Letting Go of the Fear of Abandonment
The Power of “Me Too”
I recently responded to a woman over at Divorce Force. She had just discovered that for 30 of the 34 years she spent with her husband, he had another family. Her post is brief, the details sparse. But I’m confident that one of the many overwhelming emotions she is feeling right now is that of being alone in this experience.
I’m confident because I remember feeling the same. Convinced that there was nobody else who could possibly relate to the shock of sudden abandonment and the crazy making aspects of divorcing someone who made his own reality.
And then I found some message boards. A few articles. A book. And those words all whispered, “Me too.”
“My husband left me a note on the counter and I never heard from him again.”
“My wife simply didn’t come home from work. I found out later that she moved in with her boyfriend that same day.”
“My ex husband fabricated all of the documents that were submitted to the courts. It’s all lies.”
“My ex wife falsely accused me of being abusive. Now the judge looks at me like I’m the bad one.”
As I read these entries, I felt sorry for those that had endured. And I also felt some relief. Some companionship. Some sense that I had found my tribe.
All because of the power of “me too.”
“Me too” doesn’t try to compete for the greatest pain trophy. It doesn’t try upstage the circumstances or tell a better story. It doesn’t engage in a game of tug of war, attempting to direct all of the energy to one side. “Me too” doesn’t claim to understand all of what another is feeling or to insinuate that the paths are the same.
What “me too” does is tell you that you’re not alone in your experience. That others have been in a similar place and can empathize with how you are feeling. “Me too” provides hope as you learn that others who are doing okay now were once not okay. When you hear the words, “me too,” you know you have a compassionate and nonjudgmental ear where you can feel safe and understood.
If you’re feeling alone, seek your tribe and find peace among those who whisper, “me too.” And once you’ve been there and through the other side, be brave enough to remember your own struggles, share your own “me too” and then just be there and listen.
Ghost Busters: Breaking Through the Pain of Abandonment
If the top charts on iTunes are any indication, I’m not alone in my new obsession with the broadcast, Missing Richard Simmons. If you had told me that I would ever be counting down the hours until I could hear the next installment of a reality drama involving the over-the-top weight loss guru, I would have looked at you with confusion and maybe even a little irritation. I’ve always thought he was a great person with amazing compassion and an insatiable drive to help people. But frankly, his approach was always a bit too much for me and would usually prompt me to look away.
Until he went missing. All of sudden, I am this drive to understand him. To know that he’s okay and to delve into the possible reasons for his sudden and complete disappearance, not only from the public eye but also from most of his friends and family.
Unlike me, I didn’t analyze my obsession. I just fed it.
Until another podcast crossed my feed – Haunted by Ghosting on Dear Sugar radio. This pod focused on two letter writers who felt they had been ghosted, one by a friend and another, a lover. And as Cheryl and Steve dug into the particular effects of being ghosted, it finally clicked.
The reason for the national obsession with Missing Richard Simmons is the same powerful drive to understand “why” when we’ve been ghosted on a personal level.
Because the cruel truth about ghosting is that it may be the easy way out for the one doing the leaving, but the results of the abrupt and ambiguous ending haunt the one who is left for a very long time.
One of the strongest and most immediate drives following a ghosting is the overwhelming need to know. Our brains detest a mystery and so they desperately try to solve the puzzle. The first impulse is usually thinking that something terrible befell the person, that the disappearance was the result of an accident or a tragedy rather than some conscious decision to act.
I experienced this in a major way when my ex pulled a ghosting test-run of sorts. I thought he was on a business trip to Brazil (and desperately ill from food poisoning). The reality, as revealed after the final ghosting occurred, was that he was on a honeymoon with his soon-to-be bride. When he failed to respond to any calls or messages for days, I went into a panic, calling hospitals, airlines, the embassy and his boss. It was the latter that finally got his attention (and his ire). In all that time and effort, it never even crossed my mind that his vanishing act was deliberate.
Once the initial explorations into foul play or unforeseen catastrophe fail to pan out, the mind begins to turn inward. “What did I do to cause them to suddenly leave?” “Am I so bad, so unlovable, that they couldn’t bear to stay around me?”
Ghosting is rejection of the most brutal form, the childhood game of silence played out to its most sadistic end. It’s one thing to be yelled at. It’s another entirely to be ignored. As though you’re not even worth the effort of speaking a word.
And then that’s followed by the secondary rejection of self-blame, the turning away from ourselves, often causing even more damage than the initial ghosting. If we’re not careful, shame begins to grow in that dark and tear-dampened environment, telling us that not only are we unlovable, but that we must be kept hidden.
