At the end of May, I decided to take Little One on an East Coast adventure.
Okay, it wasn't really an adventure per se. It was the combination of two family events - one weekend in North Carolina, followed by another weekend in New York. So I combined the two into one long trip, split by a road trip from the south to the north, including my mom and Little One.
On the whole, this was a good thing. First, I got to see my granddad, on his 90th birthday. And he got to see me, and my daughter. And he was utterly in love with her, and she adored him. Seeing my daughter with my grandfather, who hadn't exactly been able to be a solid fixture during my childhood, immediately granted me the right to feel sentimental.
And that set the tone for the rest of the trip. On the way from North Carolina to New York, we stopped in Washington, D.C. Now, that's a place that I grew up within a few hours of, but had not visited more than two or three times in my life. So, this would be my first post-election, adult visit.
We did D.C. during a mammoth tourism day - first to the National Zoo to see the pandas, then over to the White House, another kind of zoo entirely. We sat across Pennsylvania Avenue, watching an Italian dignitary visit the president. As I sat there, watching Little One dance to no music in her new pink panda t-shirt, I heard the rotors before I saw them: it was Marine One, and it was bringing the president to the White House from Air Force One and his trip to San Francisco. It flew right over us, and it was truly an awesome sight.
Part of me reveled in the prospect of calling D, a big Obama fan, and telling him what he had just missed because he had been such a dickhead husband. But not right then. However, this had become an unfortunate refrain in my head, a rut worn straight into my brain: Hey, D, look what you're missing because you're an asshole! It would take months before the rut started to dissipate.
Right then, we started walking again, heading down the east side of the White House, along Executive Avenue, where rows of primroses, planted with military precision, lined the walls of the Treasury. Ahead of me was the Washington Monument. To my right, the White House lawn. Off to my left, the Capitol. Part of me just wanted to open up and shout, "This is SO COOL!!!" I didn't, but I really, really wanted to. And I knew, in that moment, that the reason I was having so much fun was beacuse it was my trip. If D had been there, something would be wrong. His back would hurt, or he'd be in a bad mood, or he'd want to go in some other direction, or he'd be mad at me for some inane reason.
At that moment, I realized I was a tourist from my old life, and with D nowhere to be found, I could actually enjoy it.
And then I checked my work email, as I did on my Blackberry fairly regularly. (My superstitious work philosophy: if I check it several times a day, then no one will need me. If I never check it, or check out completely, there will be some horrible calamity for which I am responsible and which only I can resolve and my vacation will therefore be blown. So I check.)
The email had just come in to my work account in the last hour. And you'll never guess who it was from. Actually, if you've read this entire blog from entry #1, you'll know exactly who it was from.
Penelope, read the email from Mr. Anonymous, I hope you're well. I was wondering if you might have some time to talk, about a matter which would benefit us both.
Here I was, standing on a street corner two blocks away from the White House, about to descend into the bowels of the DC subway system, and enjoying every single moment - and NOW he wants to talk. Of COURSE it would be NOW when I've actually just - almost - maybe - started to feel like I can escape.
I knew I had my out-of-office message on, so he'd know that I was out through the week. This was a Tuesday, and I wouldn't be back till the following Monday. Now what? I thought.
I looked at the message again, looked at my mom, looked at Little One, and pushed "delete mail." I took a deep breath, told my mom "Nothing" when she asked what was wrong, and got on to the escalator into the subway.
But I knew there was going to be more when I got home.
[Sidebar. I would like to wish everyone who has been tuning in to my blog a safe, happy, and healthy holiday season. I will be back with more chapters to this never-ending saga soon.]
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
30. The Imperfection Juggernaut
You might wonder what I did those first few months. To be honest, looking back, even I wonder what I did.
There was a brief, fun, but ultimately ill-advised reunion with an old boyfriend. It started a few days after the divorce was final, when he moved back to my city. It felt so normal, so natural! It was great! I was thrilled to find out that D had not actually broken me, I had just felt broken.
But then I came to realize that the person that I had re-found was ultimately the same one I'd split up with nearly a dozen years ago. And there was nothing left there but memories - I needed to either have something new, or nothing at all. So I chose nothing, and in doing so, chose myself and Little One. But I didn't figure that out until much later.
