopes, dreams and desires in the God of the universe? This life is too short to hold a candle for one small detail, as opposed to what is possible in eternity.

Today I’ve been given talent and a chance to do what I love. Today I have an absolutely mind-blowingly amazing man who understands, loves and accepts me for who I am. Today I have a joyful, healthy life and a gorgeous, cozy apartment in New York City. Today I am reminded I have beautiful friends and family who are real and true. I always have love, and therefore life, coursing through every fiber of my being.

Because of grace, I have another chance.

And that is more than enough for today.

Sep 01 2015

Long Board Guy

I enjoyed some beach time this afternoon. Now that I am officially 38, I have religiously subscribed to bathing suits with underwire, sunscreen with an SPF no less than 70, oversized beach hats and sunglasses, supportive chairs (to feign flat abs from all angles), an obnoxious, Hamptons-style cover-up, and, most importantly, a juicy self-help book.

As I sipped on sparkling water and settled into my early afternoon reading, I couldn’t help but notice the powerful swell and number of surfers in the water. The guys were catching waves left and right, carving the shit out of them. If they happened to bail, they did it with grace and flair. No soft boards, no kiddie boogie boards. The water wasn’t gentle. Today’s ocean had zero time for beginners.

And then, I saw the guy on the long board.

He was right there with the rest of the young, wiry, quick short boarders. He would paddle strong and hard into a huge wave, get up and drop down its face with ease.

Having been around surfers, the surfing industry and actually surfed myself (not well), I understand the key to staying on your board is to get up quickly and stay low. Balance is most important. If you stand up too tall, you will immediately wipe out.

But Long Board Guy did something I had never seen before.

As soon as he was up, he stood stiffly erect. Then, he opened up his arms as wide as possible, arched his back and slowly turned his chin toward the heavens. It was the most beautiful posture I have seen on a surfboard. One of full, complete surrender.

I held my breath and thought, “If this guy doesn’t fall, he is the best surfer I have ever seen in my life.”

And, of course, the law of gravity immediately sent him plummeting forward, face first, into the crashing, aggressive white water. If the ocean hadn’t been so loud I might have been able to hear his entire torso slapping on the surface. I almost ran in after him to make sure he hadn’t broken his neck and drowned.

But he popped right up, fought and paddled his way back to the outside and did it again.

And again.

He held the same posture each time he got up: arms open wide, back arched, chin up.

And each time he fell.

After each fall, he got right back up. He kept surfing.

And I found myself cheering for him. Admiring him. Beaming. Applauding every time he fell and got back up. I totes felt his stoke.

After a while, Long Board Guy was finished. He got out of the water, smiling, and trotted over to his towel.

I glanced back down at page 19 of my book.

“If we are brave enough often enough, we will fall; this is the physics of vulnerability. When we commit to showing up and risking falling, we are actually committing to falling. Daring is not saying, ‘I’m willing to risk failure.’ Daring is saying, ‘I know I will eventually fail and I’m still all in. Fortune may favor the bold, but so does failure.” ~ Brené Brown, Rising Strong

When I looked up, Long Board Guy was gone. I had wanted to tell him he was physically living out the words on my page, but perhaps that moment was meant only for me.

It was obvious Long Board Guy didn’t care about he outcome of riding the wave; he just lived in the moment. And each moment added up to another moment.

And another.

And they were all joyful, brave, vulnerable and full of grace.

I now know Long Board Guy is the best surfer I have ever seen.

Aug 31 2015

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Adventure, Grace, Moving Forward

Thirty-Eight.

I did it. I had another birthday.

With each passing year, I have become more aware of how precious and fragile life truly is. We make mistakes. We fall. We get hurt. We recover. Shit happens to us. We feel a loss of control over our circumstances. We beat ourselves up over not being perfect: size, shape, friend, lover, parent, role, career. We want to turn back the clock and have a do-over — sometimes at entire decades.

Yet we wouldn’t be who we are today without those mistakes; circumstances; wounds; scars.

A good friend recently told me, “The etymology of character comes from the Greek word for ‘scar’. That’s what gives us character.”

I very much believe in living life to its fullest. This means falling at times. What is more: learning how to fall. It also means being brave. Living in the moment. Accepting grace. It means loving and being loved.

