adultery

::SAFE HARBOR::

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SAND AND SEA

I got back from the beach last night. On my morning walks by the shore I harvested a few beautiful shells. Now I stand at the kitchen sink with my coffee, lower them into the basin of water.
And my mind drifts …

“Come out of your shell.” Or, “She needs to come out of her shell.” I’ve heard it said about others, I’ve heard it said about me−both sincerely and sarcastically, as in , “Umm, girlie, you need to climb back into your shell; you’re a little ‘too far out’.”

But the shell thing−like sea urchins or snails−what a Divine idea. To carry your protection on your back; to be able at a moment’s notice to dodge any bullet simply by “climbing in.”

If I could have, I would have. Especially in the nineties. Those were ‘the paranoid years’. The time when my hair fell out in clumps. I knew people were whispering about me through the soup cans at the grocery store. One of the things Tim did was he copied my journal, rewrote it, then showed it to everyone he could think of. Hell yes, I wanted a shell. One that could hold a woman in her forties, protect her from the man who’d claimed to love her; one where she could cry every tear until they made an ocean she could float away on.

I run the water till it’s a little warm, and begin massaging each of the small, ridged shapes with my fingertips until their pearly surfaces become visible.

Some say time heals wounds. But it never says anything about what you’re supposed to do while the healing happens. Sit on the floor, back corner of the closet? That was a favorite spot. Fall asleep on the couch, with the TV on? That happened more times than I can count. Get home from your therapist, pace for twenty four hours, watching the clock til it’s time to get in the car and head back to her office? For months I did that. She saved my life.

Those experiences−the closet floor, the couch, Dr. High’s office−they never felt like healing at all. They felt like one big gyroscopic attempt to hang on. I thought the spinning would never level out, that I would never find solid ground. But the truth is, I did. And healing happened.

When I think about the woman I was then, I am moved by her pain; by her need to hide away. I want to reach back and hold her. I want to tell her it will be okay. Tell her that, believe it or not, she’ll survive. And she’ll be glad she did.

I swish the water gently and choose a shell, think of the moment I picked it from the sand. I turn this delicate vessel over in my hand. It is a profound reminder of protection and release.

Where have the creatures gone? Perhaps they found other shells for safe harbor. Perhaps their time came to transition, becoming one with the flotsam and jetsam. Or perhaps they are braving this world like I am−out of my shell, ready to move forward into whatever this day and this life will bring.

::THINGS I KNOW::

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DAISY

Women all over the world are dealing with separation and divorce. Many believe they are alone in their relationship drama; they think theirs is a unique situation, a solitary journey, with no hope at the end of the road.

I want to spread the word that we are a global community of women whose hearts have been softened by the breaks they have endured.

I met my husband our freshman year in college. We were both singers in a rock band. I can think back and realize that I had two visceral responses: revulsion and connection. That might sound strange, but I don’t think it’s unusual for a girl who had no clue what a “gut feeling” was, or what to do about it. Most of us – if we’d followed our guts in the first place – would not have made the choices we’ve made.

First rehearsal he was big and hairy, the center of the universe, he cracked jokes and tuned his guitar with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. The first time he ever talked to me, he called me “Babe.” Normally that would have turned me off completely. But from him it was a fish hook, and I was a carp.

He was a charmingly thoughtless boyfriend, sweet but self-centered, and stayed drunk or hungover most of the time. In my purse I carried a big bottle of aspirin and a roll of Tums, because he needed them on a regular basis. He was a popular guy around campus, a reckless boy who was driven by booze, cigarettes, and rock and roll. I’d led a small, cloistered life. In my mind, I was walking on the wild side. We had sex early on he was my first. We used no protection. It was the sixties, and society said l-u-v was free. My woolly boyfriend and I got married in September, less than a year after we met. I was Catholic, and pregnant. He was Southern Baptist and he was nineteen. His father had to sign for us to go before the judge. We were perfect together, a match made in a textbook on dysfunction and codependence.

I was born in the late 1940s, so I had this idea that love conquers all (though I’d never seen it happen), life could be beautiful (though so far for me it hadn’t been), and that babies were the glue that holds things together.

We were nineteen and twenty when our daughter was born. Our son was born two years later.

We were married for almost twenty-five years. We divorced in 1991, and since then I have allowed myself to see – through therapy and self-discovery – how rose-colored my glasses really were.

The first thing I had to come to terms with was the fact that my husband and I were in two different relationships. I never thought about cheating because it’s not in my nature to cheat. He thought I was cheating all the time, because he was a cheater. So he accused me, and I comforted him.

