Today's Horoscope

This is my actual horoscope for today, June 14, 2010. No lie.

"You feel like the lead in your own personal drama -- with the entire world as your audience! You do love to be the center of attention sometimes, and everyone else always does enjoy watching. Make sure to keep it entertaining -- too many long-winded monologues could send your viewers digging for the remote. Offer plenty of intermissions and snacks to keep everyone's mood sweet."

Hilarious. Thank you, My Yahoo home page! Please excuse my aforementioned long-winded monologue, and pardon me while I go pop some corn for you.

Coming soon--which radio voices I want to make out with and why. Is that better, My Yahoo?

Commencement

If I were to blog today, in this moment, what would I write?

If I were to allow myself the pleasure of picking up this neglected little art--permit myself the time to express myself, and indulge in a flood of much needed transcription of all of these things going through my head when it just feels, as it has for a really, really long time, like life is just kicking my ass--what would end up here?

I was wondering that tonight. This morning, actually. Insomnia claims me again, and so, in an effort to make everything going through my head shut the hell up, I just started typing.

What’s going to come forth? I don’t know. Sometimes, I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. What’s permitted, what’s acceptable. I feel like I’m always complaining, yet at the same time never screaming out what I really need to say. What I want to say. What, if I don’t say it, will just spew forth from me, as it has in tiny eruptions these past months, in a gush so violent and vitriolic that it will surely burn the people I love, and I won’t be able to take it back, and that scares me. I feel like I have been pushing people away that I don’t want to reject, and isolating myself when my greatest fear is being completely forgotten and abandoned. I feel like, no matter how hard I have been trying, no matter how many things I volunteer for, or say yes to, or do for the children, or make or give or show or be, it is too little of not enough, and I am a disappointment. I have fractured myself so completely that I do nothing thoroughly and well, thus little is satisfying. I have so lost the ability to say no, that yes is no longer a word that is joyous. It is a word that brings panic, and fear, and dread, as another thing--even if it is a pleasurable thing, a thing I want to do, something that in another time I might even look forward to--is just another thing tacked on an insurmountable list that threatens to cover me until I suffocate. I miss out on things I want to do because there is no time, and yet find myself wasting hours sitting on my couch looking helplessly around me trying to figure out how to manage everything on my plate in a way such that I can handle it all, find some shred of happiness doing it, and maybe have a little time to rediscover myself along the way. It seems impossible. And yet I look around, and see so many who seem to be handling so, so much more, so, so much better. So I wonder--what am I doing wrong? Why am I having trouble? What is wrong with me that I can’t do this?

I have wanted so badly to come here for months, and haven’t. People have asked me--why did you give up the blog? Why did you stop writing? I never know how to answer them. I wish that I did. It gave me pleasure. I was proud of it, if blushingly so. It was mine.

Is that the reason?

I’ve been on a bit of a journey. Year thirty-nine has not gone as I’d planned. Hoped. I’d hoped it would be a year of discovery, and taking chances, and trying new things. I’d wanted it to be a time for me to figure out some things that I could do to make a life for myself that married the many people that I am into a more cohesive being.

I wanted to find a way to be myself as a Mother, for it is surely the most important job that I have, and the most precious gift that I have ever been given, and I say that without an ounce of corny preciousness. There are days that I hate the work associated with it, but I never hate the job. How could I? Look at them. Just look. Through some miracle I could never have been so bold to have asked for or done something so right to deserve, I have been given these amazing, wonderful, bright and funny little boys. I can, though it is exceptionally difficult for me to give myself credit for anything, pat myself on the back a little, I suppose. Some of my siblings (whom shall remain nameless) called me “Auntie Strict” before I had kids, and it’s true, I have a pretty iron rule about manners and social demeanor. I have instilled through word and example, I sincerely hope, the concepts of generosity and tolerance, told them to always try to answer hate with love, and reinforced the idea that while you do not, certainly, have to like everyone, that everyone (until they cross a line that proves they no longer deserve it) initially deserves your respect. I have told them that it is their honor to be watchful over those who need extra care, to put forth a little extra effort to make someone feel appreciated, to take the time to use their words instead of their hands when they are angry or frustrated. I hope that I have taught them not to carry baggage that isn’t theirs to tow, that it is okay to respectfully question anything that doesn’t feel right to them, and that being different--hell, being a little weird--is not something merely to be tolerated, but to be celebrated. They are such amazing little people. I would like them so very much even if they weren’t mine. And that’s the miracle of it, because yes, I have taught them a lot, but so much is all them. They are themselves, not extensions of me, and that’s an amazing testament to them and to their father, who is such an awesome partner in all of this. I feel like there is no possible way to be grateful enough for what I have in them. And yet sometimes, it feels like motherhood is swallowing me up whole. Like when I gave up my job, the weird little part-time job that I never imagined having but I loved so very much, that I truly stopped being satisfied with my life. And I hate, hate admitting that. Because what does that say about me? About them? That they aren’t enough? How could they not be, when they are so very much? When they are the world to me?

