Interruptus
So. I've decided to talk about the "vague news" I mentioned in a previous post, mostly because it's what I need to process right now and I know I can discuss this with an emphasis on myself, not on the other party. Here goes:
Last week my ex husband told me his boyfriend is moving in with him.
It took a lot of guts for him to call and tell me that and still, to this moment, I respect the hell out of him for that. He was patient as I verbally processed, from anger to sadness, to a loose sense of resignation. A few days later he even let me talk through it all with him again with the same patience and understanding that he gave the first time. So I want all of you to know, I still think he's an exceptional human being.
And yet, I was gutted by this. I think the thing I've learned about divorce, generally speaking of ending any long-term relationship, is that there is no single method to dispel all of the hurt in one fell swoop. It comes and goes in waves, with each new development in the natural progression moving away from the lives that were once intertwined creating new hurdles. This is also compounded by the choice we made, and continue to make, to develop and maintain a friendship post-marriage. It hurt when we split. It hurt when I learned he was in a committed relationship. But, it hurt when we actually divorced. It hurt to see him so happy with his new guy. It hurt when his boyfriend started working in my therapist's office and I have to pass his desk every time I go to session (OK- maybe this one still kind of sucks).
Each of those hurts came and eventually went. Each new intrusion brought about a new stasis. Each time he and I adapted and continued forward as friends. Each time, I grew a little stronger.
So why does this one especially hurt, knowing that it's just another step in the divorce like each before it? I've struggled with this one, struggled a lot. Having an especially stressful workload right now hasn't allowed for many ebbs in my anxiety. About the only time I can truly feel at peace is on the treadmill, which induces an Anderson Cooper-level eye roll even from me.
A friend of mind posted a meme on the FB that basically said anxiety is the incessant voice that lies and drowns out the truth. This is a wise way to consider anxiety, at least how it manifests in me. My anxiety has been telling me all sort of lies about this, the chief among them being: I have been replaced.
But if therapy has taught me one thing, it's that you cannot allow these thoughts to take hold. You have to interrupt them and take stock of exactly what is going on in the whirring blender that is your damn head. I have to analyze what I mean when I think I'm replaced, not just feel. What my maudlin, emo-goth side wants me to believe is that somehow the boyfriend is superior and that my ex is exponentially happier. It tells me I feel replaced because someone else will now inhabit the house I painted, sit on the furniture I assembled, look at the art I drew, sleep with my dogs every night in the bed I bought with him from Sears, and will eat food served from the rainbow bowls I surprised him with for his birthday by hiding them in my friend's garage.
But what this toxic line of thinking doesn't recognize are the paradoxes of love.
A paradox of love means that I can feel utterly rejected by someone whom I chose to leave of my own free will and have no true desire to return to as a husband.
A paradox is that I was a valuable and significant part of his life, as he was mine, and that ended without evaporating. No one can or will take that decade of my life away from me. No one has claim over our adventures, our stories, our intimate knowledge of each other's minds but us. But what the paradox means is that there is now a period at the end of that story instead of ellipses. I will always have ownership over that story but the story will be further written without me as a protagonist (or worse, as antagonist).
And if we're really truth-telling here, I'm also paradoxically jealous. I'm jealous that he, someone whom I no longer want as a husband, has found someone of whom he's so certain, and is certain of him, that they're already at this level of relationship. I'm jealous he has someone to love who loves him in return. I'm jealous that he has what I want.
And you know what? That's all fucking OK, as long as it's kept truthful.
What I have to keep interrupting is the tragic narrative that my mind wants to create to cast myself as the victim in a situation that, in reality, has nothing to do with me. I have to remind myself of the love and companionships that honestly exist in my life that, while not romantic, are no less meaningful. I have to remind myself that my girlfriend Julie messages me every other day because she cares how I feel. I have to remind myself that I have three colleagues who will always let me flop into their office and genuinely let me vent about my frustrations. I have to remind myself that my strong and beautiful nephew Jackson thinks I'm the greatest Uncle in the world and that even at 19, still tells me he loves me (literally crying over this one).
I have to remind myself that my life is rich and beautiful even if my ex husband successfully, and deservedly, moves forward with his life and finds new happiness. Why? Because. He's allowed to be happy and that new happiness has no correlation to our former relationship or my current way of life. I am still a valuable and special person no matter what he choose to do.
Friends, patient, beautiful friends. You've given me the indulgence of your time and understanding to let me process openly the hardest parts of my life. I want you to know that I care about you too. I want you to know that, even if we've only seen each other twice in as many years, you are no less special to me. I want you to know that you're not alone with your thoughts, despite the narrative your mind is creating.