I have been overwhelmed this birthday by how loved I truly am. On Saturday night I was surrounded by family and close friends who purposely sang “Happy Birthday” as loud and off-key as possible. (They know me so well!) Yesterday I floated in the ocean, rode my bicycle, savored homemade cuisine and rocked an impromptu living room karaoke party with the neighbors.

It has been the best birthday, ever.

I do not know what tomorrow holds, but I am ever grateful for my life and the amazing love I have in it.

Jul 28 2015

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Ramblings

Beer Margaritas (And Some Other Things)

I had a very realistic dream last night.

I found myself standing in the middle of my beautiful, very empty home I owned during my marriage. The wood floors were glistening. All that remained were X’s belongings – mostly books.

I immediately wanted out. It was scary and frustrating to be back in that place.

“I should probably call my mother-in-law,” I said to myself, “and she can take care of X’s stuff. I have to get out of here.” But I didn’t know her phone number.

Cut to me at the AT&T store, discovering I had been charged for X’s phone bill all these years.

“I’m not paying for him anymore! I am ON MY OWN. That is the beauty of divorce,” I preached.

The dream flashes to me unwillingly driving to the in-laws’ house for dinner. When I arrived, the whole family was there. I said hello to a scarily tan version of my sister-in-law and gave her a hug. I noticed the spread on the table: fried chicken and beer margaritas.

BEER MARGARITAS?

“Hmm. They’ve grown,” I thought to myself, as the in-laws have always been teetotalers.

I reluctantly sat down as my mother-in-law asked me how I was.

I hesitated. I truly haven’t wanted those people to know anything about my new life. But I spoke.

“I’m dating a really wonderful man. And I’m happier than ever.”

And then I woke up, kind of wanting a beer margarita.

*****

I haven’t been writing much lately. Even though the old cast of characters occasionally haunts my dreams, there isn’t angst over my divorce anymore. I also feel like I haven’t anything profound to say. The truth is, I am dating a really wonderful man. And I am happier than ever. The relationship is not without complications (which one is?), but it’s real and so good.

My therapist was right: “There are some things that can only be healed in relationship.”

Ironically, and with respect, I would have never chosen this for myself. It just happened. In fact, I tried to avoid it at all costs. But the more I allow myself to relax into it, the more I learn. And I am experiencing how relationship can and should be. There’s a beautiful, vast difference between dating in your early 20s and your late 30s. I kind of wish I could go back in time and have a do-over. But I wouldn’t be who – or where – I am today.

The greatest (and perhaps hardest) thing I have learned is marriage and family is not the pinnacle of relationship. I think I have accepted the fact I will probably not have children. Rather than panic about this (and believe me, I have had many nights over the years shedding mascara-laden tears on my pillowcase), I choose the opportunity to be in a healthy relationship over a checklist of things I want in my life.

I sometimes want to scream at single women who are holding out for these things. Especially Christians. Relationship is hard. You will get hurt. Stop the delusions. No one will ever fit your ultimate checklist. Fuck Jerry Maguire for saying, “You complete me.” Ain’t gonna happen. Be a whole person, yourself. And for crying out loud, Let Jesus be Jesus, instead of some guy.

Live your life! Don’t hold your breath! Jesus did not come to earth to wave his magic wand and grant us spouses and children. Having those things is wonderful, yes. But it isn’t the beginning, completion, purpose or meaning of life.

Funny: I used to think the only way to “get back” at my ex-husband for cheating and getting married before we were divorced (it will always be funny!) was to find a new, improved husband, push out some adorable babies and show them all off. I now know such thinking is wildly immature. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: I wish the church would stop placing marriage and family on a pedestal. Just because I am unmarried and childless doesn’t mean I have failed.

In fact, there are a whole lot of amazing things I can accomplish without a husband and kids. I get to be “Auntie Leslie” or “Crazy Auntie Leslie” to so many beautiful children. I get to travel – sometimes spontaneously – and sing for a living. I am fortunate to live in New York City, with Central Park as my front yard. I get to experience and love people without being distracted by a screaming toddler or a hormonal teenager. I can empathize with the hardships of being married, divorced, single and dating later in life. I get to experience the world without certain responsibilities, and I’m okay with that. Because I’m not alone.

Some of the greatest people I know are those who have lost. A spouse. A child. A sibling. A job, or jobs. Money. Their marriage. Their home. Their entire identity.