[Sidebar. I don't want to diminish the importance of this particular romantic venture of mine. It was cathartic, and romantic, and altogether validating. It was sweet, but too intense, and I found myself scrambling to incorporate this new/old man into my new life. It felt good to have someone take care of me for a change, and it felt great when he was there and D was there too. But after a month and a half, it was too much, and I realized that there was no way that he and I could be together. Somehow, no matter how hard we tried, we just weren't right for each other. Me being me, and him being him - neither one of us ended up feeling very good about ourselves, for various reasons. The hardest part was, I had this figured out within weeks, and now it's nearly a year later and I'm not sure he's ever going to really understand it. He's a wonderful guy, terrific in fact. He's just not for me, and I hurt him, and therefore I don't want to draw out this section in case this story ever gets further than you, dear readers. He deserves happiness, and he will not find that here, sadly. Fini sidebar.]
So, I will fast-forward through the spring, and will give you a sense of what I did, outside of the aforementioned brief affair.
I slept.
That's right, I slept.
For months, I would do the following:
Wake up. Get ready for work. Get Little One ready for daycare. Pack lunches. Drop off Little One at daycare. Go to work. Work. Come home. Pick up Little One (or not, depending on if it was D's day). Bring her home. Have dinner. Bathe, brush teeth, put on pajamas, read a book, Little One's asleep by 8. Take one or one-half of a Xanax. Spend an hour doing chores around the house. Go to bed. Sleep hard.
Blather, wince, repeat.
On some level, I knew that I was going through a phase, or process, that I needed to go through. I also knew that I was just dead tired from years of D, and from months of trying to extricate myself from a horrid situation.
I also knew that food was a wonderful way to cure my in-the-moment blues and anxieties.
So I made a deal with myself: just get through to June. June has always been my month. It's my birthday month, I love the time of year it represents, and it's my birthday month. (Yeah, it's worth mentioning twice, it's that important to me.)
My idea of getting through was to a) sleep; b) take care of Little One and be completely devoted to her; c) show zero interest in being with the opposite sex; and d) eat whatever the hell I wanted, but figure out an exercise regimen. I pretty much did all of those, though not in equal measure all the time.
But the ultimate point was this: I had to just cut myself some slack.
After a lifetime of trying to be perfect, and failing miserably, I had the ultimate black mark: a divorce on my record. Therefore, anyone who might know me, or might ever know me, would know one very important thing about me: I...am not...perfect. ThereIsaidit.
And hey, maybe that - in retrospect - might not be - a bad thing...? Could it be? Could it possibly be that not striving to be perfect might, in the long run, actually prove a healthier, more fulfilling posture for me?
Well, hell, I thought - anything's possible, might as well try this on for size.
Armed with an ongoing prescription to Xanax, lots of new sheets and pillows, junk food, and a treadclimber, I jumped into the breach with both feet.
But then came May.
There was a brief, fun, but ultimately ill-advised reunion with an old boyfriend. It started a few days after the divorce was final, when he moved back to my city. It felt so normal, so natural! It was great! I was thrilled to find out that D had not actually broken me, I had just felt broken.
But then I came to realize that the person that I had re-found was ultimately the same one I'd split up with nearly a dozen years ago. And there was nothing left there but memories - I needed to either have something new, or nothing at all. So I chose nothing, and in doing so, chose myself and Little One. But I didn't figure that out until much later.
[Sidebar. I don't want to diminish the importance of this particular romantic venture of mine. It was cathartic, and romantic, and altogether validating. It was sweet, but too intense, and I found myself scrambling to incorporate this new/old man into my new life. It felt good to have someone take care of me for a change, and it felt great when he was there and D was there too. But after a month and a half, it was too much, and I realized that there was no way that he and I could be together. Somehow, no matter how hard we tried, we just weren't right for each other. Me being me, and him being him - neither one of us ended up feeling very good about ourselves, for various reasons. The hardest part was, I had this figured out within weeks, and now it's nearly a year later and I'm not sure he's ever going to really understand it. He's a wonderful guy, terrific in fact. He's just not for me, and I hurt him, and therefore I don't want to draw out this section in case this story ever gets further than you, dear readers. He deserves happiness, and he will not find that here, sadly. Fini sidebar.]
