Deja Vu Yet New

Posted on by stilllearning2b

Planning a second wedding is quite strange. It’s like walking a familiar road after being absent from a city for decades – you think you know the sites and the layout but nothing is as it was.

I don’t want to think about the first time, endlessly reflecting on how it was done before. But I do, if only to make sure I do it differently now. The basic structure of the wedding is the same: private ceremony followed by celebratory dinner with loved ones. But the details are intentionally altered. My first wedding was on a beach; this one is in the mountains. The first date was in the winter and this one is in the fall. My first dress had straps and my hair was up. Now? Strapless and hair down and loose. A Thai restaurant is replacing the Italian that served the first dinner.

There is an unplanned difference between the celebrations that struck me yesterday as I was working on the guest email list (That’s right, wedding Evites. Don’t tell Ms. Manners). There is a good chance that my dad will be the only guest present at both. As far as my family, we’re small and spread throughout the country. My mom will actually be in Italy at that time (don’t feel guilty mom -go and enjoy yourself!) and I don’t think any other family will travel. I got married the first time only 6 months after moving to Atlanta. So, the friends at our celebration were coworkers that we had at the time since we had not yet developed any meaningful relationships in the new city and our friends from Texas could not make the trip.

This time around, the friend list is long and rich with history and meaning. I have friends that have known me through my entire marriage, supported me through the divorce and have seen me blossom again. I have others that have only known me after. Brock has friends that never thought they would see him marry until they saw us together and said they knew. Even the restaurant has personal ties, as they know us well, saw the evolution of our relationship and have hosted many a gathering for Brock’s martial arts students. We will be surrounded by our community as we celebrate. That feels good.

Having friends around means I also have a shower this time through. Something I’ve never had. The hostess texted me yesterday and asked me to pick a theme: kitchen, wine, bathroom, lingerie or camping. I had to smile at the last one. She is very much a city gal so I knew she threw that in for me even though it pained her:) I chose lingerie since it’s something I never buy for myself and I left all my collection behind in my old life. Plus, sometimes it’s nice not to be practical:)

It’s crazy that, even as I’m about to move on from the past in the biggest way possible, the past still follows behind, tapping me on the shoulder occasionally just to remind me it’s there.  But even though it’s sometimes strange, I’m okay with my awareness of the past. I’m not trying to run away from it or bury it where it can’t be seen. I’m hopeful that now that the planning is done (yippee!), the past will take a polite step back and maybe not follow so closely.

 

Related: Why I’m scared of 22 year old dress consultants – Say Stress to the Dress

 

Life Doesn’t Make Sense

Posted on by stilllearning2b

life doesn't make sense

Like It Never Happened

Posted on by stilllearning2b

My life is generally divided into B.D. (before divorce) and A.D. (after divorce). I divvy up experiences, locations and even relationships between these two categories. I am (often painfully) aware of this division, this singular event that has fractured my life in two.

Last night, for a magical few hours, that mental division was erased and the crevice between my selves felt filled.

It was just a simple evening at an outdoor concert with friends – two couples, one with a kid. One from B.D. and the other (at least for me) from A.D. These blendings of friends are rare in my life due to the twin constraints of busy lives and Atlanta traffic (my B.D. friends live a minimum of 45 minutes away).

It felt great to join the two groups, but that wasn’t the magic. That’s where the kid comes in.

The B.D. friends, Sarah and Curtis, are extremely special to me (they are the ones who opened their home to me in the first year A.D. – Wanted: The Ronald McDonald House for the Recently Separated). They have been in my life for the past decade. Due to Curtis’s schedule, Sarah, my ex and I used to enjoy events together – everything from a King Tut exhibit to the annual Brew at the Zoo. We were thrilled for them when they started the adoption process almost five years ago. Although my ex and I never wanted our own children, we both enjoyed playing the avuncular role with other’s offspring.

Sarah and Curtis received the wonderful news in April of 2009 that they had a baby girl waiting for them. She was still in the NICU and would be for several more weeks due to prematurity and other complications. In their eyes, she was perfect. She came home that May. She was still quite fragile and was tethered to tubes and alarms that kept Sarah anchored in a corner of the master bedroom for the first couple weeks.

On her first Saturday home from the hospital, I made plans to visit. My ex declined to accompany. I thought it was strange for him to miss meeting this child that meant so much to our friends. I thought it was strange, but I brushed it off. In retrospect, he didn’t want to meet her because he knew his days in that life were numbered.

I’m glad they never met. That tiny, fragile infant has since grown into a spirited four year old (Let’s Go On An Adventure) that embodies a Botticelli beauty. A child that has no memory of my life B.D. and a child with whom I have no memories associated with my ex.

I loved watching her with Brock last night as he taught her how to walk Tiger on a leash (unfortunately, no photos were taken but just picture this 30 pound girl walking a 95 pound pit bull through a crowded park – the looks we got were priceless!) and she gifted him a “friendship rock.” He has fully embraced the uncle role with her, even though they do not see each other often. Brock may not have been there for those years waiting for the adoption and the first year of her life, but he’s here now. And, as far as she will know, he is the only husband (okay, so he’s not that yet, but soon:)) that I have ever had.