It’s not the losing that makes them great, it’s how they’ve dealt with it. And when they choose to trust Jesus and move forward instead of spiral down the rabbit hole of feeling sorry for themselves for the rest of their lives, they become changed.

Jesus said, If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will find it. What good will it be for a man if he gains the whole world, yet forfeits his soul? (Matthew 16:24-26a)

I am no theologian, but I see this verse with very different understanding than when I memorized it at AWANA in 1985, and robotically regurgitated it at Biola University in 1995.

Whoever loses his life for me will find it. To me – and maybe I’m completely wrong – this is about placing my complete identity in HIM, instead of my idea of what life should be because I followed the rules.

It’s taken a long time, but I’m pretty sure I have found a new self. She isn’t anything like I envisioned, but I really like her.

Friends, whatever you are facing, remember we have the opportunity to choose Jesus in our losses. In our suffering. In our waiting. In our disappointment. In our pain. We have the choice to trust Him, despite life circumstances not turning out how we want.

It’s not easy to trust, but I have a feeling it is totally, completely worth it.

Beer margarita, anyone?

May 04 2015

1 Comment

Beauty, Grace

Wow.

Every so often you receive the encouragement you desperately need. This email from a stranger made me weep. Wow.
*****
Dear Leslie,

I stumbled upon your blog right just after my fiance broke off our engagement, so the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. I cannot pretend to know the depth of pain and confusion you went through, but I certainly resonate deeply with everything you have written. So I want to thank you.

Thank you for being a beautiful soul who can see the irony and poetry and humor of life, despite how shitty everything can be. Thank you for following your passion and refusing to sacrifice one tiny bit of your soul for the Christianese Equation. Thank you for not walking away from God!! Thank you for continuing to have adventures. Thank you for letting Jesus work in you; His light in you shines further and brighter than you can ever realize. Thank you for trying again (and again) at love; you give me courage to try as well. Thank you for being honest about what does and does not suck. Thank you for being funny and creative and talented and for having good grammar. Thank you for writing with such poignant imagery. Thank you for having friendships that sustain you. Thank you for not just walking the path you’ve been given but skipping and dancing down it. Thank you for crying and raging and swearing when the load is heavy and the scars ache; you give me permission to not always be “fine” or “nice”.

You are (and I’m weeping as I write this) an exquisite treasure: a masterpiece of God’s creation. You are grace in my life. You are radiant beauty. You have been a cup of cool water in a long sojourn through a dry desert.

Thank you for allowing me to journey with you these last 2 years. I continue to pray God’s mercy and grace rain down on you, just as they pour out of you.

~ Your Sister in Christ

Apr 17 2015

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Adventure, Grace, Moving Forward

Confession

I have a confession about editing my blog-turned-book, “The Christian Girl’s Guide to Divorce.”

It makes me raging angry.

It’s difficult to re-read and subsequently re-live that shitty, shitty time in my life. It doesn’t hurt like it once did, but I’m almost embarrassed at how long I held on and fought for someone who so clearly wanted nothing to do with me or our marriage.

Love is blind, that’s for damn sure.

I wish I could go back in time and sit with that scared, hurting, angry, confused, married Christian girl. I would give her a long, empathetic hug and allow her to cry for a spell. Then, I would take her hand firmly in mine, look into her eyes and say,
“Dry your tears. Get up, walk out the door and never look back. You have a beautiful, fantastic, adventurous life ahead of you. It will not be trouble or pain-free. It’s certainly not going to be fair, but it will be far better than you can imagine. And it most definitely doesn’t include that guy.”

I don’t want to be angry anymore. In fact, I really don’t have to be.

So, in honor of the girl who once was, I will keep going. It’s probably the hardest work I have done. But I will do it. I will edit. I will not censor the truth. I will keep writing. Even though I have to look back right now, I know the outcome. The ending is the happiest one of all.

Because grace — oh, amazing grace! — has set me free.

Mar 23 2015

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F Bombs, Healing, Hope, Humanity, Marriage, Moving Forward

Four Years

I have officially been divorced four years.

The day – March 3^rd, to be exact – came and went without incident. In fact, it didn’t even occur to me until this morning that another year had gone by. It feels so damn good to have that time behind me.

I’m guessing Marjorie must have gotten tired of signing her name.

