I am a grown-ass woman. I have degrees. I’ve won awards. I can go on national television. I can do home repair. I’m generally pretty confident in myself and my appearance. So why is it that some 22-year-old working in a formal shop can make me feel about as insecure as a teenager in front of her first crush?
Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself.
The wedding is slated for October. It will be a very simple affair – a private outdoor ceremony in the Smoky Mountains followed by a dinner celebration at our favorite restaurant back in Atlanta. No pomp. No circumstance. No stress.
Well, other than the dress.
I’m not really particular about the “look” of the wedding, but it is important to Brock. Even though I still have several months, I wanted to try to find a dress today. Partly because I had a day off work but mostly to leave myself plenty of time in case it became more difficult than expected. I asked a friend to accompany me and to act as a guard against those scary 22-year-old dress sellers.
Not the shoes I’m wearing but they’re good for a laugh:)
For my first wedding, I ventured into a Dillard’s alone and found a prom dress for $98. It had a satin bodice with some contoured seams and a long chiffon skirt. It was simple, elegant and cheap. It was perfect.
I wanted something similar again. It’s difficult with second weddings. I chose a ring, a dress and a wedding location the first time around that fit me. I don’t want to repeat that but those same aesthetics still appeal. My idea was to go to the mall and scour the racks of formal (non-wedding) dresses and hope for a similar find.
My friend suggested that a stand alone store that specialized in wedding attire first. She had been in there previously and remembered that they had some budget-friendly items.
I felt like I was walking in to some five-star hotel designed by Disney. There were glitter and rhinestones everywhere. The place was full of employees, dressed head to toe in black, scurrying around to attend to their charges. There were brides everywhere, most accompanied by their moms, choosing dresses and accessories. Everything was over the top and designed to make women feel like princesses. Along with the princess price tag. After talking with the consultant (I’m assuming that’s the proper term), we learned that their dresses started at $2,000.
Started. At. $2,000.
Who buys these things? After saying our “thank you’s,” we promptly left and got into my car (current value – not much more than $2,000).
After touring a few department stores at the mall, we knew we were on the right track. Our last stop? Dillard’s. And they came through again. Even in that more relaxed environment, I was still tense. Sometimes, I don’t understand myself. I’m completely fine trying on bikinis. No sweat. A formal dress? Yeah, that brings out all of the body insecurities. I feel silly in super feminine things with my athletic build and casual nature. It can be frustrating to have arms and shoulders that burst seams and to have trouble fitting my lats into a dress. Would it be out of place to get married in a bathing suit in the mountains in October? Yeah, that’s what I thought.
To complicate matters, I’m weird about spending money. Especially on myself. I feel guilty. Somehow I don’t feel like I’m worthy of spending money on. It’s frugality mixed with a dash of neurosis. I wish I could find a way to keep my thrifty ways but nix the guilt.
I only ended up trying on one dress. It’s formal but not bridal, which apparently is good for a 90% discount, as it was only $200. It’s simple and elegant and relatively cheap. But it’s different than before. It fits my frame, showing off my muscle in a flattering way and the sleeveless style gives my shoulders endless room to move. I can borrow jewelry from my friend and I should be able to find shoes once the weather warms up. Mission accomplished.
So now the dress is hanging in the closet waiting for its fall debut and my blood pressure is slowly returning to normal. I should be okay now as long as those 22-year-old dress consultants stay away:)
Do you ever have one of those days where you just feel a little more alive than usual? Everything just seems a little bit clearer. The breath a little lighter? The focus just a little clearer?
