A Guest Post by Mary
Sometimes I still turn into a puddle.
This time of year is filled with first “anniversaries” I’d rather not remember, let alone commemorate. The day my husband told me he thought we should do a trial separation. The day I found out about the infidelity. The day — December 10th, today — he made it clear that, for him, the marriage was over. The day the “D” word became more than a threat I shouted at him in the depths of despondency and rage.
What a long, strange trip it’s been. Within the next few days my divorce will be finalized and I will be a single twenty-something again. I’ll get my rather awesome surname back. “Getting” a divorce will become “got” a divorce. And, truthfully, I’m ready for it. But I also refuse to anesthetize the emotional messiness of the process by offering up platitudes about closure and fresh starts. I am still grieving. I am still recovering. And I am still figuring out what my life is supposed to look like without my husband in it.
My days are still mixed-bag of complex and contradictory emotions. Often it’s only when my eyes well up with tears that I realize my mind has wandered to my marriage. At other times I’ll find myself re-hashing old arguments and conjuring up cutting retorts. These feelings strike suddenly and they strike hard, but fortunately, these days, they also pass quickly.
Today I cry not because I’m getting divorced this week. The woman I am today can handle it, lingering, conflicting emotions notwithstanding. I cry for the woman I was a year ago, who felt like her marriage had been exposed as nothing but a series of protective fictions. The woman for whom the mere possibility of divorce was an unbearably painful thought.