The past four years – six, really, if you count from my discovery of X’s infidelity – have been the most difficult, refining, tragic, incredible, horrible, deep, dark, elating, wonderful opportunities of growth. What is more, they have been saturated in grace.

I never mean to treat or speak of divorce flippantly, nor do I advocate running out and getting one to find new meaning in your life. But I do think any arduous road or suffering, if faced with honesty, vulnerability and grace, will inevitably bring surrender, acceptance, peace and maturity.

But it’s fucking hard. And there are consequences; results. I still have questions.

Did I marry the wrong person?

Given the fact my husband cheated on me and got remarried four months before we were divorced, my knee-jerk reaction is, “Absolutely! That guy was and still is the worst kind of idiot douche!”

(Side note: as initially painful as it was, the fact I had a Sister Wife will always be ridiculously funny. And true!)

I can argue that I was young and immature when I got married. Sometimes one will make choices that aren’t conducive to marriage. People change. I can also say all the work I have done in therapy over the years has helped me identify my own issues, how to deal with them and exactly what type of person/relationship to avoid.

Yet I have seen young people get married and stay married. People change for the better. I have seen couples stay together after an affair (or two or three). Staying married is a daily choice. Love, itself, is a choice. It takes two people to make it work, long after the romance has faded; when the cellulite is harder to battle; when it takes more than one match to cover up the foulness in the bathroom; when arguments and disappointment are a daily occurrence; when the snoring gets louder and a good night’s sleep is infinitely better than sex.

In his book, The Meaning of Marriage, Tim Keller writes,

“Both men and women today see marriage not as a way of creating character and community but as a way to reach personal life goals. They are looking for a marriage partner who will ‘fulfill their emotional, sexual, and spiritual desires.’ And that creates an extreme idealism that in turn leads to a deep pessimism that you will ever find the right person to marry.”

As much as I want to re-write history and celebrate the fact I have been given a second chance at love (and perhaps marriage), I do not believe I made a mistake in choosing the person I first married. I walked down the aisle in 1999, excited about my future. The young man I married that day had great potential. I loved him. He was my friend. We saw life as an adventure, together. That was enough.

But people make choices. X chose his path and I chose mine. And because God is good, there is a copious amount of grace for us both.

What about the children?

I did not have babies with X. For that I am truly grateful because I would forever be tied to him. I would have never been able to pick up and move to New York on a whim. I wouldn’t have the freedom to travel and do what I love for a living. What is more, I would have to co-parent with someone I do not respect. Most of all, the children would suffer the effects of divorce, perhaps more so than I.

I will never feign to understand what it truly feels like, but I mourn with those of you who have kids and are enduring divorce. I hope each party can be kind to one another. I pray personal issues or suffering will never, ever be used to manipulate children into turning against the other parent. It is child abuse.

I still mourn the loss of my sisters and brothers-in-law, and my nieces and nephews. I was in the operating room when two of them were born, via C-section. Unless the photo albums have all been thrown out and memories erased, there are fourteen years of documentation I was their aunt. I was X’s wife. I was a daughter-in-law. I was a sister-in-law. They were my family.

But they are now strangers. That is deeply sad.

Will I ever marry again? Have a family?

Hell if I know the answer to that question. I have days where I am beyond grateful to be single and childless, living some watered-down version of a Sex and the City episode. There are other days when I wake up to the noise on 5^th Avenue and desperately wish I were being smothered by the weight of a good man. If I had a baby, I can assure you I would be the biggest offender of saturating social media news feeds with his or her every waking moment. Ad nauseam.

But marriage is not the answer to life or its problems. It is not the completion of self or fulfillment of happiness. Nor is birthing or even adopting baby humans. I worry for people who are waiting with bated breath to start enjoying their life when marriage and/or family happens. These things are no more guaranteed than the next minute of time.

I sincerely wish we – especially the church – would stop placing marriage and family on a pedestal. Isn’t it enough to be alive, demonstrate love to those around us and acknowledge we, too, are loved?

Easier said than done. But it should be.

When will I fully heal from my divorce?

I believe healing happens in process, and is different for everyone. I was an absolute insane person the first six months after I recognized my marriage had fallen apart. Looking back, I wouldn’t necessarily blame X for wanting out since I reacted to every little thing he did. I felt mortally wounded. A nonstop rollercoaster of fear and emotions drove my words and deeds.

