Love After Divorce: A Reflection on a Journey, Part 1

I was on Terri Trespicio’s radio show, How to Click?, last week. Her questions had me reflecting on the journey that has taken me from married to single to dating to engaged over the past few years. Yes, that’s right, I said engaged:) But, more on that later! I am always asked how I managed to go from a huddled heap on the floor in the moments after the text that ended my life as I knew it to a new, healthy relationship where I can love and trust and be vulnerable again. I’ve realized I’ve shared much about the divorce and even the dating but not much about what got me to this place. So, here goes!

I signed up for Match.com the winter after my July disaster. I truly had no expectations of finding anyone. In fact, I kept myself safely tucked behind the twin shields of my story and my planned upcoming move across the country (and the spreadsheets). I was dating for practice; I had never done it as an adult. I saw it as fun, informative, and a distraction from the pain. I went on many dates, usually 6-7 a week. Many were first dates, but I did see some guys on a repeated basis. One guy, we’ll call him John, managed to slip through some of the defenses I had erected. I slowly starting seeing him and not committing to as many dates with others.

I was drawn to the fact that John had a confident way about him that made me feel taken care of and he was not afraid to challenge me. He quickly spotted my analytical shield and worked to lower it by always greeting me with, “How do you feel?” And, he wouldn’t take my wishy-washy answers. I liked that challenge, especially because my ex never really pushed me outside of my comfort zone. What’s interesting, is that the confidence and smooth capability I was drawn to also scared me. It kept me from ever trusting him. It soon became clear that his idea of relationship perfection was for me to be a kept woman, staying at home while he supported us, which he was very capable of doing. This idea turned my stomach, however. Not only do I never want to be without my own source of income, I also can’t handle the thought of being held to another because of the need for financial security. Those were his fears coming out – a way for him to make sure that he was never abandoned. My unwillingness to be bought eventually caused him to do a disappearing act. That doesn’t go over too well with a woman whose husband did the same less than a year earlier.

Rewind to the beginning of Match Madness. One of my early dates was at a coffee shop (after a night spent in Athens. GA with John – I told you it was crazy!) with a man named Brock. There was an attraction between us immediately, yet we both had turn-offs about the other. He thought I was too conservative and too closed off. I thought he was self-centered, bordering on rude. Luckily, we both recognized that there was more there and that, in both cases, the offensive behaviors were coming out of fear and self-protection. We shared stories, talked about geeky science stuff, and talked about crazy dating experiences (he had way more stories than me at that point!). I may have written him off except that when he talked about his dog, a German shepherd he had to put down the prior year, he teared up. Tears fell down his face in a public venue with a new woman and he let them fall unapologetically. I was intrigued.

Brock and I fell into the habit of evening phone calls on the nights I wasn’t out with someone else. I remember lying on the green flannel sheets in the spare bedroom I occupied at my friend’s house, sounds of baby and kitchen life coming up the stairs, while Brock and I talked about everything and nothing. Through those conversations, he learned I was not nearly as conservative as he initially thought and I started to open up more. I learned that his ADD nature was what led to the behavior that I initially  interpreted as rude and that he was the rare person who was confident (in most areas and willing to admit when he wasn’t) and that the bravado was not hiding deeper insecurities. We eventually met for a second date at his friend’s Superbowl party. We had a good evening, but not much quality time between the game and all of the other people. When he walked me to my car at the end of the evening, he tried to kiss me. I turned away, leaving his lips on my cheek as I stayed in the embrace. I know, I know. He still doesn’t let me live that down!

Why did I turn away? This was at a time where John had established himself at the top of the Match pack. But still, I never committed exclusivity to anyone. I used my discomfort about John being in the picture as my excuse, but I wonder if I was aware that more was brewing with Brock and I was afraid of what that would bring?

