“I think I’m gay.” The words came barreling out like a runaway train careening toward an unfinished bridge ahead, warning lights flashing, signs pleading to stop or turn back.
But there was no turning back.
I sat across from my husband of almost 30 years, over filet mignon and twice-baked potatoes, on a long-awaited date night and watched the shock and fear register in his eyes.
I wanted to throw up. I wanted to die. I wanted to take everything back, rewind time and start again, pretend nothing had happened. But the words hovered above the table and reverberated through the crowded bar, echoing in my mind. My mouth dried up and I reached for the wine, inhaling its contents as if it were oxygen and my life depended on it.
Needless to say, date night was ruined. The movie we were going to see, cancelled, and we both left in separate cars, having met after work and school, hoping to enjoy this rare opportunity to escape from responsibilities and children and just enjoy an evening celebrating us.
He drove home, and I drove around for an hour until I found myself parked in the dark corner of a church parking lot, gasping for air as tears broke me while I collapsed under the weight of those words.
That was Wednesday, March 6, 2019. The day my life changed forever.
If you’d like to read my story from the start (as they follow a sequence) please click on the category ‘My Story’ and explore Episode Two. If you’d like to read my everyday reflections and thoughts, hop over to Everyday Ruminations.
I once filled my days with people and experiences. My life
was like an ion surrounded by protons and electrons whirling around me. My
family made up my molecular whole. Outside of that, I had friends,
acquaintances, jobs, hobbies, curious pursuits…an entire universe tailored to
the life I’d created swirling around keeping me very busy.
The swirling has stopped. Everything is stuck in a state of suspended
animation. There’s a waiting now, as if something one day is going to move, something,
at some point, is going to change. And in that moment, things will start
swirling again.
Yet, here I sit. Motionless. Inertia.
I’m knee-deep in an identity crisis. I have no idea who I am
anymore. I have no idea where I’m supposed to go, what I’m supposed to do or
who I’m meant to be.
I thought I knew who I was. I was married. I was a mother. I
was a homemaker. I was spiritual. I was fun. I was spunky. I was cheeky. I was
tender. I was a nurturer. I was a giver. I was a writer. I was a friend. I was
a wanderer. I was a searcher. I was someone who understood my past and who
allowed that understanding to guide my future.
I no longer have any surety of who am I or who I’m supposed
to be. I remember watching a Ted Talk given by Simon Sinek. I even bought his
book Find Your Why. I wracked my brain for hours, days, years, toiling
in self-reflection, searching, trying to find my why. But no matter how I
angled it, the answers wouldn’t come. I couldn’t figure out my why.
I did things for my family. I did things to feel like I
belonged. I avoided things that made me feel like an outcast. I wanted ease. I
wanted to be happy. I wanted a good life. But I was lonely, soul-crushingly
lonely. There was a part of me that had been shut off, an empty space that lay in
waste, desolate and barren like the dessert sand, cracked and hardened by the
baking sun.
I spent my entire life self-analyzing, reflecting and
ruminating. I threw myself into a quest for understanding. I thought I knew why
I did what I did. I applied the best of my knowledge at the time. But it turns
out that, that understanding was skewed by powerful filters. A jaded heteronormative
lens clouded my vision, but it was the only view I knew.
Let me explain:
I didn’t like to kiss. Well that was easy, I read enough
self-help books, consulted enough therapists, to understand that I had daddy issues.
I didn’t like sex. Well that was easy. I read enough
self-help books, consulted enough therapists, to understand it was trauma from
being raped.
In other words, thanks to a culturally-slanted world view, I
could heteronormative-explain my way out of a paper bag because that was the
context I understood my life from. There was never another perspective given to
me. Any trouble I was facing, any roadblock I came across in my marriage, my
life, my family or my happiness… could all be understood from my
heteronormative past.
Until I realized I was gay. That’s when the tidal wave of
uncertainty came crashing down, obliterating everything I thought I knew about
myself, destroying every bridge I’d built to make peace with my past,
steamrolling every gain I thought I’d made in personal growth and
self-awareness. It was all a sham. None of it was real. The ‘who’ I thought I
was didn’t exist.
How do you recover from that?
