FINDING ALCHEMY

The memory of this moment haunts me. Sometimes I think about what my 46 year old self would have done. As hard as it would have been, I think I would have walked away. Or, even more realistically, I don’t think I’d have ever gotten that far down the relationship line.

When people say to me “well, you had a wonderful twenty years together,” I, unfortunately, don’t see it that way. We took fabulous vacations, had lots of friends, ate at great restaurants and lived in beautiful homes, but none of that could make up for the lack of love and respect.

None of this is to say we are bad people. Rather, I think we were two codependent people who were terrified of being alone.

Five years ago, I nearly left my ex. After an extraordinary amount of hard work and lifestyle changes, we were able to give our fledgling marriage CPR. The next several years were touch and go until finally, unbeknownst to me, he decided that the grass was in fact greener on the other side.

The irony of this is that I’m taking this divorce much harder than he is. He’s got a girlfriend and work distractions galore. I’ve got my dogs and a boatload of pent up anger. The anger comes out sideways, often at him, but I’m really most angry with my 27 year old self.

I met with a prospective CPA today because I’m losing mine in the divorce. As she ushered me into her office, she said nonchalantly “I love your husband’s last name; why didn’t you take it?”  By now, I am sure you can guess what my reaction was -- big, heaving sobs.  “I have a cool last name, too,” I blubbered. 

After I calmed down, I was able to tell her that we are in the process of a divorce. “Well, you’ve got great hair. And you’re young. And I can see by your tax returns you’ve done well with your restaurants.”  More waterworks.

Grief is the gift that keeps on giving. Every time I think I’ve crossed over to a more logical and less emotional part of my brain, grief sticks it’s foot out and trips me.  Today’s “gift” came in the form of running into someone I knew from my days in marketing at McMenamins. 

“I can’t believe you and Ziggy broke up,” she said.  In spite of my best efforts, I began to cry. “I can’t believe it either,” I whimpered, embarrassed and ashamed of my reaction to such a simple and seemingly innocuous statement. I pulled myself together, apologized for my reaction and continued with what I’d come to do -- buy pillows for my client.

The last nine months have been a wild ride; I’ve filed for divorce, traveled to Bali and France, learned to ski, lost and gained friends, sold my dream home, moved into an apartment and aggressively pounded the pavement in search of employment. 

Also during this time, I’ve practiced mindfulness and introspection and learned an enormous amount about myself. Although it may not seem like it to the outsider, one of the things I have always done is played it “safe.” I went to the first college that accepted me, I took the first job offer I received, and I​ married the first guy to ask. So when my world turned upside down, my first impulse was to reach for the “shoulds” -- I should be able to continue to live this lifestyle, I should go back to PR, I should get a “real” job. The list goes on.

Alas, the universe had different plans for me.  I’ve interviewed with dozens of companies and agencies and was repeatedly told I am “overqualified” or that I came in a “very close second.”

Rather than beating myself up, I have decided that what I “should” do is continue the design work that I love.  

Ironically, moving into this dark and cramped apartment has stretched me in ways I didn't think possible. I can make a blank space beautiful! I don’t have to live in an architecturally stunning house to be a designer! As I’ve grown more comfortable in my physical space, I’ve also become more comfortable in my skin and this newly transformed person feels called to continue her design career. 

For months, I’ve been telling anyone who will l listen that I am deeply, desperately uncomfortable in my own skin. That I physically can’t stand being in it and am constantly looking for ways to escape it. That I would do anything to slough it off, toss it to the side and be free of it.

As I was flipping through channels this evening, I stopped on an educational piece on snakes (I don’t particularly like snakes so I’m not entirely sure what compelled me). There, on the screen, was a brown and gold snake slipping slowly out of its milky white skin. The narrator explained that when a snake sheds, it is visibly uncomfortable, agitated and unproductive. It doesn’t eat; it is irritated and sluggish, devoting all of its focus to the singular task of ridding the old to make room for the new. But more interesting to me was the reason why snakes shed; to grow into a larger, more capable and more mature body.

Today is a Fury Day. Fury days are when I wake up incredibly angry that this is my life. I have a few each week. The best way to describe them is I feel a surge of hatred come over me; not necessarily directed at anyone in particular, but at the universe. Why can’t I find a job?  Why can’t this divorce process go faster?  Why do I find myself with fewer friends? The list of whys is endless.  I try to employ mindfulness techniques, taking deep breaths and saying things like “this is only temporary,” but they only exacerbate.

I often hear “You need to let go of the anger” and “You’re only hurting yourself.”  These types of comments only serve to make me angrier. I want to scream “I KNOW THIS!  I AM TRYING, GODDAMMIT!” 

I moved in to my apartment about two weeks ago now.  The adjustment has been challenging, but overall, I am glad I made the decision to get out of the house that held so many mixed memories.

