I’m not sure if it’s because I found myself commenting recently on a friend’s Facebook post about how her life has changed as a result of her pending divorce, or if it’s because Thanksgiving harbors indelible memories of divorce arriving on my doorstep like an uninvited guest, but I’ve been ruminating about the past.
And even though my life now is truly, unequivocally amazing, like my friend, there are moments that the past sneaks up and bites me on the proverbial butt, the sting catching me totally off guard.
It’s been three years since my now-ex husband announced with flat, dead certainty that he didn’t want to be married to me any longer – that our marriage was “done,” as if we were a pie baking in the oven.
Done.
This pronouncement came after 20 of his family and friends had been in our home celebrating Thanksgiving and making plans for the New Year.
It came while I was still healing from my transplant surgery and many things took a great deal of effort to physically do without help.
It came without his ever mentioning the woman who was waiting in the wings to take my place.
I was washing the dishes when I heard the words tumble from his mouth like ice cubes clinking in a glass. He stood leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms folded across his chest as if he needed protection from me. From us.
There were so many times after I moved out of “our” house that I didn’t think I’d get through the next two minutes, let alone two years.
I spent a good deal of the “being left, being really sick, wondering how I was going to pay the bills” days, weeks and months wrapped in the cocoon of sweet denial, but slowly, painfully, I woke up to the reality of where life had really taken me.
And like seeds from a tree being swept along by the wind, I learned to bloom where I was planted.
In all the loss, I found myself. Or re-found myself, to be more accurate. I found a treasured new love and a life at the age of 56 I didn’t think possible.
And I have no desire whatsoever to be anywhere but where I am now.
Except.
Yes, except for that teeny tiny part of me who still wants closure even though I know I will never, ever get that because he’s not capable of accepting his part in the disintegration of our marriage. And because he knows it’s the one and only thing I actually want from him.
It’s the last vestige of any tie I feel to the man I thought I knew, but didn’t, and I have no doubt I will sever that final thread.
In time.
When it’s time.
It’s not a linear path we walk when a relationship ends. We push, we pull, we trudge, we hold fast, we deny, we hope, we rail, we move forward, we fall back, we stand still.
We can have both feet firmly planted in the present we adore when a scent, a song, a casual comment will remind us of the life we once had and suddenly we’re falling backwards into yesterday.
We are who we are in large measure because of our past. And sometimes that means revisiting what was. Sometimes that means pulling up a seat alongside our memories.
It means lingering. Rehashing. Grieving again.
And you know what? That’s okay. It’s okay. As long as we don’t allow ourselves to take root in yesterday. Because we don’t live there anymore. This midlife woman doesn’t live there anymore.
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When you find yourself stuck in or tripping over the past, how do you move yourself forward? Do you practice self-compassion or are you harder on yourself than necessary? Please share your thoughts in the comments section where we can draw wisdom and support from one another.
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