I used to let my story tell me. I was the first wife of the bigamist. I was the woman whose husband left with a text message. I was the runner who could barely walk after my world was washed away with a tsunami divorce. I used to let my story tell me. Until I learned how to tell my story. Click to read the rest of the post on All Things Healing and learn about the workshop that caused my perspective to shift.
Most people probably think of The Breakfast Club or Sixteen Candles when Molly Ringwald’s name is mentioned. I am not most people. My strongest association with Molly’s name is a certain this-is-what-happens-to-your-body-during-puberty movie I saw in my elementary school cafeteria in 1985 with all of the other 4th grade girls. I remember being somewhat embarrassed for Ms. Molly as she informed us about body hair and menarche. It seemed so far removed from the somewhat sanitized world of Hollywood, where puberty only happens to advance the plot as an ugly duckling discovers her hidden swan.
Molly’s new book, When It Happens to You, attempts to be as raw and messy as real life off the silver screen. The story is told through short tales that weave together moments to paint a bigger picture of love, loss, and betrayal. Greta and Phillip’s troubled marriage is the centerpiece. Greta discovers that her daughter’s violin teacher has also been playing Phillip’s strings. The various tales speak of their separation and tenuous relationships with others as they journey through self discovery. Many of these relationships speak of real life. They are temporary and undefinable. They grasp at one another not out of true love but out of loneliness and a search for acceptance and companionship. They highlight the fact that no life occupies a bubble; decisions and connections ripple outward ensnaring others as well as ourselves.
There are lessons of acceptance in Marina’s story of loving her crossdressing son and warnings of what happens when we fight reality from the widow Betty. We learn from Phillip that happiness is not as simple as a young lover and we realize that betraying yourself is worse than being betrayed by another.
I only wish this book was not afraid to reveal the depth of anger and loss that accompanies the discovery of a betrayal. You see, it happened to me. I know the feeling of the tremors that shake your body and soul when you discover the deceptions. I remember the rage so powerful I was afraid it would tear me asunder. I recall the muscles torn from bone as the sobs wracked my frame. Greta speaks of this pain in a removed fashion. She speaks of it, yet does not seem to experience it.
I guess betrayal is like puberty in that we tend to sanitize it when we talk about it. We talk in platitudes and metaphors, tiptoeing around its ugly realities as though we can deny its existence and hold it at bay. We like to think that we could be like Greta, rational and collected. But, in reality, when it happens to you, the truth is much uglier than fiction can ever be.
Read about when it happened to me in Lessons From the End of a Marriage.
After receiving a Vitamix for my birthday, I had fun trying different smoothie recipes. This combination has turned out to be my favorite:) I love the combination of protein and carbs after a workout and the gingersnap flavor satisfies my sweet tooth!
In my old house, I strove for perfection. My ex and I were constantly laying tile, painting walls, building furniture, and then repainting walls. We looked for furniture, dishware, and accessories that would give a Pottery Barn look on a Target budget. I once spent over 30 hours looking for just the right throw pillows for the couch after we repainted the living room. We both had a similar level of neatness, so the carefully selected objects in the carefully crafted house were not obscured by clutter. Perfection always seemed attainable, although slightly out of reach.
In my new home, perfection is laughable. My boyfriend’s talents do not extend to homemaking; in fact, as far as the house is concerned, I feel like I live with a scattered 16 year old boy. Our furnishings are a compilation of his twenty years of bachelorhood and my on-a-very-tight-budget IKEA run to furnish the apartment I was in for year 2 of my new life. The cupboards are filled with an odd assortment of dishes and glasses, many of them chipped from being carelessly loaded into the dishwasher. The couch, a remnant of bachelorhood, is stained from spilled drinks and muddy paws. It is topped with throw pillows that don’t match much of anything. Even the house itself is a rental, so we have done the bare minimum to improve its aesthetics.
Sometimes, when I visit other people’s homes and I see their perfect serving dishes and their matched accessories, I feel inadequate. I think about hitting the stores and upgrading some of our things. But then I realize that I don’t want to travel that road again. I don’t want to feel the pressure to create a perfect home. In my old life, I took pride in my surroundings, yet I was also a slave to them. I like living in a home where I do not have to be worried about a spill on the rug or a chip in the wood. I like not being owned by my home.
So, if you ever make it over for dinner, I can promise you a mean Mexican lasagna on a chipped IKEA plate, plenty of wine (although it may not be served in a wine glass), and lots of laughter and good company (oh, and pit bull kisses too). That’s my idea of perfection.
Lessons From the End of a Marriage 