There were sweet moments, the times “between the cheats.” During those periods he was like a little boy making me laugh, unsure of himself, needing to talk, take long walks holding hands, calling several times during the day. It wasn’t until the marriage was over and I was in therapy that I was able to recognize the pattern of adultery. You could chart it on a graph, like the Dow Jones report. When my therapist made me see it, when it finally registered, inside I let out a birthing cry that, though it’s grown quieter through the years, is still there.

In the end my husband was so deliberately cruel, so public in that last Big Affair, that I literally felt myself going crazy. I was convinced that he was setting me up to kill myself. I went so far as to write my attorney, my brother, and my therapist, assuring them all that if anything happened to me, it would not have been by my own hand. Yes, I was a little paranoid; I quit going to the grocery store because I was certain that the shoppers were whispering to each other about me through the shelves of soup cans. My eyelashes fell out, my hair dropped in clumps, I didn’t sleep for days at a time.

I started writing a lot. I bought an old IBM selectric, and taught myself to type so I could go faster. I wrote frantically; sometimes I would start at suppertime with a bowl of cereal on the table next to me, and find myself still writing when the sun came up. The cereal had turned to mush, and the floor was covered with pages. I had to get it out of me, had to park it somewhere. And so I did. It was cathartic, the writing.

There are so many facets that go into making us who we are. Through the years we chip off pieces of ourselves in order to stay small enough for the love we’re in. But when we find ourselves alone and our heads begin to clear, those pieces we’d abandoned show up again. It shocks us, because we never made a conscious decision to surrender them at all.

When I moved out of our home and into my own place, it was the first time I had ever lived alone. I was startled when I realized that I didn’t know what kind of music I liked. Music played in our house all the time, but the choice was always his or the kids and I went along with it. I mean, I enjoyed it enough. But now it was my choice. I had no idea. He kept the CD’s, so I went to Tower Records and wandered around for a couple of hours. I looked at everything. I listened at every listening station. I ended up buying Enja, Muddy Waters, and a Big Band compilation.

They say that time heals wounds. I don’t believe it. I think time takes us farther and farther from the source of our wounds, but it’s up to us to heal ourselves. That was my goal – to heal myself without turning my heart to stone.

My journey over the last decade or so has taught me a lot about who I am, and about the process of getting to here from there. In fact, now when read I what I wrote back at that kitchen table, I am stunned by the story written there. Who was that woman? Can I have been she? It feels remote, mostly disconnected from me. Yet the remnants of that past continue to color, in a variety of ways, the days of my life now.

For example, I’ve learned the subtle but profound difference between loneliness and solitude. During the first days, weeks, months of my independence I was embroiled in the seas of loneliness and longing. Stay with that long enough, it will wear you to the bone. There comes a time when you literally have to say, Okay, I’m giving notice to the both of you: Longing, you have visiting privileges, but you can no longer live here. Fifteen minutes, once a week, that’s it. Loneliness, you have two hours to leave. Pack up and get out. I have two new roommates moving in today. Their names are Comfort and Solitude.

Comfort was tricky. I had spent my life creating comfort for others. I couldn’t wrap my brain around how to do that for me. My therapist said, “Cece, make a list of the things that you would do for a friend who is going through what you are. Then do all those things for yourself.”

At first I was self-conscious. But I made my list. Flowers, massages, facials, pedicures, a nice meal out after church on Sunday afternoons. I literally felt guilty for being kind to me. I had to be deliberate, fight the resistance; for many, many months it seemed totally unnatural. Today it feels normal, and I know that it’s that very self-nurturing that has kept my heart soft, my spirit hopeful. I can tell you honestly that today I am able to see the goodness and the possibilities in life. And what I now know is that an empty glass cannot fill others. When we don’t fill ourselves first, there’s nothing to spill on anyone else.

Solitude bears a special quality. There’s a freedom to do, be, or say whatever the heart calls for. No ridicule. Linen cases on the pillows, starched and pressed; waking in the pre-dawn and lying in the quiet, listening to the birds in the crabapple; rolling out of bed and taking time – personal, quiet time – to wash face, brush teeth, open curtains, peer out at the day. So far, no word has been spoken. None are needed. Look in the mirror. The message is clear: you, and all your choices, are welcome here.

::SILENCE::

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2_broken+heart

It’s funny how, when I think back on that night, I can see the silence was bigger than anything else. It was bigger than the darkness. It was bigger than the moonlight that dappled the room with lacey patterns through the curtain at the front window. It was bigger than him, sitting on that sofa. It was bigger than me, standing in the doorway. That night, everything seemed bigger than me. The clock ticked. The children were upstairs sleeping but I swear I could hear them breathing. Soft, rhythmic, surrendered. But there, in that little living room: Silence. He sat. Across the room, I stood.