I was a different kind of hot mess after I filed for divorce. I needed to feel free and allow myself to act irresponsibly. I needed to explore what it meant to be single in my thirties, after having been married for the majority of my adult life. I needed space and time to ugly cry, get drunk or laugh heartily. I needed to feel safe. I needed my community. I needed support. I needed therapy. I needed to experience healthy relationship. I even needed to withstand more breakups.

And then I needed to pack my bags, move across the country and start my life all over again.

I’m not sure anyone is ever fully healed from divorce. It is an emotional, physical, mental and spiritual trauma. Initially it is a huge, gaping, seeping wound that needs constant monitoring and care. Sometimes it requires life support.

But eventually the wound scabs over. It becomes a scar. And whereas that scar may never go away, it – along with the memory of the trauma – fades.

****

So, wow. Divorced four years. Separated for six. Soon enough, I will have been divorced longer than I was ever married. The scar remains, but is slowly fading.

X and I have both moved on. We have completely different lives now, and I (think I?) genuinely wish him well. It still strikes me as odd that I was married to someone for ten years, yet I cannot remember the sound of his voice or the touch of his hand. Sometimes he has a cameo in my dreams. Other times I will regale a funny story about my old life with one husband, two cats, three dogs and four chickens in an old house on a rocky hill in sunny Los Angeles.

“That’s so not you!” my new friends gasp, as the Chrysler Building twinkles behind us in the warming spring sunlight.

And they’re right. It’s not me — anymore.

X was my first love. He hurt me deeply, but in no way did he destroy me. Neither did my divorce. If anything, I am free to love more fully and deeply now, and without fear.

Divorce has not defined me. It has refined me.

Mar 05 2015

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F Bombs, Hanging On, Hope, Moving Forward

Spring is Coming

I am absolutely transfixed by the snow falling out my window at present.

Huge flakes gently drop to the earth. Some dance in circular motion before standing completely still, then change direction. Each is individual and dances with purpose. Some attach themselves to the bare trees, decorating them with leaves of crisp, frozen white. The rest fall to the ground. Eventually, the accumulation will be shoveled aside or melt. The unluckiest flakes become curbside slush, dirty ice or – gasp – yellow.

Yet, in flight, snowfall is the most peaceful, magical sight.

Growing up in California, snow was a rare phenomenon. As kids, we’d be corralled into the car and drive for hours just to touch a few inches of the white stuff. We made crude snowmen with whatever we could find and tossed around a few small balls of ice, but that was about it. Back into the car we went, fighting over our favorite seats. (More often than not, I shrewdly won, threatening carsickness.) We were anxious to get back to the sun, warmth and familiarity of home.

When I moved to New York, it was my first experience living in snow. Everything about it was exciting, even the wind chill factor. As the months dragged on, however, the thrill quickly wore off.

January. Yay, snow!
February. Ooh, snow.
March. More snow?
April. You’vegottobefuckingkiddingme SNOW.

It was cruelly cold and biting, and I suffered the worst: improper shoes. I became frustrated and anxious. I didn’t want to go anywhere. Yet, unlike Los Angeles, New Yorkers don’t cancel anything due to inclement weather. I found myself becoming withdrawn, maybe even a little depressed. I missed the sun. I missed the warmth and familiarity of home.

Just when I was ready to give up, spring burst forth, like your favorite boisterous, bosomy, bellowing aunt. She’s the life of every party and always has good gum in her purse. The ice and snow melted away; bare trees slowly budded again and new life emerged.

This happens every single year.

As the flakes outside have turned into a slanted, steady pelting, I realize I have finally learned to live in – and enjoy – the winter. I even have proper shoes. (Two pairs!) I never truly appreciated spring until I fully endured winter. Perhaps it’s because I had it so easy in California. More often than not, you can drive up PCH with the convertible top down; work on your tan and even swim in the ocean in January.

It’s no wonder why people move west. Winter tests our strength and endurance. It isn’t easy to live in such fluctuating weather. No one hands out awards for getting through the difficult season. You survive it because you know spring is coming.

The metaphor here may be obvious to the point of cliché, but I am in the thick of grieving right now. It is dark. I am no stranger to this season. I have survived before. The odds are in my favor: I will survive again.