Weeks later, John pulled his disappearing act. Brock happened to call on the night I realized what had occurred. He could tell I was upset and inquired as to the reason. I told him he didn’t want to know since it dealt with another guy. Well, not only did he say he wanted to know, he stayed on the phone with me for hours as I dealt with the emotions of anger and abandonment triggered by another disappearance. That was an important night for us – he saw me vulnerable and I got to see his character.

He cemented the deal soon after when he emailed me a picture of the puppy he had recently adopted. Smart man. He knew I couldn’t resist the dog. Just before my spring break, we went on our first “real” date. I met him at his house and after plenty of Tiger love, we went to dinner in downtown Roswell. We had both softened by that point, no longer operating behind our shields. When he moved to kiss me in the town park after dinner, I happily reciprocated.

I left soon after to go to Seattle with a friend over my school break. Brock and I stayed in contact. He made the first of many moves that week that eventually gained my trust (not an easy task after my experiences). He divulged some information that he could have kept hidden and I may have never known. However, he could not let things go further without telling me everything. The information didn’t bother me; it was outshined by the fact that he wasn’t prone to concealing things I may not want to hear (as my ex was apparently wont to do). Gold star for that one!

The second step on the path to trust came soon after. He was out of town for the day and asked me if I would stop by his house and take care of Tiger. Here I was, alone in the house with all of its papers and computers, only weeks into the relationship. I mentioned before that I’ve never been a snooper, but the fact that he trusted me around his stuff (and his dog) and didn’t feel like he had anything to hide made me comfortable. I’ve also talked about how Tiger helped me trust – dogs can’t lie and their temperament reveals much about their owner.

I was still dating others; he made it exclusive before I was ready to. He was patient with me. He knew that I had not had much dating experience and that I needed to end Match on my own terms. It  wasn’t always comfortable with him but he never made me feel like I needed to hide or do things differently.

 

We had a huge crossroads looming on the horizon – I was planning on moving to Seattle at the end of the school year. Here’s how crazy this was. We really didn’t start to date until April. School ends in May. I had already put in notice at my current school. I made the decision to apply for some local jobs and, assuming I got one, commit to staying in Atlanta for a year so that we could give the relationship a chance to develop beyond its infancy. I secured employment and moved from my friend’s house into an apartment down the street from Brock all in a three week span. That was scary. We didn’t want to push things, didn’t want to move quickly, but those first few steps came fast and furious out of necessity.

We became exclusive early that summer. I had no problem leaving Match behind; I no longer was interested in anyone else. We moved slowly as far as emotional intimacy is concerned. I was still having some bad days and the anger was very near the surface.He helped me during the rough patches (I remember a night where he gave me a quick boxing lesson and then left me to attempt to decimate his heavy bag as I dealt with the anger from more financial unfairness from the ex), but he didn’t coddle me. He made it clear that he was uneasy with the healing I still had ahead of me and that I wasn’t nearly as far along on that journey as I claimed to be.

He was also scarred from a past relationship and had never really been in a healthy partnership. I think it worked because we were both patient with the other and honest the entire time. I worked on moving through my pain and anger and he worked on being a partner. We never pushed. He told me he loved me one evening while we were in the car just before we pulled out of the garage to go to dinner. I responded by folding into him. He said, “I know you’re not ready to say it yet. It’s okay.”

I wasn’t ready that night, but eventually I was.

 

Love After Divorce: A Reflection on a Journey, Part 2

S(mile) Markers

In my marathon recap post, I mentioned something that my boyfriend had done that helped get me through the difficult moments in the race. Before he left to park the car, he handed me a stack of 6 notes, each with a mile printed on the outside. I was instructed to open and read each one at the indicated time. The notes were simple, yet those few words of love and encouragement propelled me through the pain and gave purpose to the race which kept me from giving up. They were my smile markers, as eagerly anticipated as an advent calendar at Christmas for a little kid.

photo-113
They may be crumpled and sweat stained, but they will never be thrown away!