One of the best parts about city living is how frequently I am forced to interact with others. In my house, I could hide away from the world for long periods of time.  The recluse in me loved this.  In apartment living, I have to leave the safety of my space multiple times a day -- to get the mail, to pick up FedEx packages, to walk the dogs, to get to the garage etc. During each of these outings, inevitably, I bump into someone in the elevator, the lobby, on the street or at the dog park. These run-ins create opportunity for interaction, and sometimes, connection.  

For example, there was the gentleman with a Havanese puppy (the same breed as Zane and Ollie) who approached me to ask in a tone of desperation, “How long does it take to potty train these guys?” -- to which I responded with an evil cackle and said, “You’re kidding, right?” 

Then I met an absolutely hilarious and flamboyant Frenchman who told me a riotous story about how he’d tripped and fallen in Safeway, knocking over a bread display.  In my mind, it was a scene straight out of a Peter Sellers’ film.

But my favorite experience so far was this: On Easter Sunday, I met a friend for dinner.  When I returned home, I reached in my handbag only to realize I’d left my keys in my apartment.  Frantically, I tried calling the building’s after hours emergency contact and later, a locksmith.  Both went straight to voicemail.  As I sat crying in the lobby over what an idiot I am, dozens of my neighbors stopped to provide words of comfort and reassurance -- “Everyone does this -- once.”  Eventually, one couple invited me up to their unit to wait for the locksmith (who finally returned my call). For over an hour, we sat at their kitchen island talking about careers, divorce, life, dogs and Portland.  In addition, it turned out she is also an interior designer so we swapped stories about the industry. 

I ran toward the closing elevator in my my new apartment complex yesterday wielding a hand truck loaded with boxes. The gentleman inside graciously held the door and helped me manipulate the hand truck in before the doors closed. As he scanned my belongings, he said with a serious southern drawl “Moving in?”

Me: “Yep.”

Him: “New to town?”

Me: “No, no. I’ve lived here 25 years.”

Him: Quizzical look. “Why are you moving to this place?”

Me: “My husband decided he no longer wanted to be married to me.”

I get a lot of private messages from people who follow my Divorce Diaries blog or read my Facebook posts.  Some of them are sweet and supportive, some are sad and thoughtful, and others are downright snarky and hilarious.  Like this one I received yesterday in response to my “Better Off Dead” entry.  

Agent: Thank you for calling Comcast, how can I help you today?

Me: Hi, I need to transfer and downgrade my services, please.

Agent: OK, great, I can help you with that. Can I ask why you’re downgrading?

Me: I am getting a divorce.

Agent: Oh, I am so sorry to hear that.

Me: Thanks. I appreciate it.

Agent: You’re going to be fine, you know that, right?

Me: (Chuckling) Thank you….I hope you’re right.

Agent: Is your ex a big guy?

Me: Not especially.

Agent: OK, so listen, when your friends and family ask you what happened, you tell them you lost 175 lbs, okay?

Last night, I enjoyed another incredible home-cooked French meal at my friend’s apartment. After dinner, we sat around the table drinking coffee and talking about life, our marriages, our divorces, our status as single women and what we wanted for ourselves personally and professionally.  I explained to Allison why I’d opted to take a year off of dating.

As it generally does, the discussion ultimately turned to online dating.  The French have the same dating sites we do, including Bumble and Tinder.  I told Allison about some of the “classic” profile pictures of American men (mirror selfies, posing with a fish or other dead animal, in the driver’s seat of a sports car etc.) and asked if they were similar in France. “We don’t have those particular poses, but we do have our own versions.” She then whipped out smartphone and opened her Bumble App.  As we scrolled through the profiles and photos, I came to a few conclusions:

1- French men don’t smile.  Nearly every photo was of a man making a sultry, sexy or pouty face.  It made me wonder if there was an issue with their teeth, if they’re just generally less happy or if French women prefer that look to one of a toothy grin.

2- There are only about five men’s names in France. Laurent, Guillaume, Christophe, Phillipe and Jean-something (Marc, Luc, Pierre). How do you remember which guy is which, I ask?  By hair color, Allison says. 

3- Smoking isn’t considered a negative. There were a multitude of James Dean style headshots, eyes squinting, cigarette dangling out the side of their mouths as they lean up against their motorcycle.

4- They get dressed up. With very few exceptions, there were no dudes in sweatpants, college t-shirts or flip flops.  The majority were well-groomed; shirts pressed, denim dark, shoes shined and scarves tied just so.

5- French men are simultaneously oblique and to the point.  We read a lot of “poetic” profiles, many of them nonsensical (maybe it was just lost in translation). However, one refreshing aspect is that the majority stated what they were looking for in a relationship -- long term, fun night out, just looking etc. 

There were some hilarious shots, too. Like the guy standing in front of the sign to the city Camembert staring off into the distance, holding -- what else?  A wheel of Camembert cheese. 

For as long as I can remember, I have loved France. Some of my earliest memories are of chasing ducks in parks and trying to speak english to French kids (and crying when I couldn’t grasp why they didn’t understand me). So when I saw a reasonable airfare for a last-minute trip to Paris, I jumped at the chance to return for the second time in less than a year.  