I’ve had one of those days today. It’s just a normal Saturday for me – writing, laundry, meditation, gym and a run, and the weekly trip to the grocery store. Usually, I pass through these activities with barely a thought. I get each one done to move on to the next. By the way, that mentality is the absolute anthesis of meditation. There’s a reason I call myself stilllearning2b:)
Today has been just a little bit different. Perhaps it’s related to the clear, sunny skies after being blanketed by rain for the past week. Maybe I’m feeling the freedom of a Monday off work. Or, possibly my mood was lifted by finally replacing my old, partially working headphones with a new, working pair. It turns out that music sounds much better when you can hear it in both ears. The difference between the old headphones, which haven’t worked right for over a year, and the new was so strong that I actually startled when I pushed “play.” I had grown so accustomed to the static and one-sided sound that the clarity coming through felt bigger than life.
That’s kind of how my whole day has felt. I feel like I’ve fully experienced each action today, from the run along the river to selecting apples at the store. I haven’t felt pressure to get it done or to rush on to the next thing. I haven’t grumbled about having to do chores or run errands.
When I started my meditation challenge, I looked at meditation as a separate part of my day. A time set aside to be mindful. I would get it done and then move on to the next item on the list. I’m finally starting to incorporate mindfulness in each moment, which of course is the ultimate goal.
I need to remember this feeling. I need to remember that monkey mind is alive, not just in those moments when I turn inward and focus on the breath, but all of the time. I need to remember that when I am fully present in each moment, I can find joy even in the mundane. I need to remember that I choose to feel rushed and that I can also choose to feel at peace. I also need to remember not to wait so long to replace my broken headphones next time!
Brock and I caught the second half of a show on Discovery last night about how easy it is to fool the brain. The first segment we saw had volunteers sitting at a table with their right arms hidden from sight behind a screen. A fake arm was then placed on the table in front of them. The researcher went through a few steps (I didn’t see the beginning, so I’m not sure what all this entailed) to make the participants connect with the fake arm. Then, the researcher slammed a hammer down on the plastic arm. Most of the volunteers jumped. Makes sense. Slam a hammer down in front of me and I’ll startle too. The interesting part, however, was that the majority of the participants claimed to feel pain in their fake hand. The brain was relying on the visual clues and was fooled into believing that the plastic substitute was indeed the real thing.
The brain’s fallibility goes well beyond parlor tricks. The brain is an expert at filling in the pieces, at seeing or hearing what it expects to see or hear and at creating a narrative to make sense of any input. We are not normally conscious of this effect; it happens quickly and automatically. In the case of the situations presented by the show, the illusions were inconsequential. It doesn’t really matter if your brain interprets wet rags on plywood as the sound of raining hamburgers in Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs. I don’t think that misconception will impact your life one way or another. (I apologize if having this auditory trick revealed causes you any mental distress.)
That’s not always the case, however. When you take the brain’s innate tendencies to misinterpretation and to complete gaps with its own information and you add in all of the messy emotions of the human experience, you have a situation that can lead to trouble. We all live in a land of illusion to some extent. On a biological level, it is impossible to process every single piece of information that our senses are bombarded with every second. Our brain takes shortcuts. It makes sweeping generalizations. It has to. On an emotional level, we can try to be empathetic but we can never truly understand another’s perspective. We see the world through our own fallible filter.
The trouble comes when the illusions go too far. When we stubbornly act as though our fake-arm belief is the truth even when the screen hiding the reality is removed. It’s easy to believe our own narratives even when they are disproved. Manti Te’o held onto the belief that his girlfriend was real even though she never materialized in real life. Lance Armstrong refused to come clean about doping even when evidence to the contrary was produced. My ex husband failed to see his actions as wrong even when he was sitting in a jail cell.
To those of us on the outside, it seems so clear, so obvious. But that’s because it’s not our illusion. We are the bystanders who can see both the real arm behind the screen and the false one in front. It’s so difficult to see our own illusions. The mind puts up such strong defenses. It hates being wrong. Once it has decided on a narrative, it will work tirelessly to find and filter information that supports its conclusions.
