It has been a year. It came and went and I was so busy living my new life, it was only the calendar that reminded me of this important milestone.
If you had asked me a year ago if I would be able to see a new life through the wall of pain and loss I was in, I would have chuckled dryly.
A year ago, I believed grief was the only thing I would ever be able to feel again. I thought that all of the Dialectical Behavioral Therapy in the world couldn’t prepare me to “turn the mind” to anything else other than the loss of my marriage.
And yet, here I am. One year out and I am thriving in a new life, with as much opportunity as a branch stretching out spring blossoms. I feel harmony in my heart and mind, which I never have before, except in small sips. In part, this is due to not being tied to someone who exploits my emotions anymore. In part, it is due to regular volunteer service to others. In part, it is due to newfound sobriety. But most of it was very intentional, arduous steps toward a life that demands peace at all costs.
In those first few months, I wouldn’t allow myself any alcohol. I knew I was too fragile to allow myself escape of any kind, and feared that alcohol would draw me into an abyss I may never come back from. I forced myself to feel everything that came. When I needed to curl up in the fetal position and bawl my eyes out from the physical pain of my broken heart, I did it. When I needed to stop on a walk, tilt my head to the sky, close my eyes and completely soak in the magic of a sunny day, I did it. When I needed to scream into the void, I got into my car and went banshee. In processing the loss of my marriage, I allowed myself to fully experience all of the raw, complex emotions that arose without holding back, or judging myself. This was the first time in my life I allowed this to happen.
I stepped into my new life with no more shame, and a heart fully accepting of my range of emotions, particularly my anger. I finally understood that anger, the primary “negative” emotion I used for so much of my life was my battle armor, and had been in place since I was roughly two years old. And it was employed since then. No one taught me how to process, much less tolerate seeing me express hard emotions. And as a middle-aged woman, I still had yet to learn how to feel the full range of other difficult emotions. If I felt hurt, anger was there to protect me. If I felt sad, anger was there to pick me up with a dose of adrenaline. If I felt betrayed, stand back. Anger went all-out.
When I left my husband, however, I learned that anger, though being a fierce protector for me, was not required in all situations. In my profound loss, I needed to fully experience my sadness, my grief, my loneliness, my heartbreak, my yearning, my shock, my helplessness, my panic and a rainbow of other emotions. And the beautiful thing is that when I allowed all of these emotions to be present and to move through me, I didn’t need to continue feeling them. They came and then went out of my system. Some lingered, of course. Bewilderment, loneliness, heartbreak, bitterness, those were mainstays for the first few months. And I allowed them to roost because it felt right.
Eventually, and without much awareness, these emotions went on their way. Loneliness was replaced with solitude. In solitude, I am able to get serious about my practice in meditation, able to allow my daydreams to make way for plans, allow my wish lists to become tangible steps toward a life I craft on my own terms.
Heartbreak was not completely replaced. A broken heart may always carry scars. Some may find that a despairing thought, but I can find peace in even this. To know I may always have a scar from the depth of love I felt for him, this tells me I loved him fully. And this tells me how much love I am capable of giving another human.
Bitterness has been replaced by acceptance. I can understand my ex’s limitations in a way I never could before. I may never understand why he took the steps he did during the last day or the last years of the marriage, and I don’t need to. I can now recognize his emotional limitations. I can recognize that while we were wonderfully matched for many years, we were matched only if the right circumstances were in place. When I became sick, when I began using the tools I learned in therapy, when I couldn’t be the hustler, when I couldn’t be the protector of the household, we were no longer a fit. He needed me to be a wife that fit certain perimeters. And to be fair, I needed him to rise up, grow up, heal, be assertive, handle business, being a certain kind of man for me. A man he would never be. So in looking back, I can forgive him for not being those things. I can carry a solid blue print for what I expect from my next man. God help him.
It could be that I may never have that kind of romantic relationship again. And if this is the case, I can accept that. I had a man who was amazing at providing romance. I had twenty years of passion that books are written about. We danced, made paper boats and camped in the rain. We went to a handful of different countries together. We traveled all 50 states together. We lived on both coasts and in the middle of the country together. We summited mountains together, swam in lakes, cuddled in cabins, got drunk on whiskey and on each other. I treasure these memories. And I get to take them with me, even if I didn’t get to physically take him into the next chapter of my life.
It has been a beautiful year, and I am immensely grateful for every day that led me here.
Thank you, Dubbit for all of the good. I forgive you for the pain.