Never mind coming to terms with the grief of the loss of my
family, my marriage, my way of life, my vision for the future…the loss of those
alone are enough to crush someone under the weight of pain and trauma. But then
to lose who you are, to lose the very core of your understanding of self, on
top of all that?
You have to start at the beginning. You need to unlearn everything.
In order to figure out who I am now, I have to unearth which
parts of me made it through the fire and ash of my past life and which parts
are yet to be discovered as I venture into this new one.
There is no longer an electrical charge buzzing around me. My
home is empty. The protons and electrons of the past have all dropped away. There
is only stillness now. But in that stillness, I hope to find the nucleus of who
am I am and rebuild my identity from there. Perhaps in the process, I might
even figure out my why.
There are so many questions on this path, and it’s hard moving forward when you question every decision before and after you make it, and while you’re making it. Did I make the right choice? Is this the right path forward? Will I ever be happy? Will I make it through this? Should I go back? Why can’t I let go of my fear? Why can’t I let go of old behaviours? Why am I always questioning everything.
I’ll admit there’s a tendency to overthink. You find
yourself on unstable ground, the fear of landmines and quicksand with every
step. There are not a lot of secure spots to place your feet those days. My
mind is a constant battlefield of doubt. If I thought my self-esteem was bad
before, this experience has brought it to new depths of nonexistence.
Sometimes, in a moment of clarity, you actually think for a
moment that you might be on the right path forward. Hesitantly, you begin to
feel a little confident in your decision, but the moment you stop and look
around, you notice the terrain is unfamiliar and shadows play tricks on your
eyes. Fear takes over and you can no longer trust the route you’ve chosen.
It’s hard to believe after more than two-and-a-half years,
I’m still questioning leaving my marriage. I’m still questioning being gay. The
problem is, when I’m in that state of clarity, I don’t question these things. I
have moments of acceptance. I know why I’m here at this point in time, this existential
crossroad. I understand intuitively that I have to keep moving forward. But too
often, I seem to be running on automatic pilot, just putting one foot in front
of the other because that’s the path I started, and I’m too afraid to fail at
this too.
And there’s a nugget. I feel like I failed my marriage, my
family and life in general. Twenty-eight years is a long time to invest in a
path only to suddenly stop cold and realize you should have taken a left at Albuquerque.
It’s hard to ignore the idea that the whole debacle was a huge life fail, which
is tragic because in so many ways it was a wonderful life. There are so many wonderful
things about my marriage to my best friend and the beautiful life we created
that it’s really hard to imagine it was the wrong path all along.
I’ve asked myself many times that if I’d know any differently,
would I have taken a detour? The point is mute, since I didn’t know I was gay at
the time and a huge part of me is glad I didn’t. The time I had together with
my ex and raising our beautiful family was worth the heartbreak and every tear when
it ended. I will maintain that until the day I die. But when I did make that major
life-altering discovery, that enlightenment set us on an uncharted path in new
directions. Unfortunately, the changes seemed to happen so fast, I think we
both got whiplash.
We couldn’t continue the path forward knowing I was gay. It
wasn’t a life either one of us wanted. We could stay together, knowing we only
had a part of each other or move forward apart and try to mend the missing pieces.
Frankly, both options sucked. However, with a lot of talking, support and love,
we realized we had to go with option number two. We both deserved the right to
be loved for all parts of ourselves. It was a gut-wrenching choice, but deep
down inside, in those moments of clarity, I know we made the right choice.
Doesn’t make the fallout any easier.
Staying in those moments of clarity, or bringing them back when
my mind has run amuck, is essential to peace of mind. When my thoughts get hijacked
by fear, self-doubt and crippling self-consciousness, it’s essential to bring my
mind back to a state of balance. Overthinking, fear and questioning just plops me
back onto that battlefield and it catapults me right back to the beginning of my
journey and into a world of chaos and distress. In those moments, it’s like the
last two-and-a-half years of healing and growing didn’t exist.
Being hijacked by fear really should piss us off. It
happens against our will. Our mind just decides, because of hormones, lack of
sleep, a conversation with a friend, a video on TikTok or any other number of the
millions of triggers out there, that it’s going to take over and run a
well-worn self-sabotaging program, like a groove in a record, and just keep
skipping.
The kicker? It’s damn near impossible to recognize when we’ve
been hijacked! We get so caught up in the album and the songs we know off-by-heart,
we don’t even realize the needle is stuck again. It’s like we zone out and fear
takes over.