So, I will fast-forward through the spring, and will give you a sense of what I did, outside of the aforementioned brief affair.
I slept.
That's right, I slept.
For months, I would do the following:
Wake up. Get ready for work. Get Little One ready for daycare. Pack lunches. Drop off Little One at daycare. Go to work. Work. Come home. Pick up Little One (or not, depending on if it was D's day). Bring her home. Have dinner. Bathe, brush teeth, put on pajamas, read a book, Little One's asleep by 8. Take one or one-half of a Xanax. Spend an hour doing chores around the house. Go to bed. Sleep hard.
Blather, wince, repeat.
On some level, I knew that I was going through a phase, or process, that I needed to go through. I also knew that I was just dead tired from years of D, and from months of trying to extricate myself from a horrid situation.
I also knew that food was a wonderful way to cure my in-the-moment blues and anxieties.
So I made a deal with myself: just get through to June. June has always been my month. It's my birthday month, I love the time of year it represents, and it's my birthday month. (Yeah, it's worth mentioning twice, it's that important to me.)
My idea of getting through was to a) sleep; b) take care of Little One and be completely devoted to her; c) show zero interest in being with the opposite sex; and d) eat whatever the hell I wanted, but figure out an exercise regimen. I pretty much did all of those, though not in equal measure all the time.
But the ultimate point was this: I had to just cut myself some slack.
After a lifetime of trying to be perfect, and failing miserably, I had the ultimate black mark: a divorce on my record. Therefore, anyone who might know me, or might ever know me, would know one very important thing about me: I...am not...perfect. ThereIsaidit.
And hey, maybe that - in retrospect - might not be - a bad thing...? Could it be? Could it possibly be that not striving to be perfect might, in the long run, actually prove a healthier, more fulfilling posture for me?
Well, hell, I thought - anything's possible, might as well try this on for size.
Armed with an ongoing prescription to Xanax, lots of new sheets and pillows, junk food, and a treadclimber, I jumped into the breach with both feet.
But then came May.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
29. The Opposite of a Wedding
New Year's had come and gone. Symbolically speaking, I had made the break I needed to make, between a shitty 2009 and a (hopefully) better 2010. I figured, hey, it probably couldn't get much worse. But just in case, I thought I'd try and be grateful for what I did have: a sweet, smart, firecracker of a Little One. A home that I could pay for. A job I didn't hate. Friends who rather patiently waited for me to start engaging with them again. And, most of all, I had a court date to keep.
The court date was sandwiched right in the middle of the workday. As a precaution, I opted to forgo mascara.
At 11:50am, I posted to my Facebook account: "I'm hurtling towards the finish line."
At 12:50pm, I started the walk to the courthouse.
The courthouse in my city is a large, imposing, ornately Greco-Roman structure with multiple floors. It's both austerely imposing and aesthetically pleasing. It toes the line between "You're here because you did something wrong, and we're here to punish you" and "You're here because someone else did something wrong, and you have to clean up after them."
On one floor of this building, it's where families are created, and families are also broken apart.
Today was January 4, the first business day of the new year, and I was damn ready to get divorced. I was sad, and slightly anxious, but D was nowhere in sight - he'd opted not to attend the proceedings - so I had only my whip-smart lawyer to keep me company. For $300 an hour, I actually saw her as a bargain against the alternative.
I waited in the lobby next to the "Family Law" court. This was a couple of floors below where I'd taken that parenting seminar, but no less depressing. I was the only woman in a long line of despondent faces.
My lawyer arrived, and we went in. You know how courts always appear in the movies or on TV, where, no matter what the infraction or matter to be addressed, there's always a stately wood-paneled, high-ceilinged room with multiple guards, agitated lawyers, solemn defendants, and pew-like benches? Well, this was exactly the opposite of that. Except for the pews, they did have those.
1:00 came, and we sat down. My lawyer approached the judge, a kindly-looking grey-haired woman in a black robe, seated on a dais of justice. One supposes. My lawyer gave the judge's clerk some paperwork, then came back down and sat with me.