I wanted to find a way to be myself as a Wife, for, as I have written before, I have something that I truly believe not a lot of people in this world are blessed enough to have, and that is a life with my soul mate. It’s a corny expression, that. Stupid. Girly. Something you’d find scrawled on the back of a composition book in a pink pen. But it’s true. I have had two soul mates in my life. One, of course, was my beloved sister, who took a huge part of me with her when she died. The other is ‘lex, who, after her death, truly gave me a reason to keep on living. I don’t know where I would be if it hadn’t been for him. He is an inspiration to me, every day. There isn’t a man on Earth who fights harder, sometimes against his very nature, for his family. A man who gives more. I think of him, and I hear Don Henley singing for him in my head:

“I had a good life before you came

I had my friends and my freedom, I had my name

Still there was sorrow and emptiness, ‘til you made me glad

Oh, in this love I found strength I never knew I had...”

I don’t think ‘lex ever knew what he was capable of giving before he partnered with me, or became a father to the children. Unlike me, ‘lex does alone very well. In fact, he thrives on it for long periods of time. He liked solitude, and sleeping, and an extremely low-maintenance, drama-free, virtually unchanging landscape of a life. This is not at all what he’s got with me--with us--and yet, he’s in it. Fully in it. Every day. He has never backed down from anything I bring him, and that’s saying something. People who know my background (and I would argue that many people could never know the full extent, but those who think they do, anyway) should be impressed with the way Alex manages. He is tired, for sure. There are days that all he wants is a little of that bachelor solitude back, I bet. But not at the expense of us. I know. I’ve asked. And he has earnestly, honestly, told me. Not ever at the expense of us. But I tell you--there are days I do not in any way know how to be a wife in all of this, when I am tired, and frustrated, and lost. When I feel like I am boring, and have nothing to contribute to an intellectual conversation. When I hear about his challenging day at work, and all I can add is that I drove to T-Ball and dropped off the DVDs and volunteered at the Book Fair. There are days--many days--that I don’t feel like a woman, or like I even exist as an individual any more. How do you continue to be a wife in that? How do I continue to be his girlfriend? How do I continue to be exciting? Interesting? And the saddest part of all? He still thinks I am desirable, and funny, and wonderful. It’s me. It’s my sadness. That’s the problem.

I wanted, most of all, because I thought it was the most important contribution to the equation and the area that I felt was most lacking, to find a way to be myself as a Professional. This area’s entry should be pretty short, because honestly? I can’t even fathom where to begin. I’ve never been one of those people who have a singular burning passion. I’ve never been one of those people who have said, “I simply must play the piano, or I’m going to die!” or “I’m going to be the one to develop the AIDS vaccine, damn it!” I was always the Bard. The Jackie-of-all-Trades. I’m a good writer, I think, but unsure of how to focus that into a career of any kind, since the essay style of writing I am most comfortable with doesn’t exactly seem to have much of a forum. I’m a decent collage artist, I think, but I don’t know exactly what to do with it or have any sort of idea of what I would make or create to sell or even where to begin with that. I was a pretty good event planner/program coordinator, and like doing that, but I don’t work alone very well, and would be a disaster at starting my own business by myself. I am a good teacher but, to be honest, I cannot dedicate my life to education because, simply put? I don’t want to. I loved working in product design, but only because I loved the products I was designing. I am very good with people and have excellent communications skills, but where is the best place to use them? How is? I have a ton of different, interesting skills that if I could just find the right place to put them would be undoubtedly handy to someone--I just don’t know where to go to use them and how to get hired, especially where we are currently living. And my children have made it clear that they love having their mother available to them. They do not want to go to after-care. They do not want to miss out on any after-school opportunities or have to have me give up my volunteer work, or any of the luxuries that come with a stay at home mother. So what do I do? Because we need me to work--it would benefit our finances greatly. I need me to work--to try and regain my happiness and frankly, my sanity. But the schedule and desires of the boyos say no. What do I do? Who do I listen to? My paralyzation, apparently.