I used to meditate every day. I found it helped with my troubled
mind. I’ve also used journaling throughout my life as a way to organize the chaos—getting
the questions and self-doubt out, like verbal diarrhea is therapeutic. Whatever
method helps calm the storm in your mind and helps you regain control over the
runaway fears and thoughts that have hijacked your equilibrium, use it.
Fear doesn’t get to run the program. You do. Take back your peace. You embarked on this journey because, despite the inherent pitfalls ahead, you acknowledged an authentic truth. Don’t let the background noise creep back in until there’s nothing but static. Set the tuner to your higher Self. Find your calm centred voice and get back in touch with the truth that will set you free. You already know the answers.
“I think I’m gay.” The words came barreling out like a
runaway train careening toward an unfinished bridge ahead, warning lights
flashing, signs pleading to stop or turn back.
But there was no turning back.
I sat across from my husband of almost 30 years, over filet
mignon and twice-baked potatoes, on a long-awaited date night and watched the
shock and fear register in his eyes.
That was Wednesday, March 6, 2019. The day my life changed
forever.
Before that pivotal day, my family life was peaceful and comfortable.
My children were well-adjusted. They were each moving toward their own futures,
assured in the confidence and safety of the past. We shared family meals. We
laughed and talked about our days. My husband and I presented a united front
and were equal partners in parenting and life.
To everyone looking in, our life seemed perfect. And in so
many ways it was.
Except for this deep-seeded, gnawing sense of unhappiness
that permeated my entire being, destroying any lasting attempts at joy.
But, I had nothing to be unhappy about. I had a wonderful
family, a husband who adored me, children who respected me, friends who
cherished our time together. I had the freedom to explore interests and
hobbies. There was no jealousy or distrust. It was truly a good life.
Why then was I crippled with loneliness? Why was I
continuously searching for something to fill this aching void? I lacked for
nothing. Clearly, there was something wrong with me.
I sought help from doctors and therapists. I spoke to social
workers and psychiatrists. I tried medication and mindfulness. I struggled and
subdued the loneliness, only to watch it creep back in.
Until one day. Everything changed.
You know that expression, sometimes we can’t possibly know
what we’re searching for until we find it? Well, that’s what happened to me. I had
spent a lifetime plagued by depression and inadequacy, of never feeling worthy
of happiness. I was heartbreakingly lonely, despite being surrounded by people
who loved and cherished me. I lived under a shadow of unhappiness despite
having so many brilliant moments of joy of in my life.
Until a girl kissed me.
Then I knew.
Knew what I’d been missing. Understood what Id been longing
for. Recognized why I could never be happy in the life I’d created because it
wasn’t the life meant for me. It was a life made for someone raised to believe
that’s what life was supposed to be. A heterosexual life was an expectation. It
was nurture, not nature, and that expectation influenced how I, and many other good
girls with me, grew up in the 80s. We dreamed of big weddings with the men of
our dreams by our sides, the whole package tucked up in a two-and-a-half story home
full of children, all to live happily ever after. Now, there were some of us who
dreamed of a career, but that house, hubby and brood of children were typically
part of the package. Of course I’m generalizing, but for many young women who
grew up in the 70s and 80s. homosexuality was never mentioned.
If you didn’t have access to TV or the news, there’s no way
you’d know there was an alternative view, an alternative path you could take.
You were fed a picture and you didn’t question it. At least, that was my
experience.
I accepted the expectations of my generation. I accepted the
expectations of my parents. I didn’t question them. I didn’t know I could
choose something different. I didn’t know a different life could exist.
I got married, had children and settled into the life my
parents and my society expected of me. And I made the most of it. I created a
beautiful life. I believed in that life. There was nothing wrong with that
life.
The life wasn’t the problem. It was me. I was broken. There
was something wrong with me. I was the one who needed to be fixed.
Until a girl kissed me.
Then I knew.
I didn’t need to be fixed. I wasn’t broken.
I just needed to make some changes—changes that aligned with a
new truth I was discovering about myself. Changes that would forever alter my
life, and the lives of the people I loved the most.
I came out to my husband. Then together, with him at my
side, I came out to my children. They were supportive of my revelation, but the
devastating realization that their family would be torn apart ripped their
hearts out.