My ex husband’s need to maintain the illusions was so strong that he attempted suicide soon after being released from jail. A couple of days later, he reached out to my mother via text. A brush with death had the effect of removing the screen for a brief period. One response of his really stands out:
I tried to create a world where I convinced myself that everything was somehow fine no matter how bad things looked. As crazy as it sounds I believed my own bullshit and just deluded myself into believing that everything could be ok.
Again, from the outside, it seems so clear. How could he believe that everything could be okay when he spent every penny he could find, lied to everyone around him and committed bigamy? It seems crazy. Yet there I was in my own illusion, believing that my husband was honest and loving. My mind also refused to see the truth behind the screen.
So, what do we do? Are we captive to these minds of ours that seem hell-bent on fabrication? Well, yes and no. It’s impossible not to fall sway to any illusions. Even by the end of show last night, I was still fooled by most of the tricks even though I knew they were there. We cannot stop our minds from filtering information selectively and reaching conclusions based on experience. What we can do is let go of the assumption that we are always correct. We can be open to the thought that maybe what we are experiencing isn’t reality. We can strive to see with our eyes rather than with our presumptions. And, we can summon the courage to remove the screen once we become aware of its existence. Just make sure you watch out for any hammers coming your way.
the “I” or self of any person; a person as thinking, feeling, and willing, and distinguishing itself from the selves of others and from objects of its thought. (from dictionary.com)
Ever since we first begin to see ourselves as separate, sentient beings in childhood, our egos define how we interpret the world around us. That sense of self may actually be holding you back from healing from your divorce. Do you see yourself in any of the following patterns?
It’s All About Me
When I first realized the extent of my husband’s betrayals, I kept asking, “How could he do this to me? To the one he was supposed to love?” I saw his actions directed towards me as an arrow towards a target. I assumed he was thinking about me as he made these decisions. He lied to me. He cheated on me. He stole from me. That pattern kept me fully anchored in a victim state, the recipient of all the pain and deceptions.
Slowly, I realized that it wasn’t all about me. He lied and cheated and stole, yes. But he did those things because of whatever demons had him in their grasp. He didn’t do those things because of me. He most likely wasn’t even thinking of me while they occurred. He did them and I was in the way.
I shifted my thinking. When he hurt me, he was acting to protect his own sense of self rather than trying to wound mine. I began to let the anger go.
It is not easy to remove the ego from interpreting the actions of one so intimate to you. Try looking at the situation with an open mind, letting go of your own ego, and see how your perspective shifts.
The Reflective Ego Shield
Our egos are vulnerable beings; they often cover themselves in highly reflective shields, deflecting any criticism and shining it back at its source. I used to get very defensive when anyone suggested that I had a hand in my husband’s actions. I would retaliate, lashing out at them as I tightened the stays on the armor protecting my ego. It was a very scary proposition to let some of that armor go and to examine what was shielded underneath. I learned the role that my own insecurities and anxieties played in the end of my marriage. Instead of reflecting all of the responsibility on him, I took my share.
There is a difference between taking responsibility for your own actions and taking the blame for another’s actions. If you are carrying your own reflective shield, try lowering it and examining what lies beneath.
The Hidden Wounds
The ego doesn’t like to show its vulnerabilities. When asked, “How are you doing?,” the ego always answers, “Fine.”
I remember how many times I falsely spoke that word in those early months. Much of that time, I wasn’t “fine,” I was angry, sad, bitter, anxious, sick, and disconnected. But I also didn’t want to reveal those wounds. To let the world see the depth of my pain. I kept it covered with a band-aid of “fine.”
Your wounds cannot heal unless they are exposed to the air. The bandage can remain on to protect your injuries from the world at large, but you remove them when are in a safe place to let the healing begin.
Ego as Strongman
Our egos are a bit like young meatheads in a gym. Flexing in the mirror, wanting to appear strong and capable amongst the others. This means that sometimes we will try to lift more than we can without asking for assistance. And, just like in the weight room, this can only lead to disaster.