And God, I just wanted to find a way to be Happy. Yes, Happy, with a capital H. This year, I didn’t want myself and my family to be sick, over and over and over again. I didn’t want to start writing a novel that I was actually enjoying writing and kind of proud of (like I had done in the past) only to abandon it again. I didn’t want to take on more and more projects than I could handle because I wanted so badly to help and not let anyone down, only to end up like I am now--exhausted, depleted and frustrated because, as I said, I shortchanged everything by trying to do too much. I didn’t want to say no to things I wanted to try, and not make time for people I wanted to see, and not give up on my year thirty-nine because there just wasn’t time for it.

And that’s exactly what I did. That’s exactly what happened.

So now, what do I do?

For months, I wanted to do what I have done dozens and hundreds of times. Quit. Again. Stop. Again. Just abandon another project. Maybe in a few months, or six months, or a year, or two, I can start a new blog with new intentions. Start fresh. I do that, you know. Start over. I almost never finish things for myself. I just start a new thing, promising myself, “This is it. This is the thing that will save me. This is the thing that will set me free.”

I can’t keep doing this.

I know this is different. Blogs aren’t meant to be finished. I get that. And year thirty-nine, for which this blog is named, is coming to a rapid close. It is ending, and my heart is racing just typing that. Seeing it on the screen makes me want to throw up. I reminded ‘lex the other night about how very much I hate June--not only because it is the month of Maria’s birth and death and it reminds me of how desperately I will always miss her, and not only because of Father’s day and it reminds me that I will never have a relationship with my dad ever again, but because June reminds me that July is coming, and I have wasted another year of my potential. I have spent another year not doing something that satisfies my soul. And this year, it’s even worse, because I feel like I’ve wasted another decade.

I wonder if there’s any way at all to reframe the very words. I wonder if I can possibly, somehow, not start over, but look at the year of thirty-nine and see it as a first year. The beginning year. The year I started to truly examine my life and consider true change. The year I started to realize that unhappiness wasn’t an option for me anymore, because I was slowly, spiritually, killing myself and both I and the three boyos I loved deserved so much more. The year that I said. “Enough now, Barbara. Enough.”

The year that I wrote the first seven chapters of the novel I finished.

I wonder.

NaNoWriMo and H1N1

I have been conspicuously absent here due to dedicating November writing time to NaNoWriMo, and coping with my family's various encounters with H1N1. The good news is that NaNo writing is going well. The bad news is I will not "win" this year due to the illnesses, which we are still, unbelievably after months of it, dealing with. The better news is that I will finish the first draft of the short novel by the end of the year, I think, and I'm really pleased with that. I also plan to post an excerpt here within the next week or so, so you can all see what I have been working on. Alex has heard some of it and thinks it is really worth pursuing. I believe he is biased, no matter what he says, so I am hoping to cull some less biased readers from some of you in the near future to help me get a clearer picture on what I have.

I also have some art pieces I have been working on. Little things. Some pendants and the like. I guess I need to post pictures now, huh? I also have a few new essay/free thought pieces I have written too.

So, I guess, more to come. And I am not dead. At least not from, as my dear nephew calls it, the "hinny."

See you soon.

What do you WANT to do?

I have a magnet on my fridge that, lately, has become this terrible confrontation every time I want a seltzer. It reads: “What would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail?” The query is attributed to an unknown source, which I find puzzling. No one wants the credit for asking that? Or is it simply that the person who asked was beaten to death by someone like me, who, in a fit of sleepless rage and panic, couldn’t answer it and decided to vent on the source before the poor bastard got any credit for his/her provocative, magnet-worthy nature?

I used to be an avid reader of “Choose Your Own Adventure” books, and the series written for girls with the Dungeons and Dragons themes. I also loved Infocom computer games, and the initial video games written for the early Mac computers that would offer rudimentary graphics and wait for you to make simple choices, asking in a weird, electronic voice, “What do you WANT to do?” (‘lex and I still say this to each other, often, in that same weird tone, causing our kids to look at each other as if we have two heads.) I loved pretty much anything that gave you the illusion of choice, with the caveat that the choice was controlled. The choice was from a select set that had been pre-programmed. Freedom with boundaries.