It doesn’t matter how old your children are. When they
discover their parents are separating and on a crash course to divorce, it
shakes them to their core. My boys are 27, 22 and 17. They were each equally
devastated and slid into a world of insecurity and anxiety, unsure what might
happen next or where they could turn. There were suicide threats, moving out
threats, physical aggression and verbal hostility. My peaceful home turned into
a warzone.
My husband and I tread carefully through the minefield,
moving closer and closer to separation. But we did it with humility, respect
and love for one another. This wasn’t either one of our faults, but the
implications were clear. We couldn’t stay together. We were heartbroken. Both
of us grieving the end of almost three decades of love and friendship. It was
heartbreaking, and we struggled. But no matter how much it hurt, we treated
each other with dignity and respect. And always with love.
That process, while difficult, showed our children that
despite the truth that our family would never be the same, we were still a
family. That their father and I still loved each other very much and there
would always be a friendship there. We would always look out for one another.
We would always have each other’s backs. In the turmoil of separation, this
simple, but powerful fact, helped manoeuvre our kids through the most difficult
transition of their lives. No one is happy about it, but we all recognize we
can’t change the reality. And the reality is, Mom is gay. And both Mom and Dad
deserve something more. Our family has reached a place of acceptance.
It’s been a year and a half since that fateful night.
We’ve sold our home and are in the process of moving on to
new adventures. Our family is shaken, but we are still hanging on. My marriage might
be over, but my relationship with my ex is still built on a solid foundation of
love and respect.
It hasn’t been easy. But honouring your truth never is—it
is, however, essential. My revelation set off a powerful chain of events that
changed my life forever, but in the process, it also began filling me up in
ways I’d never imagined. The loneliness has started to fade. In its place is a
deep-seeded knowing that I’m finally where I’m meant to be. No matter what
comes next, I know we’re all going to be OK.
The thing I miss the most about chronic depression is the numbness. I excelled at tamping things down so deep that I was barely cognizant of the dissonance. The rumble of discontentment was more like a fly hovering around a wine glass, and I effortlessly shooed it out of mind. This talent did have a down side. Once I battened down the hatches against sadness, it meant I couldn’t climb to brilliant heights either. There can’t be elation if there’s no bottom—the Ying and Yang of life.
I learned how to cut out my emotions with the skill of a
surgeon’s hand. I saw emotion as weakness. I coveted nonchalance like others craved
sex or drugs. I built formidable walls to create distance between me and the
emotions I didn’t want to feel. The walls kept everything and everyone at bay.
It was safer inside my castle.
Since setting out on this new path, I’ve discovered my walls
were built on sink holes.
I’ve experienced pain and grief on levels I didn’t know were
possible. Sadness that takes your breath away and leaves you shaking and
nauseous. Your heart in tatters, the threads frayed and strewn across the
floor.
It takes every ounce of strength to push against the aching
tide of it all. I finally get one step ahead, only to be dragged back down by
the undertow of circumstance.
Our youngest celebrated his high school graduation today. A
huge day, for him, but also for my ex and I. Our baby. The last of our boys,
moving on to a new chapter. We would have celebrated this as a family. Photos,
cake, dinner, laughter, more photos. But of course, our family has changed. And
despite our promise to each other to still celebrate these big moments
together, that assurance has crumbled. The last time we tried to celebrate a milestone
as our new family unit, my ex was inconsolable. It became apparent that going
forward, we would need to celebrate these big moments separately. It was too
painful for both us.
Because of COVID-19, graduation ceremonies were held virtually,
so there wasn’t an opportunity to attend an event. Celebrations were to be held
at home.
With the boys’ work schedules and access to transportation,
they are now at their dad’s for basically the entire summer. Today, he took
photos. They had cake. They celebrated with laughter. They had dinner.
I sat at home, alone.
The haters would say, ‘Well now, who’s fault is that? You
left. You chose another life. What did you expect? Looks good on you. You broke
your ex’s heart, for what? To suddenly become gay. You threw away 28 years of
marriage. You’re a selfish cunt. Hope you’re happy. Serves you right.’
I know they’d say that because they have. Unfortunately, I’ve
heard it all. The worst part is, I don’t need to hear their reproaches or their
recriminations. I subject myself to enough guilt and blame that their words are
merely a drop in another bucket.