One couple after another approached the judge. She would ask them each three questions: Are you so-and-so and are you such-and-such? Do you have any children? Do both of you agree that you are to be divorced?
Each couple uttered the right words. Each couple parted, sadly smiling. Then there was me, walking up to the judge, alone. So appropos, I thought.
She asked me the questions. She smiled as she asked them, and I smiled back. Yes, that is my name. Yes, we have a child. Yes, we agree to divorce. My lawyer uttered some legalese.
Stamp, sign, a nod to my laywer - and I was divorced. Wow, I was divorced. I was officially a divorcee.
My lawyer stamped, then gave me a stack of papers. She escorted me to another part of the floor. Ever practical, she said, "I would happily wait here with you, but I'd charge you to do it. It's up to you."
I gave her a hug and said "Thanks, I'm good." She left. Expensive, but I liked her. I was sorry to see her go.
And so I stood in line, waiting for a clerk to take my paperwork and certify it, and file it. All that pomp and circumstance to get married, and this is how it ends, I couldn't help but stand there thinking. I didn't even wear mascara!
After the paperwork was done, I called my parents and told them that all had gone well. They were subdued, but I could tell they were delighted for me to have finished this part.
I returned to work. I hadn't shed a tear. Opening my laptop, I logged back in to Facebook and wrote, "I am all done. Finito. Free."
The court date was sandwiched right in the middle of the workday. As a precaution, I opted to forgo mascara.
At 11:50am, I posted to my Facebook account: "I'm hurtling towards the finish line."
At 12:50pm, I started the walk to the courthouse.
The courthouse in my city is a large, imposing, ornately Greco-Roman structure with multiple floors. It's both austerely imposing and aesthetically pleasing. It toes the line between "You're here because you did something wrong, and we're here to punish you" and "You're here because someone else did something wrong, and you have to clean up after them."
On one floor of this building, it's where families are created, and families are also broken apart.
Today was January 4, the first business day of the new year, and I was damn ready to get divorced. I was sad, and slightly anxious, but D was nowhere in sight - he'd opted not to attend the proceedings - so I had only my whip-smart lawyer to keep me company. For $300 an hour, I actually saw her as a bargain against the alternative.
I waited in the lobby next to the "Family Law" court. This was a couple of floors below where I'd taken that parenting seminar, but no less depressing. I was the only woman in a long line of despondent faces.
My lawyer arrived, and we went in. You know how courts always appear in the movies or on TV, where, no matter what the infraction or matter to be addressed, there's always a stately wood-paneled, high-ceilinged room with multiple guards, agitated lawyers, solemn defendants, and pew-like benches? Well, this was exactly the opposite of that. Except for the pews, they did have those.
1:00 came, and we sat down. My lawyer approached the judge, a kindly-looking grey-haired woman in a black robe, seated on a dais of justice. One supposes. My lawyer gave the judge's clerk some paperwork, then came back down and sat with me.
One couple after another approached the judge. She would ask them each three questions: Are you so-and-so and are you such-and-such? Do you have any children? Do both of you agree that you are to be divorced?
Each couple uttered the right words. Each couple parted, sadly smiling. Then there was me, walking up to the judge, alone. So appropos, I thought.
She asked me the questions. She smiled as she asked them, and I smiled back. Yes, that is my name. Yes, we have a child. Yes, we agree to divorce. My lawyer uttered some legalese.
Stamp, sign, a nod to my laywer - and I was divorced. Wow, I was divorced. I was officially a divorcee.
My lawyer stamped, then gave me a stack of papers. She escorted me to another part of the floor. Ever practical, she said, "I would happily wait here with you, but I'd charge you to do it. It's up to you."
I gave her a hug and said "Thanks, I'm good." She left. Expensive, but I liked her. I was sorry to see her go.
And so I stood in line, waiting for a clerk to take my paperwork and certify it, and file it. All that pomp and circumstance to get married, and this is how it ends, I couldn't help but stand there thinking. I didn't even wear mascara!
After the paperwork was done, I called my parents and told them that all had gone well. They were subdued, but I could tell they were delighted for me to have finished this part.
I returned to work. I hadn't shed a tear. Opening my laptop, I logged back in to Facebook and wrote, "I am all done. Finito. Free."
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