But I am exhausted. My heart is worn out. And as the obnoxiously loud sanitation truck plows the snow off 5^th Avenue below, I declare my resignation. Love is for the most reckless of fools. I give up.

I don’t want sympathy, encouragement or advice. Fuck the poetry of it all. I’ll be fine. Keep that well-meaning horse shit to yourself. (I just made myself laugh. See?) In fact, I’ll encourage myself. If I write the words, they will eventually mean something.

I trust I can get through this. I can trudge through the dirtiest slush and endure the pain of the most freezing rain, sleet or snow. My skin can take the most whipping wind and biting cold. I hope to find the beauty in this season. This is my home now. I trust the sun will re-appear. I trust warmth is waiting. I trust healing will happen. I trust I can love again.

I trust spring is coming. And she damn well better have strawberry bubble gum in her purse.

Feb 25 2015

4 Comments

F Bombs, Love, Sad

I Took a Huge Risk

I’m enduring yet another breakup.

Out of respect and love, I will not share details about the relationship, except to say it was the best one, so far. And he wasn’t even my boyfriend.

Ultimately, the timing was bad. I made the choice to not continue any further, mainly out of self-protection. Post-divorce Leslie (also known as a recovering co-dependent) made a mature, painful decision. That is to be celebrated.

BUT THE GRIEF. Fie on you, grief. FIE.

It comes in waves. One minute you’re quite all right. You can laugh and engage with your roommates while making them dinner, or coo and giggle at silly babies and tiny hamster videos on Facebook. You tell yourself you’ve been through this before and you can do it again. You don’t need sympathy.

The next minute begins with a thick and sticky heaviness in your gut. You sit, stunned, wondering when you’re going to vomit, and how many victims will suffer within its trajectory. You can’t breathe. It travels up your esophagus, causing you to heave and sputter. Out of no where, your eyes are blind with tears; your ears deaf from the sound of your own ugly crying and your mouth hangs agape as you gasp for air in between saliva, sobs, sighs, grunts, groans and the overall horribleness of loss.

And that’s just the first cry of the day.

Son of a motherfuckery fuck. Help.

I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t know how to keep doing this. At the same time, I keep doing it. I keep finding myself on the extreme roller coaster of love and loss. Am I completely insane? Why do I keep subjecting myself to dashed hopes and wretched pain?

I’m like a giddy puppy, so caught up in chasing her own tail she fails to see the ball has been thrown in a different direction. Once I tire of the game, I just stand there, panting and wagging my tail. Inevitably, I begin again. And again. And again.

Yet there’s something so freeing about dating in your late 30s. You know who you are, what you want, and haven’t much time or patience to be jerked around by a string of meaningless makeouts or half-hearted relationships. Fuck the Christianese version, you date with intention simply because you value yourself more than you might have in your early 20s. You want to make careful, informed decisions because you know marriage is not a light at end of the tunnel. You don’t apologize for wanting to be treated well. If a guy is threatened or intimidated by you in any manner, it’s simply not your problem.

Next!

This posture, when matched with another mature human being’s, can produce immediate attachment. Add chemistry and compatibility, and presto! Relationship-o.

So you breathe a huge sigh of relief, knowing deep down there are no guarantees. You’re excited to take the risk and see what happens, even just for a month or two or twelve. You embrace living open-handedly; wholeheartedly. You now have the opportunity to put into practice all those things you learned in years of therapy. You practice relationship. And it’s good.

But why does it keep coming to an end? Is it me? Am I impatient? Dramatic? Too difficult? Too insecure? Am I finally standing up for what I really want? Or does what I want not exist?

I don’t know.

*****

Six years ago, I was in the thick of my marriage ending. My husband – husband! – said he didn’t love me anymore. Then he told me he was in love with another woman. Today’s Leslie would not stand for that shit. I would rise, turn on my heels, walk out the door and never look back.

Yet I wouldn’t be who I am today if I hadn’t hung on for a while. There would be no Christian Girl’s Guide to Divorce. Eventually, I clawed my way through – and out of – my marriage. I am proud of myself. And every relationship post-divorce has been that much better.

I’m not sure it gets much better than this most recent one, but that isn’t for me to decipher right now. I celebrate and mourn. I grieve and still hope.

I took a huge risk in loving again. And I won.