Today, I’m not going to justify my choices or my decisions
or all the reasons why. All I can say is on days like this, when I’m absolutely
wrecked by tidal waves of emotion, I crave the numbness. I crave the cold impartial
distance that checked any wayward tear and shoved it back under the rock from whence
it came.
For many, COVID-19 has meant a complete disruption in schedule and programming. Just the daily routine of going into work has been interrupted for many. COVID has had immeasurable impacts on people’s mental health. For those going through trauma and difficult life changes, the repercussions of the pandemic have been devastating.
Navigating the fallout of a separation is gut wrenching,
irrespective of a COVID world. However the isolation and forced confinement of
lockdown after stay-at-home order has exacerbated any and every emotional toll.
My ex is a social creature, but he’s been forced to work at
home with only Zoom conference calls to keep him company. There’s been nowhere
for him to go. No one to go have a pint with at the pub. No sports to engage in
camaraderie and after-game beers. Like so many, he’s been hurting in isolation.
It’s been terrible.
For introverts, like myself apparently, I haven’t missed the
social interactions as much. My demons are fought in my own head, whether I’m
surrounded by people or not. Which is also why, I can count on one hand the
people who truly know how much I’ve been hurting, or how much I’ve suffered throughout
periods of my life. Actually, if I’m honest, I’m down to counting people on a
few digits.
While the limited social interaction has been tolerable, the
break in routine has been difficult, specifically when attempting to manage depression.
Pre-COVID, pre-separation, when I was in better spirits, I would run on the
treadmill in the morning, or hit the gym after work, or grab the bike in nice
weather and fly over the pavement for hours.
Technically and rationally, I’m not overweight, but I have a
body dysmorphic disorder that tells me otherwise. In my mind’s eye, I’m very
much overweight and to see what the pandemic and depression has done to my body
over the last couple years causes me tremendous anxiety. Nowhere is the body
image and acceptance I champion in others, instead the view reflected is harsh
and cruel. I see myself as fat. No one else looking at me would say that. Again,
these are my demons, fiercely duking it out with reality on the daily.
On a rational day, I can concede that the prolonged inactivity
has caused things to slip, but not to extremes. I’m a little softer everywhere,
the tone is gone and the cushioning level has increased. Butt, stomach, thighs,
back…all are a little fluffier than I’m used to. I’ve tried to be patient with
myself, give myself the time I need to heal and get back on the bike so to
speak, but when the demons pop up and the image in the mirror glares back at
me, I spiral further into depression and self-loathing and the negative loops
stops me from being able to do anything at all. It’s self-destructive and
infuriating.
Fortunately, through my concerted effort at changing my
outlook and mood, I’ve found the motivation to get on the fitness train again. This
helps relieve some of my constant internal stress. It’s a drop in a bucket, but
every drop counts.
I’ve managed to eek out 30 mins on the treadmill before work
for three days in a row. The bonus is after my jog, I just have to shuffle from
the treadmill to my desk. Well, after a thorough shower. I also conquered a 20
kilometre bike ride last night, from which my legs still haven’t forgiven me.
Exercise creates a positive feedback loop. I feel much
better when I do it.
Depression zaps us of the energy to take action to change
our plight. We can lament our circumstance, but we aren’t able to muster the
will to do something about it. COVID made everything harder, every step
tougher. As the world starts reopening despite an endemic COVID, my hope is that
all those who’ve been hurting in isolation, whether starved of socialization or
tormented in their own minds, find the conviction to change their perspective.
Celebrate every small task completed. Triumph is its own reward. Do something
to feel better. Even if it’s just one little manageable thing. Then build on
each success until you climb out of the darkness and feel the sand between your
toes.
In an attempt to stay accountable, this blog will be my
litmus test. This morning, I woke up and made it onto the treadmill for a
second day in a row. This allowed me to increase the intensity of my jog-to-walk
ratio. A positive sign.
I am by nature a delicate flower. I break easily. If I
overdo, I blow a knee or a hip. Yes, getting older sucks. So, I am very careful
with the rate in which I increase load and duration for any type of exercise I
engage in. For the treadmill, I use an app to help me balance a slow steady pace
as I build toward jogging a full 5K. This will take me months. The app suggests
it should happen over a course of a few weeks, encouraging the user to increase
the intensity and duration of the jog intervals every few days. If I tried
that, I’d be down and out for months and would be no further ahead, owing to
the fact I’d be considerable worse for the wear with depression again. So, I
take this nice and easy.