I think because I come from such a wild family, I am ultimately terrified of the very thing I claim to want, which is unchecked freedom. For this first time in a long time, I kind of have that. The boys are in school full time, and while I can’t exactly run off and join the rodeo or anything, I have large-ish blocks of time to do things, with no exacting parameters of what those things should be. I can write. I can make art. I can substitute teach. I can work at McDonald’s. I can learn a language. I can work out. I can do a lot of things. At some point, and really soon, I need to make some money, yes. But there are a lot of ways I can do that. What I can’t do is nothing.

Guess what I’m doing?

Nothing. I’m frozen. It’s actually getting worse over time.

This is not what I WANT to do.

Help.

How does a person find motivation? How does a person discover a spark? What do you do when your claimed obstacle is gone?

Recently, the same person who told me I have no compassion for myself offered me another nugget of wisdom. She told me that I needed to start being my own mother for a change. I’ve been thinking about that, and wondering what that means for me. I know what it means for the boyos. I don’t just hope that they will be okay, I make sure that they are. I ensure that they eat well, make sure that they are in bed on time, schedule time for them to be enriched intellectually, academically and socially. I make sure there is fun in their days. I take the time to bring them the places they need to go, make sure they are getting what they need to be successful. I make them go to the dentist, to the doctor, to the places they need to be. You should see my calendar, when it comes to them.

Be my own mother.

Is that how I do it? Do I start with a calendar? What do I write? Tuesday, 10:00 AM, go in studio and make something? Can it really be that easy?

I guess it’s worth a shot.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Hair Apparent

It’s official. I’m me again. As the Stompers would sing, a full blown “East Side Girl.”

A few days ago, sick of looking like some sort of bizarre-multi-brown-shaded-reverse skunk, I washed CA right out of my hair and dyed it a nice uniform chocolate color. I was sad to lose those incredibly expensive highlights for a few reasons.

For one, they made my mom happy. Did I mention I come from a long line of women who actually, despite the fact that it is not 1982, still frost their hair, or dye it platinum blonde? Seriously. The only frosted thing that is ever going to come near me is cake. I can only embrace my French-Canadian heritage so much, people. My mom both has it in her head and on her head that blonde is the way to go. I can’t tell you how hard I shudder when I picture myself blonde. I have a big head and no neck, that somehow manages to be both round and square at the same time. I look like a Lego minifig. Blonde hair would only accentuate this, and make my face look even more like a dinner plate. Still, she clings to the hope that I will stop dyeing my hair so “dark.” Light/medium brown is never light enough. I thought she was going to die of happiness when I added the caramel colored highlights. Now they’re gone, and I fully expect to be reminded that “dark hair makes a woman look old and heavy.” That’s exactly what I’m going for Mom. Realism achieved!

The second reason I held onto the highlights for far too long is that they were different. There’s a whole lotta same going on around here at the moment, and anything different is welcome. Little kids crave routine, and Alex is the type of guy who would happily eat/do/watch/play the same thing for days. My family isn’t going to win any “spice of life” awards any time soon. I, on the other hand, am the type of person who really needs variety and change. Maybe it’s sad that the only way I got that for a while was really expensive hair stripes. But hey, you take what you can get when you’re a stay at home mom. So I was reluctant to go back to the same day-to-day color I get for $10 a box, you know? And the highlights were luxurious. And expensive. Did I mention that yet?

Third, I got them for the trip to California, and I associate that trip with some pretty pleasant memories. I spent lots of wonderful time with my family out there. I got to help my children live a few little dreams and see their delight and amazement when they did. I got to meet a few really dear friends, one in particular, and spend lots of time with them and hug them a lot. I got to meet an amazing writer and his wonderful family and have dinner with them, and talk for hours. I got to see the Captain in person (even if I couldn’t speak and was a total dork) and Penny too (that I handled much better) and sit behind a god himself. I got to have geek fun and eat In ‘N Out and swim in the Pacific ocean and score nerd swag, and do so many other things. I did that with that hair. It was my SD, CA ‘do. I wasn’t ready to let it go yet. But apparently it was ready to let go of me. It outgrew me, and it was time. Time to let go, and just let it be a really nice memory. And not look like I was going to be on an episode of “Cops.”