I was telling a mutual friend about these notes the other day and I realized that the concept could be applied in a much broader way. I know in the early days of my divorce, the support from friends and family was overwhelming. I received calls, emails, letters, and cards. Everyone wanted to help, but no one knew exactly how. As is only natural, as time moved on, the contact waned. Life is busy and we all get distracted. I was in a better place, but like the miles in a marathon, I had thoughts of quitting along the journey of the divorce.

If you know someone who is undergoing a divorce or other difficult transition in their life, create smile markers for them. Maybe print the dates of challenging anniversaries or important milestones on the outside. On the inside, write messages of friendship, love, shared memories, inspiration, and hope. Give them the entire stack at once; knowing that you have a gift in the future helps to persevere through any ugliness in the present.

If you are the one in a difficult transition, share this idea with friends and family when they ask how they can help you. They want to help; they just don’t know how. You can also create your own messages, gather quotes and pictures that bring you joy and peace and place them in envelopes with important or difficult dates printed on the outside. Even though you do not have the element of surprise, simply opening a blessing in midst of pain will still bring a smile.

When journeys feel too immense to ever complete, they are best broken up into smaller treks. Why not mark each one with a smile marker? 🙂

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Gulp!

Skier carving a turn off piste
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So, last night I made a committment. I made a nonrefundable payment towards a ski trip in North Carolina over the winter holiday. I know what you’re thinking, “That sounds lovely.” It does, but it also sounds scary.

You see, I’m not afraid of snakes. Or clowns. Or heights. Or public speaking. I am; however, afraid of land that slopes away from me. Perhaps it’s because I was born in the flatlands of Florida and raised on the unvarying topography of south Texas. Maybe I had some hill trauma as a young child that has since been repressed (are there any therapists that specialize in hill trauma?). Who knows? I just know that the thought of standing at the top of a snowy icy (it is man-made stuff there) hill while standing on long, thin strips makes me panic. Just a little.

Learning to Go Downhill

I have never been skiing before. I have learned to appreciate the winter sports of sledding and tobogganing, both of which are executed a safe distance from the ground (read: under an inch). Knowing me, my first attempt at skiing will probably have me in a full squat with my butt just barely clearing the land below. Go ahead and laugh – the image makes me giggle too.

I am signing up for lessons for the two days we will be there (otherwise I would probably never move from the top of the runt bunny slope). Since I know nothing about skiing, I considered reading up on techniques prior to the trip. But then I changed my mind. You see, the reason that hills scare me is that I over think them. I want to be in control every step (or slide) of the way down. But that just isn’t possible. You have to plan at the beginning, set up your path and let go. And trust. Why is it that I can do that in my life but not on a hill?

So, I am going to try to not use my brain on this trip. I am going to work on feeling the instruction rather than memorizing and analyzing it. I am going to learn to trust in myself and my ability to get down the mountain hill relatively unscathed. Maybe I should picture myself giving a speech to a bevy of evil clowns holding snakes…that might help to keep me calm:)

So, until the trip, I am going to work on making the rest of the reservations and locating all of the gear needed, but I am not going to plan how to ski. For that, I am just going to trust my gut.

Gulp!

The Gift of Giving

I received a gift tonight. No, not one that was wrapped and sitting under a tree, nor one that came in a box at all. The gift I received tonight was the gift of giving.

 

My boyfriend and I made our usual trip to the gym this evening. Usual, with one small caveat – he was almost out of gas. Now, this is a situation that historically has caused me great stress. Until my mid-twenties, I never let my car go below 1/4 of a tank. Yeah, I know. I am getting better; however, and the situation this evening only caused me mild distress until we pulled into the gas station with 1 mile left on the digital readout.

Gas can & Twine
(Photo credit: silverlunace)

 

By the time Brock and I left the gym this evening, it was dark out (not cold, however. thanks, Atlanta for this springtime respite!). We saw a woman struggling with a gas can with her car pulled just into the driveway of the gym (a position we could have easily been in ourselves just 30 minutes earlier). Brock immediately stopped the car, rolled down the window, and asked if she needed help. She said she couldn’t get the nozzle of  the gas can to operate according to the directions. Brock put his car in reverse, and pulled out of the driveway, hitting a piece of metal and blowing a rear tire in the process.