I’m committed to trying to keep the momentum going, to
coaxing the positive outlook from out behind the clouds. I can’t promise the
world, but I may even wash the toilets today. Possibly do a quick, short
grocery shop as well. Both or neither of these things may happen. I’ve learned
that on this road to recovery, I may have left the wellies behind and slipped
into sandals, but some days, I may not be able to walk far. That’s OK. I’ve
stopped shaming myself for not having the strength or motivation to meet all my
goals. Instead, I focus on the one small task I can muster and forgive myself
for the ones I can’t.
My hope is that with an improved mood, some of those tasks
will become more manageable. My hope is that with a change in perspective, I
will find the motivation to keep walking toward more joy. It’s good to be out
of the mud, but I’m under no illusion that this journey isn’t still fraught
with pitfalls—most of which will be of my own making, in the form of
downtrodden thoughts and negative loops.
Breaking free of depression and loosening the grip of
melancholy takes concerted effort. I’m no stranger to this. My entire life has
been a merry-go-round of moments of depression followed by moments of joy. In
yoga, I’d call this living on the outside of the wheel. The goal is to be the
hub, unaffected by the ups and downs around us. The trick is learning to be
that calm centre when our own inner thoughts cause the fluctuating storms.
For decades, despite being around people who loved me and
whom I loved in return, I always felt alone. I tried millions of things to shake
that empty feeling, but nothing lasted for long. I realize now that I had to
change. But not in any way I could have ever imagined. Which is why it took so
damn long.
Once I realized that the world I was living in, the world I had diligently loved and nurtured was not allowing me to truly thrive, I took a terrifying leap of faith—despite understanding all the hardships that would come with it. I took that leap because the promise of feeling whole was worth the interim of feeling shattered. At least I’d hoped it was.
The jury is still out.
Healing is a process. But I’m picking up the pieces and
trying to give myself the grace and love needed to accept my journey and the
pain its taken to get here.
Like everyone else, I too am worthy of happiness. It’s time I
accept and honour that.
Yesterday was a pretty down day. I say that, but in truth it
was just another day in a full calendar of down days. I described it as being frozen
in time, mired in a tar pit of despair. Darkness has been a constant companion for
a couple years now. I’ve tried in fits and starts to snap out of it and claw my
way out of the pit, but it’s been difficult and discouraging. There are moments
when the sun shines and I think the mud is drying out. And I’m happy. For a
moment. But then the clouds come, filled with punishing rain and no matter how
hard I try, I can’t escape the sucking pull of the mud, and the pain engulfs me
time and time again.
Last night, however, something changed. As I lay awake,
insomnia another constant companion, I was rewarded with a reason to hope,
well, a scratchy outline of hope at least.
I had a vision of boots, specifically a well-worn,
well-loved pair of old rubber boots. They were mired in the mud—one
of those thick, squelching bogs—sunk to the upper, and they had been
abandoned.
I realized in that moment, I was the boots. In order to
become unstuck, I needed to leave them there, frozen in time and choose a new path.
I need to sidestep the muck completely.
I had been a North-going Zax, stubbornly trying to force and muscle my way through the pain and guilt of my past. I couldn’t keep going. I had to surrender. I had to leave the boots where they were, firmly entrenched in the past, and give myself permission to let go.
I needed to step into the light of a new future. I needed
sandals. I needed to walk in the warm sand. I needed to feel the sun on my face
again.
This is not about forgetting my past. The past made me who I
am and I am richer for the wonderful people and loving things and relationships
created, but it does mean I can’t stay there any longer.
My wonderful therapist told me I deserve happiness. When she
said it, I swallowed back tears of disbelief. How could I accept happiness, how
could I allow joy when those I love were hurting. It was an impossible task.
But she reminded me that staying in the darkness, staying
mired in the mud is a choice. It’s not easy to see when you’re knee deep in steaming
shit, but at some point we all have to make the choice to empower ourselves to
accept change and let go.