Today I got my hair cut. It’s more layered than I’m used to which means that it’s going to take a heck of a lot more work to make it look decent. Work I’m pretty sure I’m not going to do, because I’m pretty sure East Side Barbara doesn’t really care what her hair looks like on any given day. The headband will be out in full force sooner or later. My brows are groomed nicely now, and I’ll try to keep them up, but it’s only a matter of time before my inner Chewbacca becomes external. I got so many compliments on the hair today and told I should always style it like this, and when I confided I had no idea how to do so I was advised to buy a “flat iron.” I immediately had to confess I had no idea what that was. My friend was kind, and told me where I could get one. The jury’s still out as to whether I’ll buy it and use it for three days before I give up or just not buy it at all. If I were a betting lass, I’d put my money on the former, but that’s just ‘cause I’m a gadget whore. I figure I can iron my papercrafting ribbon with it if the hair thing doesn’t pan out.

All of this is okay, though. This is who I am in New England. It’s okay to be many different versions of myself. And I am laughing as I type this, because I am making myself out as if I were some glamazon in California when really I was the LEAST glamorous person in our little group by far. It’s funny to me that I put in more effort over there and still was only about 17% female, or so. I so admire my girlfriends who can pull off picking up the kids at school and looking polished doing it, or walk a hot and sweaty theme park in California (you know who you are, you beautiful babes, you) and look like they should be in a photoshoot. I just can’t. And more than that, I don’t want to. I don’t want to look like a deranged mug shot, and that’s what I did a few days ago, what, with the black and white roots and the stripes and the split ends and the ragged weird overgrown madness. That had to go. But I can accept that I look like someone’s mom. Someone’s sidekick. Someone’s best friend. If life were a movie, I’d play the wisecracking buddy--the Janeane Garofolo role, if you will. That’s not a bad thing to be. I’ll take that typecast happily.

Acceptance. A key word, in year thirty-nine.

Foundations

Yesterday was my ten year wedding anniversary. Ten years since the original boyo and I made our promises and bound our hands. That morning I walked toward him, in a dove grey dress covered in Celtic Knots, and we started building the emotional house we were going to live in, presumably for the rest of our lives. It was easy to see what we had to contribute to the construction. ‘lex being ‘lex, he gave me the solidity and stability of his structure, and me being me, I gave him the color and vibrancy of my surface. Combined together we made something wonderful. Opposites attracting, yes, but not so opposite that there was no overlap. Complimentary with compatibility. I can’t imagine anyone else I could be with. Is there anyone else in the world for me? Is there anyone else in the world?

Here we are, ten years later, and I fear for that house sometimes, even though there is nowhere else in the world I could possibly call home. I fear for it only because of the parts of the foundation I contribute. I worry, sometimes, that I’m not built strong enough to carry such a precious, precious thing. I sing along with Chris Martin when I’m anxious about this, sometimes, worrying that “my castle stands upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand.” I don’t know how someone who has had such a normal upbringing--someone who is so stable, and so consistent, and so even-keeled--can handle all that seems to come with loving someone who is deeply emotional and who has such an intense background. Wouldn’t it have been so much easier to have put in ten years with someone else? Wouldn’t it have been so much better if the basement was dry, and the concrete was thick, even if it meant the walls were a little more drab? Is it worth it--really worth it--to have the art galleries and music rooms of me, if means that the roof and windows shake so hard sometimes that it feels like the whole damn thing is surely going to come crashing down?

It must be. He’s still here. Ten years later, he’s still here. This is something of a marvel to me.

I haven’t been around these parts in ages, as you know, and that’s another anxiety thing. I could attribute it to 1,000 things. I could blame it on lack of time, or lack of energy, or a myriad of other truthful things that would be distracting from the real reason I haven’t been blogging. The real truth of it is I get scared, just like I do with many things in my life. I start things, I start to enjoy them, I start to get a little success with them (in the case of this blog, people were coming to me with compliments, or people I did not know were reading it were telling me they were and enjoying it) and I start to feel the fear of failing. In the case of this, for example, I missed a day, or I started to feel like the subject I am going to write about “isn’t good enough.” Or I didn’t have time to write a long enough entry. Or I didn’t feel like writing the specific entry I promised. Whatever the excuse was, I found it. The excuse comes to feed the fear that will make me run. And run I did. Day builds upon day, and week builds upon week and then the wonderful sentence comes that has killed so very many things for me: “it’s too late now.” It’s too late for me. I never allow myself to begin again. Why is that? Someone said to me recently, “It’s amazing to me how little compassion you have for yourself. I bet you never treat anyone else in your life that way.” It’s true. I don’t.