Prior to my husband’s David Copperfield act, I was horrible at asking for and receiving assistance. In fact, that was actually one of the points of contentions in my marriage; I always made it clear that I could do it alone. I guess he wanted to prove me right. Regardless, I made things so much more difficult than they ever needed to be by denying offered help and refusing to ask for help when it was needed.
Are you acting like the young man in the gym? Ask for a spotter and you’ll not only gain the respect of those around you, but you will also be able to lift more than you ever thought possible.
Our egos tend to operate below our conscious thought. After all, they are us. And they are often the biggest barriers in our way.
My father is a great man but he has not always been a great father.
Like millions of others of my generation, my parents divorced when I was a kid. As in many cases, their separation also impacted my relationship with my father.
I remember feeling close to my dad when I was quite young. I remember the way he gently combed my long, tangled hair being ever so careful not to pull. I remember him being so patient trying to teach me how to ride a bike. I remember his smell when he returned from a long bike ride or came in from mowing the lawn. I remember going with him to work and riding in his office chair while sucking on watermelon candies from the office snack area. I remember the endless sounds of his recorder echoing down the hallway as he practiced for upcoming performances. I remember all of this so clearly. And then the memories fade.
He was so good at doing the “girly” things with me. He even let me subject him to the My Little Pony 2 hour movie! Now, that’s love:)
The crystal clear memories of him from early childhood are replaced by a fuzzy impression, periodically stamped with flashes of clarity that lasts from the age of 6 or so until around the age of 9. I don’t know if I didn’t see him as much or if it’s just that I don’t remember. Or, maybe I was too busy practicing how to say, “Vanilla, Please.” 🙂
My parent’s split surprised me. I never saw them fight and was not aware that anything was wrong. My dad was the one to break the news to me. It was the first time I ever saw him cry. He moved out days later.
I may stink at bike riding, but at least I could manage 3 wheels:)
For the last couple years of elementary school, I spent Tuesday and Thursday nights at my dad’s apartment and the rest of the time with my mom. I was an only child, so I was alone in this shuffle. I had a routine. I would bake refrigerated biscuits (the kind that come in a tube) in his toaster oven and eat them for dinner with grape jelly and a tall glass of orange juice. (Obviously, I had not yet discovered the joys of kale and tofu.) We would watch a half hour of Headline News and then watch some Nick At Night (Night Court was our favorite) until I fell asleep on my pallet on the living room floor. I had started reading adult books by that age (this was before Harry Potter and the like existed) and my dad’s books (adventure, historical fiction, thrillers) held a much greater appeal than my mom’s (counseling, self help, “Hallmark movie”) and so many nights found me soaking in the bathtub for hours while I was transported by some wonderful tale. On special nights, we would borrow a movie from the apartment company’s selection and settle in for the show. I saw my first ever PG-13 movie in that apartment – Alien – on a night when I came home sick with strep. I thought the monsters were pretty cool.
My dad has always had a special touch with animals.
Even though I saw my dad twice a week, he had started to become a stranger to me over those years. Some of it was the divorce; he and my mom were both trying to recover. Part of it was my age; I was reaching puberty (with hormones galore) and was no longer a little girl. Regardless of the reasons, we no longer really knew how to relate to each other.
Months after my 11th birthday, my dad moved across the country for work. Our twice weekly visits turned into annual trips with only sporadic conversations and letters peppered throughout the school years. I would talk about my friends or boyfriends, but they were strangers to him. I would try to tell him about school but would soon become overwhelmed with the amount of backstory needed to get the narrative through. There were times I was upset and he wasn’t there or wasn’t able to say the right thing. I became used to him not being there. Over time, I began to pull away. It was less painful to be the one who chose to turn away rather than be the one left behind.