A brief interlude: After only a few weeks of dating, Brock spent an afternoon helping me as I purchased an apartment’s worth of furniture from IKEA, loaded it into a rental truck, and carried it up 3 flights of stairs. On our way back to the rental facility (after MANY trips up those damned stairs), we came across a man who had run out of gas just outside my new apartment. As the nearest gas station was a mile away, Brock offered to give him a ride there and back. We were exhausted. I was elated. I knew then I had a man worth keeping.

 

Undaunted, he got out, and proceeded to try to help the woman. It turns out that this gas can was either designed by or manufactured by complete morons, as it was impossible to connect the nozzle to the can in any fashion. She and I proceeded to mess with the pesky plastic piece of junk (eventually using a laminated brochure as a funnel in its place) while Brock went to change his tire.

 

We left the gym parking lot 20 minutes later than planned with gas on our hands, rumbles in our bellies and a busted tire. But we also left happy, filled with the authentic well-being that can only come from helping another. And that’s a gift we can all receive.

 

 

 

Learning to Breathe

I’ve never been very good at breathing. 

My childhood was spent with perpetual croup, the seal-barking cough echoing through the house at all hours.  Eventually, I was diagnosed with asthma, my lungs plied with drugs that were supposed to encourage them to relax.  Regardless of the dosages and names of the medications, I always failed my lung function tests at the allergists.  I wasn’t used to failing tests, but I didn’t know how to study for that one.

I adapted to my lungs.  I knew when an attack was about to have me helpless in its clutches, I knew when pneumonia was setting in.  I let my lungs call the shots and we had an agreement that I would work within their constraints.

Then, one day soon after my 30th birthday, I grew tired of the bondage.  I turned the tables on my lungs and informed them I wanted to start running.  This was a laughable goal, as I had never even completed the mile running in school.  But I was determined.

I started at a local park with a .75 mile loop.  My first try was a humbling experience.  You see, I was in shape.  I lifted weights and could do cardio.  I just couldn’t run.  Within moments of beginning, my chest heaved, my breathing was rapid and gasping.  I was taking in air as though threatened, as though the next breath would never come.  I made it one full loop that first day, but I still didn’t know how to run.

Over the next few weeks, I kept at it, returning to the park 3-4 times a week.  I starting to trust my body.  Believe in my breath.  I worked to consciously slow my breathing, pulling air deep down into the unused basement of my lungs.  As I learned to breathe, I was able to increase my mileage to the point where I outgrew that park in the next two months.

My breath training extended to yoga.  I had been practicing since I was in high school, but I always focused on the positions and movements, not the airflow.  Running had brought the breath to consciousness; yoga taught me how to use the breath to calm and energize the body.

Then July came.  Disaster struck.  I lost contact with my breath, but I didn’t even realize it.  I just knew my chest felt constricted, wrapped in bindings carried in by the trauma.  I wasn’t able to run or to do yoga, getting even further out of touch with my lungs.  It finally took a third party to make the re-introduction; a therapist at a meditation and yoga retreat that autumn after my breath left me.

I lay on the floor of her office, cradled in a soft, fuzzy blanket.  She kneeled next to me, her voice soothing and calm.  She spoke to my breath, encouraging it to return, assuring it that I was ready to make its acquaintance once again.  She spoke to me, telling me to trust my breath, to allow it deep into my lungs.

My chest began to rise, the bindings loosening.  As the oxygen flowed in, I felt grounded.  Whole.  Reconnected.

My breath and I still have a complicated relationship.  I frequently don’t find it until a couple miles into a run or 10 minutes into a yoga practice.  I still have to encourage it, willing it back into my body, especially when I find myself gripped my stress.  It may at times be a tumultuous relationship, but I have no intention of loosing connection with my breath again.