‘lex always has compassion for me. For much longer than ten years, actually. He’s been my friend for almost twenty now, and he’s always had that. If I had to be truthful about it, I think our fate was sealed when he showed me compassion when Maria was in her coma, four months before her death. Were we in love then? No. But his enduring friendship? The way he got what her possible loss meant to me? The way he was there for me when my marriage fell apart? The way he was always, always so very open of heart and home when I needed somewhere to go? He’s the best friend I ever had. He’s my firm foundation. As Billy Joel sings, “...long as I have you by my side, there’s a roof above and good walls all around.”

Though we decided that for our ten year anniversary we wanted to go to Comic-Con, which we did by incorporating it into our family vacation, ‘lex had another little present for me yesterday. Long ago, I had seen a little toy typewriter in an antique store and I was just taken with it. He remembered, and bought it (though I am embarrassed to admit I had forgotten all about it.) He handed it to me yesterday and said, simply, “Write.”

Sometimes, ‘lex, there are times I just can’t do it for me. I know, I know. I’m a feminist, and a fighter, and I’m not supposed to depend on a man or on anyone to be who I’m supposed to be. But I hope it’s okay if I do it for you right now. ‘Cause I just feel like this is what I’m supposed to be doing. It’s my year 39, and it’s slipping away in my fear, and if it’s okay, I’m going to rest my weary walls on your foundation a little until I regroup and get my shit together and start walking again.

There are so many times in my family we moan about the “Sirois” luck, and the old joke about how if it weren’t for bad luck we’d have none at all. But truth be told, there probably isn’t anyone luckier than me in all the world. I’m certainly not perfect and neither is ‘lex but we, despite the fatigue of it all sometimes, are perfect for each other. I really believe that. If you’ll permit me to default to Billy, I’ll do it, because he said it better. This one’s for you, ‘lex. No one could love you more.


You’re My Home - Billy Joel


When you look into my eyes
and you see the crazy gypsy in my soul
it always comes as a surprise
when I feel my withered roots begin to grow.

Well I never had a place
that I could call my very own
but that's all right my love
‘cause you're my home.

When you touch my weary head
and you tell me everything will be all right.
You say use my body for your bed
and my love will keep you warm throughout the night.

Well I'll never be a stranger
and I'll never be alone
wherever we're together
that's my home.

Home could be the Pennsylvania turnpike
Indiana's early morning dew
high up in the hills of California
home is just another word for you.

Well I never had a place that I could call my very own
but that's all right my love
‘cause you're my home.

And if I travel all my life
and I never get stop and settle down
long as I have you by my side
there's a roof above and good walls all around.
You're my castle, you're my cabin
and my instant pleasure dome.
I need you in my house
‘cause you're my home,..
you're my home.

Days of Summer

I went to the movies tonight and saw (500) Days of Summer. It was just my kind of thing--a quirky little indie boy-meets-girl movie. Funny and sad and touching. Wonderful. Joseph Gordon-Levitt was a revelation. I really enjoyed it.

I won’t ruin it for any of you who want to see it but there was this theme that resonated with me, because it was something that affected me and changed me completely, and that is when two people are just completely out of synch in love. You can see in the trailers and commercials, so no spoilers here, that the two lovers in this film have broken up, and the man, Tom, is convinced, he needs to win the woman, Summer, back in order to be complete, even though she has moved on. I’ll leave the ending up to you to see. It surprised me, a little (if followed by a bit of tidiness I found a little cloying but hell, sweet is okay if done unexpectedly,) and I enjoyed that, so I want you to have that experience too.

It’s hard when you write a blog to know how much to share. I know that there are stories I want to tell that I never will--never can--because they are not mine, at least not fully, and I don’t feel I have the right to post other people’s experiences publicly. There are things of mine too personal, too, especially not really knowing who is reading this (or maybe sometimes knowing who is.) But there is a catharsis--a very powerful energy--in writing about the experiences of mine that affected me profoundly, too. I say this because as I watched this movie tonight I couldn’t help but think about my own first marriage, and how it fell apart. How in the end I could see no way for us to come back together. How there was no great tragedy or trauma, just people completely out of synch, one willing to fight at one point when another was not, trading back and forth for a long time until the energy was such that it just wasn’t humane anymore, in my kindest opinion, to continue. I don’t speak of it often--not publicly--not because it is a secret or because I am ashamed, but because it is only half my story, and I still have a great respect for the person I used to share the story with. I would never want to dishonor him by talking about the details. They are not wholly mine to divulge, and they are colored by my remembrance and the affectation of my hurts and slights. I’m sure there are things I remember incorrectly.

