Yoga has a way of uniting the breath and body that I don’t find in other arenas. During the divorce, I found that my mind began to move on from the trauma, but that my body still stored the shock and the pain. Even when my mind was at rest, my body was trembling, shaking as though it was in imminent danger. Medication worked, but only by shutting the body down, which I did not see as a viable long term solution. I tried meditation, but that same medication made that very difficult. I’m not sure why it took me so long, but I finally restarted yoga, which almost immediately began to calm my body through breath and rhythmic movements. My mind started to calm also, as the breath reconnected it to its corporeal frame. My biggest life lesson from yoga was the discovery that the breath is the link between the mind and body and it can be used to help heal either one.
I ran my first race, a half marathon, 3 months after he left. I signed up because I needed a challenge. I needed something tangible that I could overcome in a set amount of time. I needed to prove to myself that I had the strength, both mental and physical, to push through and endure. Training gave me a focus, a purpose. At that time, it served as motivation to eat so that I could gain enough weight to handle the distance. It kept me moving on days I wanted to stutter to a stop. The race gave me a reason regain my physical health and an outlet for my mental health; that first race both gave me a reason to get well and proof that I could endure.
Although I ran many more races, my next challenge was Tough Mudder the following year. The motivation this time was somewhat different. I saw this as an opportunity to overcome the adversity with a partner, my boyfriend of less than a year at that point. It was a test of trust, of bonding, of partnership. Sharing the experience and overcoming the obstacles together brought us closer. The physical demands also stepped up my game; the half marathon I ran 7 days later was a mere blip on the screen after what those crazy Mudders put me through.
It’s been a year and I haven’t faced another challenge. It’s time for another race.
I’ve signed up for a marathon this fall. My first. I’m doing this one alone, in contrast to the first two. This will be my longest distance by far; I have yet to run more than 15 miles in a stretch. But that’s not really the challenge. I’ve shied away from this ultimate run in the past because of the training requirements; they are quite daunting. My challenge this time and my motivation is to learn how to maintain balance in my life even when something is pulling at me like an impatient toddler. I want to complete the training without being consumed by the training. I need to prove to myself that I can tackle a challenge and continue to live in the process. So, here’s to 26.2!
I’m a little afraid of what next year might bring if I continue this pattern…
In the early months of the divorce, I was obsessed with labels. I needed to be able to classify everything, to make sense of the nonsensical. It reminded me of a time when I was a kid. My parents bought this little label maker that would print out stickers of what you typed. I spent a day labeling everything in sight before the cost of the sticky paper brought my challenge to an end.
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Most of my labeling energies went towards my ex. Was he a narcissist, indifferent to those around him, viewing me as merely an object. Was he an addict, as we found out after he left that he had been hiding alcohol consumption. Perhaps he could be a sociopath, devoid of any sense of right or wrong. Maybe he was depressive, and unable to make clear decisions. Of course, he could just be a jerk. Each of these labels had evidence to support their application, but there was also evidence against it. I went round and round, sure that if I just knew what to call it, I would find understanding.
I fought against the labels that may have been applied to me by my psychiatrist. Each visit, biweekly at first, she would ask me if I was suicidal. I bristled at the thought that she contemplated applying that label to me. Each visit, I denied it vehemently, hoping that my insistence would keep that word from my file.
Even the divorce itself had labels. I was the one to file, as he just planned to run away. Originally, I was going to do a divorce by publication, as we did not know where he was. That progressed to a no-fault divorce once I found him, but before we knew of the bigamy. The bigamy changed the label again to a fault divorce.
None of these labels mattered. My ex is who he is, regardless of what I call him. My psychiatrist supported me with the medication I needed no matter the words she wrote on my file. And divorce is horrendous, despite the category it falls under. Just like those sticky labels I applied as a kid, labels can be applied, removed, and reapplied without changing the object beneath. Apart from a little residue, that is.
I had the utmost trust in my ex-husband. Even thought we were very young when we began dating, I did not give up my trust easily; he earned it over years of proving himself reliable, dependable, and honest. Each time he followed through or stepped up, another deposit was made into the trust fund. I was hyper-vigilant about the fund in its early stages, carefully monitoring each deposit and looking for unexpected withdrawals. As time passed and the minimum account balance was ancient history, I began to relax.
And then, the unthinkable happened. The trust fund was emptied fully in one violent sweep as I learned of his years of lies and deceptions. It made me question the veracity of the sixteen years of deposits: were they forgeries? Fraud? Or, were they real enough and simply there for the taking?
I felt violated. Raped. Robbed. I trusted him to protect me from others and it turns out I needed protection from him.
It was an inside job.
I was left without a husband, bit even more concerning, I was left with a damaged trust safe, its integrity damaged by the robbery. It was no longer able to contain any deposits of trust. And I was afraid that it could not be repaired.
I began to work to repair the damage, patch the holes. I explored, finding and patching the weak areas. I tested its integrity by tentatively placing trust in others, yet ensuring that, if they were to fail to follow through, I would not be too badly compromised.
Time passed. The trust fund slipped from the forefront of my mind. I suppose I began to trust that it could contain wealth again, if it were to come my way.
And wealth did come; I am now in a new relationship and the trust fund has been rebuilt. It’s a little different now; the security is a little tighter and I am more aware of the deposits, but the fund is full and I am relaxed.
Thank you to my dad and his wife for inspiring this post.
Lessons From the End of a Marriage 