So when the dark thoughts intrude, interrupt them. Tell them to fuck off because you, beautiful person, you are loved.
Last week my ex husband told me his boyfriend is moving in with him.
It took a lot of guts for him to call and tell me that and still, to this moment, I respect the hell out of him for that. He was patient as I verbally processed, from anger to sadness, to a loose sense of resignation. A few days later he even let me talk through it all with him again with the same patience and understanding that he gave the first time. So I want all of you to know, I still think he's an exceptional human being.
And yet, I was gutted by this. I think the thing I've learned about divorce, generally speaking of ending any long-term relationship, is that there is no single method to dispel all of the hurt in one fell swoop. It comes and goes in waves, with each new development in the natural progression moving away from the lives that were once intertwined creating new hurdles. This is also compounded by the choice we made, and continue to make, to develop and maintain a friendship post-marriage. It hurt when we split. It hurt when I learned he was in a committed relationship. But, it hurt when we actually divorced. It hurt to see him so happy with his new guy. It hurt when his boyfriend started working in my therapist's office and I have to pass his desk every time I go to session (OK- maybe this one still kind of sucks).
Each of those hurts came and eventually went. Each new intrusion brought about a new stasis. Each time he and I adapted and continued forward as friends. Each time, I grew a little stronger.
So why does this one especially hurt, knowing that it's just another step in the divorce like each before it? I've struggled with this one, struggled a lot. Having an especially stressful workload right now hasn't allowed for many ebbs in my anxiety. About the only time I can truly feel at peace is on the treadmill, which induces an Anderson Cooper-level eye roll even from me.
A friend of mind posted a meme on the FB that basically said anxiety is the incessant voice that lies and drowns out the truth. This is a wise way to consider anxiety, at least how it manifests in me. My anxiety has been telling me all sort of lies about this, the chief among them being: I have been replaced.
But if therapy has taught me one thing, it's that you cannot allow these thoughts to take hold. You have to interrupt them and take stock of exactly what is going on in the whirring blender that is your damn head. I have to analyze what I mean when I think I'm replaced, not just feel. What my maudlin, emo-goth side wants me to believe is that somehow the boyfriend is superior and that my ex is exponentially happier. It tells me I feel replaced because someone else will now inhabit the house I painted, sit on the furniture I assembled, look at the art I drew, sleep with my dogs every night in the bed I bought with him from Sears, and will eat food served from the rainbow bowls I surprised him with for his birthday by hiding them in my friend's garage.
But what this toxic line of thinking doesn't recognize are the paradoxes of love.
A paradox of love means that I can feel utterly rejected by someone whom I chose to leave of my own free will and have no true desire to return to as a husband.
A paradox is that I was a valuable and significant part of his life, as he was mine, and that ended without evaporating. No one can or will take that decade of my life away from me. No one has claim over our adventures, our stories, our intimate knowledge of each other's minds but us. But what the paradox means is that there is now a period at the end of that story instead of ellipses. I will always have ownership over that story but the story will be further written without me as a protagonist (or worse, as antagonist).
And if we're really truth-telling here, I'm also paradoxically jealous. I'm jealous that he, someone whom I no longer want as a husband, has found someone of whom he's so certain, and is certain of him, that they're already at this level of relationship. I'm jealous he has someone to love who loves him in return. I'm jealous that he has what I want.
And you know what? That's all fucking OK, as long as it's kept truthful.
What I have to keep interrupting is the tragic narrative that my mind wants to create to cast myself as the victim in a situation that, in reality, has nothing to do with me. I have to remind myself of the love and companionships that honestly exist in my life that, while not romantic, are no less meaningful. I have to remind myself that my girlfriend Julie messages me every other day because she cares how I feel. I have to remind myself that I have three colleagues who will always let me flop into their office and genuinely let me vent about my frustrations. I have to remind myself that my strong and beautiful nephew Jackson thinks I'm the greatest Uncle in the world and that even at 19, still tells me he loves me (literally crying over this one).
I have to remind myself that my life is rich and beautiful even if my ex husband successfully, and deservedly, moves forward with his life and finds new happiness. Why? Because. He's allowed to be happy and that new happiness has no correlation to our former relationship or my current way of life. I am still a valuable and special person no matter what he choose to do.
Friends, patient, beautiful friends. You've given me the indulgence of your time and understanding to let me process openly the hardest parts of my life. I want you to know that I care about you too. I want you to know that, even if we've only seen each other twice in as many years, you are no less special to me. I want you to know that you're not alone with your thoughts, despite the narrative your mind is creating.
So when the dark thoughts intrude, interrupt them. Tell them to fuck off because you, beautiful person, you are loved.
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