I am at an advantage in that one of my best girlfriends from college lives here with her daughter in the most Parisian of apartments.  Tucked behind a pale blue door off the cobblestoned main street, you pass through a small courtyard to her front door and up a narrow stairway to her living room.  Hardwood floors, bright white walls, tall narrow windows with Juliet balconies and a 16th century-style fireplace all lend to its casual and comfortable charm. 

This morning, I woke before my hosts and went in to the kitchen to make myself my Nescafe and cream (a seriously guilty pleasure).  I noticed something I didn’t the last time I was here.  There is little to no storage.  No floor to ceiling cabinets, no fancy wine refrigerators and no drawers with built-in spice racks.  This extends to her other rooms as well.  There’s no coat rack, no linen closet – there are no closets, in fact. My initial reaction is “How can she live without storage?” But as I sit here drinking my coffee and taking an inventory of her belongings, it occurs to me: she has everything she needs.  She has a comfortable sofa, a dining table and chairs, enough plates, bowls and coffee cups for six.  They also have access to delicious and affordable food – a bakery, a butcher and cafe outside her front door.  They have a radiator in every room, a happy dog and a park within walking distance.  They dress simply, grocery shop daily and walk everywhere they go.  They aren’t wealthy and she doesn’t have a hot boyfriend, but you know what?  They seem very, very content.  

As I prepare to embark on a big downsize, going from seven closets to one and from 2,200 square feet to 800, it occurs to me that the universe may have lined this trip up because there’s a lesson for me to learn here.  The more storage you have, the more stuff you accumulate.  The more stuff you accumulate, the more cluttered your life (literally and figuratively).  So, as a card carrying member of the American consumerism culture, I am taking note and terminating my membership, effective immediately.  

For months, I have been struggling to understand how I missed the signs.  How could someone I lived with and slept next to be so miserable and I hadn’t a clue?  Was I that self-absorbed?  Was I subconsciously dismissing them? Why couldn’t he have just TALKED to me?

The more I thought about it, the angrier it made me. I said to a friend (whom I referenced in my Shame Game post): “Do you think it’s that men are raised in a society that tells them that vulnerability isn’t an ‘attractive’ character trait?”  And later, during a session with my therapist, I posed the same question. “I do,” she replied. 

In my aforementioned post, I noted I’m frequently sucker punched by memories of possible indications that my ex was going to leave.  The reality is, however, I am not a mind reader and those signs may in fact, have been totally meaningless. 

I’ve been thinking about writing this piece for a while now, but today I read a story on TIME.com by Faith Salie entitled “How to Raise a Sweet Son in an Era of Angry Men” which articulated some of what I hope for in our next generation: “….boys learn early on that they can defend themselves against loneliness by reaching out and asking for support.” 

It should be noted that I am neither a parent, nor would I have any clue how to raise a boy in today’s society, but so many of the points Salie makes hit home for me. 

In some ways, I feel badly for my men like my ex.  How painful it must be to have society tell you it’s not cool to express your sadness and how desperate he must’ve felt to bottle all of that up to the point of implosion.  

A friend (who is going through a freakishly similar situation) and I were talking the other day, recounting multiple moments we realized (in hindsight) were critical turning points in our marriages.  We both noted that our instincts, while ignored or minimized, were spot on.  Deep in our guts, we knew something was very wrong, but neither of us wanted to believe that what was happening was as significant as it was.  

We’ve been plagued by these repressed memories, which pop up at extremely inconvenient times, delivering a sucker punch to our abdomens.

“I’m just so mad and humiliated,” she said to me. I was struck that she chose those two emotions because I, too, identify them as mine. 

I woke up in the middle of the night thinking: Why in the hell are she and I the ones feeling such shame? We’ve both acknowledged to our spouses, in therapy (and in some cases publicly) that we weren’t the perfect wives and we’d made some stupendously idiotic mistakes, but we weren’t the ones who walked.  

So why such shame? The only conclusions I can come to are these:

1. Men have the ability to compartmentalize their lives into mutually exclusive rooms. In my ex’s mind, our life together has nothing to do with his new life and relationship.  He was able to make a clean break because he’s shut that door and locked it.  Women, on the other hand, live in an open floor plan; our emotions bleed over from room-to-room, filling every corner.  Our rooms are so packed full of feelings, we are left paralyzed. The idea of moving on is terrifying because we literally can’t think and our confidence has been so profoundly shaken.

2. As women, we often feel humiliation and shame when we are unable to do all the things we think we should. We must be smart, nurturing, sexy, successful, pretty, productive, happy, nice and more. The list is smaller for men. Shame usually manifests when we don’t feel like we can do it all and as women, we often blame ourselves when we “fail.” This is especially true when our marriages collapse. When we feel this way, we turn inward, berating ourselves for being unable to keep it all going. 

3. Shame (on either partner’s side) leads to communication problems. When we’re mired in shame, communication becomes stilted, unclear, or worse, non-existent.