The cruel irony is that shame is one of the primary driving forces behind the act of ghosting. The disgrace the ghoster feels coupled with a distinct lack of courage builds into an irrational anxiety and the decision to step out instead of stepping up. To make an about face instead of facing the difficult truth.
Their choice to disappear speaks volumes about them and a mere phrase about you. In don Miguel Ruiz’ masterpiece, The Four Agreements, he explores our tendency to interpret the actions of others as a personal affront. The reality, he argues, is that they are in their bubble and you, in yours.
I found comfort in the phrase, “collateral damage” when I was emerging from my shame-filled hidey hole after abandonment. I opened myself to the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t disappear because of me.
For a long time, I believed that I needed him to face me. To face what he had. I wanted the satisfaction of seeing him uncomfortable but, more than anything, I sought closure. I thought if I could just hear from his own lips why he left, I could move on. I thought that if he said he was sorry, that the pain would fade.
I was wrong. I was expecting the one who hurt me to be the one to heal me. A desperate fool’s mission.
I never did speak to him. I never heard an apology or an explanation. Yet I no longer internalize the rejection. I’ve gone full circle, now again thinking that something was wrong with him when he didn’t respond. Only instead of an accident, it was depression. Or addiction. Or shame spiraling out of control. Or anxiety about his professional future. Or fear about his health.
Or…
And that’s the thing about ghosting – the person is gone, the pain eventually fades but the questions, they will always remain. It’s up to the one left behind to learn to live with the uncertainty instead of allowing it to haunt one’s days.
As for Richard Simmons, maybe the final episode next week will lead to some answers about why he disappeared. And maybe it won’t. Not all mysteries are meant to be solved.
Why “How Could You Do This to Me?” Is the Wrong Question to Ask
I was a playlist on repeat.
“How could he do this to me?” I wailed to my dad as he made sure I was restrained by the seatbelt before racing off to the airport to escort me to the ruins of my once-placid life.
“How could he do this to me?” I cried to my mom, recalling how she always stated she found comfort in knowing that my husband looked after me.
“How could you do this me?” I whimpered on my husband’s voicemail as he continued to avoid my calls. I screamed it into the phone hours later.
“How could you do this me?” I carved into my journal imagining I was carving into his flesh instead.
“How could you do this to me?” I keened silently from the cold courtroom chair as I scanned his face for any sign of the man I had loved.
It seemed like the most pressing question. Holding an elusive answer just out of reach that, once found, would make sense of the senseless pain. I struggled to comprehend how someone that had only recently professed his love could instead act with such apparent malice.
The question consumed me. Engulfed me. Propelled me.
But all along, it was the wrong question to ask.
—–
It’s a normal question. We personalize. Internalize. When we’re feeling the impact of somebody’s actions, we can’t unfeel them. And those emotions are struggling to understand as our expectations are rudely slammed into an undesired reality.
It’s also a pointless question. One that rarely gets answered and even more infrequently, answered with any truth and clarity.
Because the reality is that the person didn’t act with the intention of doing this to you. Instead, they acted for them.
And you just happened to be in their way.
Here are the questions to ask instead:
What did they have to gain by doing this? What discomfort did they seek to avoid?
I was actually relieved when I discovered that my husband had committed bigamy. It was the first moment when I realized that his actions said way more about him than about me. It gave me a glimpse into his hidden world, where he was trying to escape the shame of a failed business and was trying to create a fictitious world where he was successful. Yes, he lied to me. But he lied more to avoid facing the truth himself. I was able to see his actions from his perspective, each choice either serving to bring him enjoyment or to offer him relief.
People act to move towards pleasure or, even more frequently, to move away from pain. Take yourself out of the picture for a moment. What did they have to gain from their actions? How did their choices help them avoid discomfort?
Yes, it’s selfish to act for your own benefit without considering others. And being selfish may be their character flaw. But selfish is a sign that they acted without regard for you not that they sought to do this to you.
Understanding their motivations goes a long way towards releasing the anger. It doesn’t excuse their choices. But it does help to unravel them and in turn, release you.
Why did I not notice? Why did I allow this?
Disorienting is an understatement. I stood in the property impound room beneath the police station as the policeman pulled out my husband’s everyday workbag. Inside, there was a wallet I had never seen filled with cards that were foreign. A camera soon followed, a duplicate of the one he had in his other life. The entire bag was a mix of the achingly familiar and the shockingly new.
I was confronted with the reality that my husband had been living a duplicitous life for years. Maybe even ALL of our years. And I had been clueless.
His actions were his problem. My ignorance was mine.