Finally,
“How much of you did she have?” The words hung in the air like balls, floating on water. I heard them, then realized it was my own voice.

Silence. Then,
“She had all of me.”

In the room: Silence.
In my head: A sort of screaming that, though through the years would grow faint, would never, ever stop.

No one tells you that your moment of confirmation, of validation, can also be the single most horrifying moment of your life. What do you do, once you hold the truth? Where do you go with it? What pocket do you tuck it into? Do you take it, like old ticket stubs, and paste it in into a scrapbook? Do you also glue pictures of your heart, the night it shattered?

Strength is sometimes overrated. But in the end, it’s strength you need, if only to find your bones, and tell them to stand up, to move your body forward, mind your broken heart, and – because you have not yet been given a pass to leave the planet – carry on as best they can.

::FORGIVENESS::

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RED FORGIVENESS

It’s a nippy day in Middle Tennessee, and I’m sitting here in my wonderful home office. It’s a big room over the garage in a house I bought in 2003. The place was terribly dilapidated, and needed a ton of renovation. I took the year, busted my hump working on it, and have lived here ever since.

That may seem like it has nothing whatever to do with forgiveness. But truly, it has everything. Here’s a little backstory:

I was married for twenty-five years to a man who was emotionally abusive and spiritually and creatively draining. He did his best to suck the life right out of me; told me I was utterly incapable of doing anything. He was perennially unfaithful, but his final betrayal was a doozy. The last scene of our matrimonial bliss featured him and my youngest sister in a big public affair. He had reached the pinnacle in his industry, he believed he was bullet proof, and they trotted themselves all over the place as a couple. I could go into details about it, but I won’t. It doesn’t really matter. Clearly, in so many ways, he was just – wrong.

As I typed that last paragraph, I realized that I was chuckling softly. How did I get here? How did I end up, the ebullient person I was born to be? If you looked at the facts of my life, you’d say I have no right to be this happy. And you’d be right. I really don’t … but I am.

I can’t exactly explain how I got here, but I can tell you this: it comes down to one word. Forgiveness.

When the blow up happened, I watched myself collapse into the deep, the dark – I felt out of my body; out of my mind. In an effort to reclaim my sanity I wrote, sometimes in twenty-four hour sittings without stopping. I lived my aching heart, and all the accompanying feelings. I screamed at them as I stripped wallpaper in the bathrooms of that house. I dressed them up, took them out, they paraded ahead of me. Fear, anger, pain, the need for justification, they were my team. Or I had been drafted to theirs. I wanted it to stop, but I couldn’t find center, so I went with it. I had no choice, did I? I mean, after all … what they did. What they DID! How is it possible to recover from that, right?!

Well, it’s possible. In fact, we’re given the opportunity to opt for recovery, every minute of every day.

I haven’t always known that about recovery. But one day it hit me that keeping the deadening hurt was me, robbing my own life of its sweetness. I was sick of it. So I started praying about it. At first, and for months, my prayer was two words: “Help me.”

I prayed nonstop, sometimes just to keep from drowning. I prayed out loud as I drove, I whispered over the cauliflower in the produce section, I Dominus Vobiscumed myself to sleep at night. My whole life became a prayer.

Through the winter into the spring I was painting, and praying, and crying, and renovating the awful house. Picking colors is tricky when you feel like your hair is on fire. But I look back now and can see that God was using everything and everyone in my life to draw me closer to Him. My heart had been cracked wide open, it hung there in my chest, a gaping hole of hurt. He reached right in and grabbed it all. As tightly as I may have been holding my grievances, He was holding me. Knowing this still brings tears to my eyes.

Happiness and joy are products of peace. Or maybe it’s the other way around? I’m not sure. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, the raging waters began to calm. The more calm I felt, the more I wanted to feel until, one day months later, I realized the peace I’d prayed for was everywhere.

There’s no drama unless we inject it. Things happen. People make promises. People make choices. Some promises are kept, some are broken. Some choices bring happiness, some bring heartache. When I finally realized this, I could look back and see the trail of brokenness behind me. But by that time my view was from higher ground. Without realizing it, I’d been on the path of forgiveness. That’s when it became clear that forgiveness is a process, and the peace I’d prayed for was the journey itself. Forgiveness defines my joy. It’s a freedom and a lightness of load unlike any other. If you are wondering how you will ever get here from there, I can only tell you this. When it awakens in your spirit, you’ll know. Once you feel it, you will have navigated the narrows of your heart. You will never lose your way again.