My ex needed to do it, and so did I. We were on this journey
because we both deserved to be happy. We both deserved to feel whole. The road
has been long. It’s been hell. For both of us. We loved deeply and cared
exponentially. The slow, tortuous pull apart has been tragic and heart
wrenching. But here we are. Both of us at a crossroad. Both of us with some
choices to make. We both need to move on. But that means letting the past,
letting each other go.
My situation hasn’t changed. But today I made the decision
to change my perspective. Yesterday, I was mired in mud, unable to break free
of pain. Today, I chose to step out of those steadfast ole boots, scramble to
the shore, pull off my wet, muddy socks and slip into a pair of welcoming, comfortable
sandals. I made a concerted effort to shift and move toward a new outlook.
I made it onto the treadmill this morning. A small but
mighty feat. Motivation crippled by depression has blocked any attempts at
trying to scale the heights of better mental health. But today, with a new, possibly
hopeful mindset, I managed a small triumph. Today, I climbed a molehill.
It’s been awhile since I’ve written on the blog. Weeks of
trying to put one foot in front of the other, one breath at a time. Summer has greeted me with its warmth, its
sunshine and promise of brighter days. Vibrant and resplendent greens spread
before me, bursting with life, full and lush. Yet my soul is dimmed, cracked
and parched. I’m frozen in time. The seasons blurred together in a thousand
shades of muted grey.
So much, and yet nothing has happened.
The days I dreaded are now here. Friday, the herald of a
home filled with boisterous boys, now looms dark and cold. The summer is a time
to work extra hours to save for school, to spend weekends with friends, to live
separate lives as young men, growing into their futures.
I sit in darkness. Waiting now for a rushed visit.
I knew it was coming. None of this is a surprise. The knowing,
however, does not lessen the pain of the present.
The cold darkness has also morphed into a new silence I didn’t
know existed. Seven months of limited contact with my ex, self-imposed in an
effort to help him move on, to help him heal, has created a tragic void where
friendship and companionship once flourished. It had to happen. A natural
progression of separation. I knew it was coming. The knowing, however, does not
lessen the pain of the present.
I know I have to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
I know I must keep breathing, but sometimes the weight of grief makes it hard
to draw in air and simply lift a toe.
There are moments of sunshine, reasons to hope, reasons to
carry on, push onwards but they are forced to wade through a tar pit of despair,
the sticky, suction of hopelessness clawing at my heels. It’s hard to believe anyone
would want to try to pull me out, when like a wandering fool, lured by the
fairy lights, I just slip back under again.
I keep hoping one day it will get easier. I keep telling
myself, time. Time will see me through.
I keep watching. I keep waiting, but the present is a vortex
of timelessness and my soul is tired.
Coming from someone who isn’t overly fond of ‘experiencing’ their
emotions, preferring to bury them rather than let them bubble up and flow over
me, I gotta say, breakups are a very unpleasant business.
Some days I think I have my head above water, and other times
I feel like I’m drowning in grief.
I was recently confronted with my guilt and
self-recrimination, thanks to the perceived and assigned role I feel I played in
the end of my marriage and nuclear family structure. Basically, I blame myself
for everyone’s misery. And it’s not like those feelings aren’t always there and
this confrontation blindsided me, it’s just easier for me to push away the hard
emotions, to numb the pain, to distract from discomfort than it is to
acknowledge the interlopers at my door.
I carry a heavy burden from my separation. I loved my
husband very much and he’s in pain. A pain I caused. Not through malice but rather
through honesty and love. Our relationship was built on honesty. We had no
secrets. There was never any trust issues, no worries about betrayal. We were a
solid team built on almost 30 years of communication and openness.
When I discovered I was gay, it was a blow to me and my
family. The realization wasn’t welcome and I pushed it away.
Like many on this journey, I thought I was bisexual. I loved
a man, but I felt deep in my core that I could also fall in love with a woman. What
other explanation was there?
It took therapy, deep soul searching and open communication with
my husband to make my discovery. I wasn’t bisexual. I was gay.
Three words—I am gay—battled with three other words:
I love you. But in the end, I love you was the reason why we agreed to separate.
He couldn’t let me live a half life and I couldn’t let him live a half life. We
both deserved something more.