If you were decieved and manipulated, dig into the reasons that you were blind to reality. Like me, were you too afraid to face the truth and so you didn’t look too closely? Or were you pretending that all was okay and distracting yourself to maintain the illusion?
If you knew that you were being treated badly, why did you tolerate it? Had you been taught in childhood that you were lucky to receive any attention, even if it was negative? Were you afraid of being alone, opting for the devil you know?
These are big questions and ones often rooted in childhood or in trauma.It’s worth spending time here (maybe with the help of a counselor), especially if you want to avoid a repeat.
What am I feeling now? Is it all directly related or is some of it associated with past trauma being triggered?
I was on a mission. Needing information, I ran background reports. I combed through scraps of paper and old pay stubs looking for any relevant information. Driven, I triangulated his whereabouts using our checking account and used Google Earth to get a street view of his other wife’s home. I had one goal – to see him face the legal consequences for his actions.
It was all ultimately a distraction. If I focused on the detective work and the state of the pending legal action, I didn’t have to focus on me. On my pain. And on what I was going to do about it.
Are you focusing in the wrong direction? Maybe you’re busy attacking the other woman instead of looking at your marriage. Perhaps you’re busy going on the offensive for your day in court so that you don’t have to look within your own courtyard.
Be with your feelings. All of them. Even the ugly ones. Listen to them and then you can send them on their way.
Once I invited my feelings in, I was surprised to realize how much of my pain was only tangentially related to my husband’s disappearance. And how much was related to my own father’s perceived disappearance many years before.
It was an opportunity. A crossroads.
I could either ignore this triggered response only to have it return later.
Or I could address it. And work to understand how it impacted my adult choices and behaviors.
Stuff was done to you. What you do with it is up to you.
How will this impact me going forward? What do I need to do to move on?
“I need to find a way to make some good come from this,” I stated in a moment of profound clarity on the day I received the text that ended my life as I knew it. I had no idea how I was going to make that happen, but I knew on some level that creating something positive was going to be my key to survival. To thriving.
I had no idea just how hard that road was going to be. That even seven years on, I would still struggle to differentiate between true threats and echoes of the past. I have had to become an expert on my own healing, learning my triggers and becoming a master at disarming them.
Become a specialist in you. Explore your trouble spots and experiment with ways to strengthen them until you find what works. Be attentive to you. Be proactive. And most of all, be determined.
This is a defining moment in your life. You decide what it defines.
How can I avoid being in this position again? What are my lessons I need to learn?
A part of me – a BIG part of me – was surprised to see my fairly new boyfriend at the airport to pick me up. I had assumed that since my husband deemed it suitable to abandon me while I was visiting family, a recent beau would certainly follow suit.
I was operating from a place where abandonment was presumed. And if that mindset persisted, so would the discarding.
Instead of focusing on what happened, shift your attentions to what you can learn from what happened. They’re hard lessons, I know. The most important lessons always are.
Your power comes from choosing how you respond. And every bad moment is an opportunity to learn to respond a little better.
How can I turn this into a gift?
When I look at my life now, I am profoundly grateful for what happened years ago. I’m thankful for the shock. For the pain. For the confusion. And even for the anger. Because all of that has led to a much better place – a much happier place – than I could have ever imagined.
This is a hard question. Perhaps the hardest.
It seems impossible when you’re choking on the pain that it can actually help you learn to breathe. But it can.
Be patient. And be persistent.
Because finding the gifts hidden beneath is the best gift you can give yourself.
So that one day, instead of saying, “How could you do this to me?” you can say –
Thank you for doing this to me.
And mean it.
I Wonder
My ex had a birthday recently. His 39th.
I wonder if he’s still alive. At the end of it all, he seemed to be on a collision course with an early death.
I wonder if any wrinkles or grey hairs have started to appear. I used to look forward to growing old with him.
I wonder if he still lives in the area. I hope not. In fact, I would like it if he took a job at the research station in Greenland. Or maybe started growing potatoes on the moon.
I wonder if he’s lonely. Or scared. Or still addicted.
I wonder what he thinks about our past. His actions. My reactions.
I wonder if he’s living an honest life now. Or if he’s still playing hide and go seek. Only without the seeking.
I wonder if he’s happy. I hope he is. I had years of wishing him ill. I’m past that now.
It’s such a strange feeling having somebody go from being your every-thing and your constant to suddenly being a no-thing and a gaping absence. I don’t love him. I don’t hate him. I don’t even miss him. But after so many years, it’s hard not to wonder about him.
And I wonder if he ever wonders about me too.
And here’s what I really, really, really wish I could tell him.
For the entire story, see Lessons From the End of a Marriage.
Lessons From the End of a Marriage 