Brock and Tiger - two peas in a pod:)
Brock and Tiger – two peas in a pod:)

A quick side note here – Is it weird that I love watching Brock interact with kids even though I don’t want them? I just love seeing how comfortable he is and how he understands how to communicate with them at various developmental levels. Makes me smile.

Last night, the harsh distinction (that exists more in my mind that anywhere else) between B.D. and A.D. blurred as I sat with friends who have made the journey with me and friends that have only known me after. As I looked around the group gathered on our tarp, it didn’t feel A.D.

It just felt right.

Why I Became a Tough Mudder

Posted on by stilllearning2b

Brock and I did Tough Mudder in March of 2011. We had been together a little less than a year. It really was a transformative experience for our relationship and had a significant impact on my learning to trust again. We continue to do events together that require teamwork and perseverance. In fact, we have decided to consciously make that a cornerstone of our relationship. Most recently, we took the beast (AKA Tiger) on an 8 mile canoe trip down the Chattahoochee. Due to the recent rains, the water was very high and there were quite a few newly fallen trees across the swollen river. At one point, we thought we had reached an impasse where the combination of fallen trees and debris blocked our passage. Brock saw an opportunity, turned the canoe around so that he was leading the boat and I was paddling backwards from the distant front. He carefully guided the canoe through a narrow gap in the trees. I was traveling blind, relying fully on him to tell me when to duck or dodge from the large branches. Three years ago, that same situation would have caused anxiety, as I wondered if I could count on him. Now? I trust again. And that’s a good place to be.

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Originally posted in winter 2012:

 

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When I told my family last year that I had signed up (and paid good money) for an 11 mile obstacle run, I think their first response was to shuffle through their contacts looking for the psychiatrist I saw in the early months of the divorce.  “You’re doing WHAT?  Why?,” I heard repeatedly, usually followed with a resigned head shake, “You’re crazy.”  Crazy I may be, but I felt compelled to do the event and I am so glad that I did.  Tough Mudder was more to me than a run.

A few months after the July disaster of my marriage, I signed up for my very first race ever: a half marathon.  This was a bit preemptive, since not only had I never competed, I still was weak and skinny.  I went into that race only having completed the distance once before.  That was the worst race of my life (cold, rain, illness), but I endured and made it through.  It was exactly the confidence boost I needed at that point.

Over the next several months, I ran more races, but none of them required me to dig all that deep into myself.  None of them gave me the sense of triumph over adversity that I was seeking.

Then came Mudder.  My boyfriend was the one who actually found this race and he proposed that we enter together.  I loved the idea immediately. With a shared purpose, we hit the gym with renewed vigor and not a little trepidation.

The event itself was unbelievable.  It turned out that it was slated to be held in a dry county, so the money that normally went towards beer instead paid for a longer track – almost 15 miles up and down (did I mention up?) a motocross track.  The temperature was cold, and the water obstacles were colder, as volunteers emptied flats of ice into the streams.

It was an amazing challenge for my boyfriend and I to tackle together.  It gave a true sense of working together and overcoming adversity.  My other races had been alone; it was beautiful to have someone to share this with.  It helped me learn to trust him, learn that he was not going to abandon me when the going got tough.  We pushed each other, encouraged each other, lifted each other, and even shared some muddy, sweaty kisses.  It was amazing.

I think everyone, especially those re-centering after trauma, should do their own version of Tough Mudder. Something that pushes you further than you comfortably want to go.  Something to show you what you can accomplish.  Something to show you that discomfort is temporary.  Something to show you that the support of friends can help get you through when you want to quit.  When the big picture of what you have to overcome is too big, it helps to have a little Mudder to think back on and realize, “I can do this.”

Tough Mudder logo
Image via Wikipedia

I Didn’t Fail

Posted on by stilllearning2b

Marriage is not a test.

I lived.

I loved.

I lost.

But I didn’t fail.

Society makes assumptions about those who are divorced. Maybe we lack the fortitude to persist through difficulties. Perhaps we possess some great fatal flaw that makes us unable to sustain matrimony. Or, possibility we are flighty, given to jump in without thought and give up just as easily.

There is often shame inherent in admitting that one is divorced, like some scarlet letter “D” is forever branded upon your character if your “ever after” ended sooner than expected. It’s as though you failed at one of the biggest assessments you face as an adult.

In the strictest sense, my marriage did fail. After all, it ceased to exist upon the receipt of the horrific text: “I’m sorry to be such a coward leaving you this way but I’m leaving you and leaving the state.” Furthermore, my husband failed me through his betrayal and abandonment. I failed him by not seeing that he needed help and I failed myself by not being aware of his actions and the signs of a crumbling marriage. Yet, even with all that defeat, I refuse to look at my marriage as a failure. That label undermines our years together with all its shared memories and joys; the shared life and experiences are negated with that single word. Although I did feel as though I failed in some ways, I was adamant that I was not going to let my divorce define me as a failure.

Failure is an act, not a person. I’m divorced. Not defective.

As I grappled with the end of my marriage, I found comfort in the words of others. Others who had faced their own challenges and were determined to learn from and grow from their mistakes and unrealized goals. Read the rest on The Huffington Post.

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