I know that some of my drive to always do more and achieve more comes from that time. I wanted him to be proud of me. I wanted him to want me in his life. I felt like I disappointed him by not being good at the things at which he excelled: music, biking and math (okay, so at least I’ve mastered one of those now!). I never doubted that my father loved me yet somehow I didn’t often feel loved. He didn’t know how to express it and I didn’t know how to receive it. We communicated through dog pictures and humor. We shared activities (the tandem recumbent bike was pretty cool!) but not a deep connection. He was never a deadbeat dad, he was just a distant dad.
After a rafting trip in Oregon. I was around 13.
When I started dating in high school, I luckily had enough sense not to seek out the missing male attention from boys. That doesn’t mean that my dad was far from my mind, however. I intentionally sought out guys that were different than him. I wanted someone demonstrative in their affections. I looked for extroverts that didn’t have too much “engineer” in them. When one guy I dated started to remind me of my dad, I ran the other way. When I chose the man who would become my husband, I selected someone who didn’t remind me of my father at all.
My the time I got married, I was no longer angry at him for leaving. I wasn’t disappointed that he wasn’t there. I had reached a place of accepting our relationship for what it was.
And then he surprised me. First, at my wedding reception, he stood up to make a toast. I froze. I was expecting him to make a joke or some silly comment. Instead, he said some very heartfelt words and I saw him tear up for the second time ever. Then, months later, my husband and I lost our earnest money when a house we had under contract fell through due to the seller. I was devastated. That loss meant that we would have to delay purchasing a house for several more months. I’m not sure why, but I chose to call my dad, rather than my mom, for comfort and advice when I hung up with the realtor. Days later, an unexpected check came in the mail from my dad for the exact amount of the lost earnest money. I remember standing in the living room of my apartment, holding the check and the sweet card that came with with it. I had tears pouring down my face that time. I turned to my new husband and said, “I have a father.”
Our patterns still didn’t change much during my marriage. We spoke occasionally and saw each other even less frequently. That continued until his father became ill. I don’t know if it was the harsh reality of mortality facing my dad or that he reflected upon his role as a father, but he started to open up. He came for a visit around that time and it was the first encounter in many years where I felt comfortable around him again. We both teared up when we embraced at the airport at the conclusion of the trip.
We were both still holding back, however. Our stoic natures and analytical minds kept us at a safe distance. I think we were both afraid of being rejected. And we may have stayed that way if it wasn’t for the text. He was there when I received the news that my marriage was over. He held me as I lay collapsed on the floor. He gripped my hand on the flight back to Atlanta. He sat next to me as I discovered the extent of the betrayals. He made the phone calls that I could not. He was exactly the father that I needed him to be. The shock and trauma washed away all hesitation and all of the insecurities we had with each other.
At the end of his week here, my father gave me the best gift ever. At a restaurant, over dinner, he talked. For the first time ever, I heard his story about my parent’s divorce. I learned how he felt above moving. The words just flowed, accompanied by tears. He said he had been wanting to have that conversation with me for twenty years.
It was well worth the wait.
As I’ve said before, I lost a husband but I gained a father. That conversation set the stage for my healing. I softened that day. I knew at that moment that I had a father. Not just that night, but always. I may have been abandoned by my husband, but I knew then that I wasn’t abandoned by my dad. And since that week, he has been there for me at every turn, from horrible calls from the lawyers during the divorce to the news that I was getting married again, and all of the minutiae in between, he has been there.
I started to get to know my dad. We discovered how much we have in common (now I know who to blame for my short femurs!). It was amazing to discover how many topics we had the same opinion on, even though we never discussed them. We both became more comfortable expressing emotions. I’m sure he would still think it was pretty cool if I could actually ride a bike worth a damn or play more than Heart and Soul on the piano, but now I know that he is proud of me regardless.
My dad and Tiger. I think they get along:)
It’s also interesting that when I approached dating again post-divorce that I sought out men that had traits that reminded me of my father. And, this time, when I chose the man who will be my husband, I found one that reminds me of my dad in some ways. Because, it turns out that my dad is a pretty awesome guy:)
Lessons From the End of a Marriage 