He deserved to be loved in a way I couldn’t express. Despite
the friendship and connection we shared, there was always something he felt was
missing in our relationship. There were times he felt inadequate, that he wasn’t
enough. This discomfort was never enough to end decades of companionship, but
with this new revelation perhaps he could feel whole and be wholly loved by
someone who could love and cherish him in a way I couldn’t.
Likewise, out of love, he wanted me to feel whole too. I felt
inadequate. I was scared I wasn’t enough. Why couldn’t I give him everything he
wanted? Why couldn’t I be everything he needed? Why did I feel so lonely and
fractured?
We separated out of love and with love. Our relationship was
built on giving and everything we did came from a place of love, even letting
each other go.
It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. And each
day, he is always on my mind and his pain weighs heavy in my heart.
We had 29 years of laughter, joy and beauty. He was my prince in shining armour and I was his princess. We shared an incredible love and life together. My hope is that with time, both of us will find peace.
Can we talk about money for a second? Like seriously. What a
pain in the ass.
You work and work, scrounge, save and beg, borrow and steal
from Peter to pay Paul. For what?
I’ll be the first to admit that I was never good with money.
I didn’t really understand the gritty implications of what came in versus what
went out. I had a rough idea, but that vague idea was blurred by my wants and
needs—and
by that, I mean my wants.
I knew what the budget was, but with credit cards and credit
lines, the edges were a tad fuzzy. There was an imaginary amount of money
always within reach should I really want something badly enough.
My marriage was, as my ex puts it, plagued by a phenomenon
known as death by a million cuts. Some new shoes here, a new iPhone there,
gadgets for the kids, a pool for the yard. I tried to keep up with the Joneses like
it was a sprint and mama needed a new pair of sneakers and lulus.
Honestly, I jest, but I didn’t buy much for me. In my mind
that justified the spending. I bought things that the family would enjoy or the
boys wanted. To give made me happy. To provide my family with luxuries and
niceties made me happy.
It also depleted the bank account and wracked up debt.
I tried to pretend the debt didn’t bother me, but it
stressed me out at a deep cellular level. I knew it was bad. I knew it would crush
me eventually, like living beside a towering mass of concrete that stretched
like a sky scraper above me but only had one rebar left holding it all together.
Rather than let this certainty hinder my trigger finger though, I would place that
online order because, hell the ship was already going down, might as well go
down thoroughly and completely.
Miraculously, my ex would get a bonus, or we’d get money
back in taxes and pay off a chunk of the debt.
Which opened up space to breathe. And space to purchase all
over again.
It was a vicious cycle.
Something was missing in my life, so I spent on others to
feel good. I spoiled my friends with lunches, drinks and dinners. I spoiled my
children with presents piled under Christmas trees. I wore the same jeans for
years, until they were threadbare, but my family lacked for nothing.
The debt would wrack up. Eventually the bonuses and tax
returns couldn’t keep pace. We would refinance and clean up the pressure.
Sweeping it under the rug into one single payment, which opened up space to
breathe. And space to purchase all over again.
My ex and I created this dance together. The crappy
financial situation wasn’t all on me. He hated to disappoint me and only wanted
me to be happy. And since giving to him and others made me happy, it was a
loving recipe for disaster.
Flashforward and I’m now on my own. No bonuses, no money
back in taxes, no outs if I sink. I’ve had to learn a new language, build a new
relationship with money. It’s definitely a sink or swim kind of thing and I
haven’t decided which one I’m currently doing.
I’m learning to try to save and delay gratification, but the
delay is hard. I still want. But rather than give into those impulses, I’m trying
to sit in the discomfort of waiting.
I don’t like it.
But being on my own requires a better understanding of budgets
and the potential executioner’s cut of finality from one’s actions. I’m a smart
girl (at least I try to convince myself of this some days) but my relationship
with money goes back to things I learned when I was young. Much of our actions
and reactions with spending and saving are by-products of watching how our
parents and those around us treated money, including whether they talked about
it or not.
I’ve spent some time reading books on money and working to
understand my triggers and impulses when it comes to the all mighty dollar. I
have a lot to learn.
If I could go back, it’s nice to think I would have done
things differently. That I could have managed our family’s finances better. But
I didn’t know how to do that then. I’m still not convinced I know how to do
that now. But I’m taking steps in the right direction.
I’m hopeful, one day, money and I will get along just fine. Until
then, managing it is still a pain in the ass.