I’m sure there are many I remember correctly too.

During the film, Tom is advised by his precocious younger sister, when he is desperately trying to get over Summer, to think back and remember the bad parts too. That when he is aching, he is only remembering the good stuff. The funny part is, for a long time, I couldn’t let myself remember the wonderful things about my first marriage. There were wonderful things. I have some truly beautiful things I can think about, when I dare to, that rival the movie I watched this evening. I was sure, when I fell hopelessly, helplessly, head-over-heels in love with my ‘lex--the father of my children, who still does it for me and makes me believe in the concept of soulmates even when he leaves the kitchen sponge soaking in 1/2 an inch of dirty dish water for the eleventy-billionth time and I want to punch him in the kidneys--that I could never have loved my ex. At all. For if I truly loved Alex, then the other must not have been real, and the pledges I made at that first wedding were all just naive and desperate promises of a girl who was so determined to create a normal, stable home life that she was willing to say and do anything to have it, even get married young to someone she just really liked a lot. But that isn’t so. I did love my ex. I truly did. We danced to “Follow You, Follow Me” by Genesis at our wedding, and I sang the song in his ear, and at the time I meant every word. We were so very different--unequivocally incompatible, it turned out, but I couldn’t know that then--but I earnestly believed that loving him and him loving me could conquer all of that. Could make differences and incompatibility disappear. I thought love was enough.

It turns out it wasn’t. It wasn’t and it broke my heart into a million pieces.

People think when you initiate a divorce that it doesn’t hurt, especially when there is no clear case to do so, like alcoholism or adultery. That’s not so. There’s no need to delve into details--as I said, that story is only half mine--but I will say that it was largely simple incompatibility. There’s not really another explanation. It sounds so easy. Like it should be able to be worked out. Worked around. Worked over? I don’t know. It wasn’t. All I know is that those people--those people who think it doesn’t hurt when it’s your idea? When it’s your decision? They are wrong. They are so, so wrong.

Suzanne Vega wrote an incredible song about divorce called “Widow’s Walk” and I think she really nailed the pain and confusion so well. I listen to it sometimes and remember how it felt back then. She compares her marriage to a ship that has crashed and sunk, all the while knowing:

“If I tell the truth then I would have to tell you this;
though I grieve (and I believe I feel it truly),
I knew that ship was empty by the time it hit the rocks,
cause we could not hold on when fate became unruly.”

Yep. She gets it.

My mother gave me credit at the time for ending the marriage and I never understood it. I didn’t feel very brave. I felt like a failure and so very cruel. She told me it took faith to continue to believe that I deserved happiness. She told me that it took courage to quietly disagree with people who demanded I keep trying when I knew that it was done. She told me that I was smart for not wasting year after year trying to force something that didn’t come naturally. I imagine she was looking at the 20+ years she invested with my father as she said this to me, but I couldn’t truly understand this until Alex and I began our relationship. Yes, there are times, trying difficult times, when we are working hard for our family. There are times when one of us tries a little more than the other, or has a little more faith or can give a little more effort. But he has always been the one. He has always been my soulmate. There has never been a question in my heart that he was put here for me. There is no effort in that. That takes no work at all. I never have to wonder--did I make the right choice in a life partner? Did I choose the right person for the father of my children? That part’s easy. That part’s a given.

When my ex and I broke up, I was reminded of the old television show I loved, “Party of Five.” On the show, the character Julia was torn between two loves, Justin and Griffin, ultimately choosing the former over the later though she loved them both very much. She told Griffin after divorcing him that it stunned her that one day he would have children and she would have children but that they wouldn’t be the same children. I told my ex this at the end, and how it stunned me in the same way. This has happened now for both of us. And it is exactly, exactly how it is meant to be. I look at Finn and Thayer and I know this is true. They are a product of their father and I, coming together after one of the most painful and difficult times of my life, and being together and in love. As soulmates.

Perfectly in synch.


PS: Not to ruin the tone of this deep, deep writing I've done here, but regarding paragraph two: could I put a few more commas in there? Jeez. Were they on sale? Buy one, get 1,000 free? Sigh....