Fifty Shades of Gray Through the Eyes of a Divorcee

Posted on by stilllearning2b

Fifty Shades of Grey at SeaTac newsstand

I read this book last week on assignment from a coworker.  She has the delightful idea of have a Fifty Shades of Gray party, which sounds like the perfect way to blow off some steam after two weeks of standardized testing.  I must admit, I was curious to read the book and see what all the buzz was about.

Let’s be frank.  It’s erotica.  Not that great.  Not that unique.  It’s spiced up with a little BDSM, but even that is pretty tame, at least in the first book.  The characters are unbelievable (22 and never really been kissed?  please!) and the writing a bit tedious at times.  So, why the appeal?

I did have a few insights as to why the book gained so much popularity, especially among the divorced crowd.

For those of us on the other side of a marriage, we have lost faith in the binding nature of that contract.  It has become a piece of paper, easily torn.  The characters in  Fifty Shades of Gray spend an inordinate amount of time debating the stipulations of their contract.  I could see the appeal, the comfort, that would be brought by such a document.  It spells out exactly the terms of the partnership and responsibilities of each person.  There is no gray area, no room for interpretation.

The contract gives a sense of security in the relationship, essentially saying, “You do these things and it will be okay.”  Real life certainly doesn’t come with assurance like that.

Many women probably enjoy the return to innocence that can be found in the female character. It can take them back to a time before their views of relationships were sullied.  They can experience those early thrills again through her doe-like eyes.

Most of all; however, the book is simply sex.  And, due to its popularity, it is sex that is safe for public consumption and discussion, encouraging women to be open about their thoughts and desires.  That is the true value of the book.

Well, that and Fifty Shades of Gray parties, of course:)

(You can find my full story in my book Lessons From the End of a Marriage.)

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Dulling the Knife’s Edge

Posted on by stilllearning2b

knives serious

When I first felt the raw, unwashed trauma of my divorce, I would direct anger and indignation towards anyone who blithely told me that time heals all wounds.  How foolish they must be, I thought.  They must have never been through any challenges.  How could the mere rotation of a clock hand soften the shock and pain of being utterly betrayed from the inside out?  I scoffed at the notion.

Luckily for me, time continued on, ignorant of my harsh view of it.

The changes were so subtle at first, I did not notice them.  The improvement from one hour to the next too small to be measured.  But it was there nonetheless.

A clock made in Revolutionary France, showing ...
A clock made in Revolutionary France, showing the 10-hour metric clock. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As time continued its relentless linear path, my pain followed suit in an inverse relationship, although in a much more randomized pattern.  I became accustomed to the things causing my discomfort, and so I was not as aware of them.  The pain, once so alien, became familiar and no longer needed attention.  Anniversaries came and went and I survived. I layered memories, replacing painful ones with fresher happier ones. The hardest times occurred with diminishing frequency  and lessening intensity.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I still dismiss the notion that time will heal all wounds; time is no surgeon, ready to excise the malignant past.  However, time does dull the knife’s edge of past traumas, lessening their ability to cause that searing pain, that sharp intake of breath when the blade pierces your heart.  The pain becomes duller, more distant, more manageable.  It’s as though its initial razor edge is dulled by time dragging it through the rocks lining the river of life, new experiences whittling away the once-sharp edge.

River Rocks and Clouds Reflected

While waiting for the blade of your trauma to dull, carry lots of bandages and always be wary of the edge.

Is It Better to Have Loved and Lost? Yes, Yes, It Is! | Psychology Today

Posted on by stilllearning2b

Not So Much to Be Loved as to Love

This article deals with death.  But then, divorce is a type of death, isn’t it?  I think we can all use this reminder sometimes.

Is It Better to Have Loved and Lost? Yes, Yes, It Is! | Psychology Today.

 

Just Breathe

Posted on by stilllearning2b

We have a habit (and, yes, that “we” certainly includes “me”!) of making things more complicated than they actually are.  Check in with your body; is it tight, constricted?  Breathe.  Visit your mind.   Do you feel anger, frustration, fear? Breathe.  Are your thoughts on a trip to the past or perhaps the future?  Breathe and bring them home.  It doesn’t have to be complicated or fancy to work.  Close your eyes, fill your lungs, feeling the chest rise into each nook and cranny.  Let the breath out, feeling your lungs empty completely.  And just breathe.

» Breathe. :zenhabits.

Just breathe

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The Day the Marriage Died

Posted on by stilllearning2b

Up until now, everything I have posted has been recently written, almost 3 years since the end of my marriage.  I recently went back and visited some of my earlier writings, drafted in the weeks and months after he left.  I’ve decided to share some of that, to expose the raw underbelly of divorce.  Please be aware that this writing has a different tone.  The emotions and language are harsh as they capture my reaction on the day the marriage died.

Choosing: painting by first husband, George Fr...

Wellness is not measured by the amount of broccoli you eat or the number of miles you can run.  It is not found in the number of punches on your yoga membership card or the double digits of your sit-up count.  Wellness is not indicated by the reading of the blood pressure cuff or the size indicated on the label of your jeans.

I used to think I was well; I had all of the above mastered.  My lean, muscled body spoke of the intense workouts it was subjected to along with the strict vegetarian diet that was used to fuel the exercise sessions.  I awoke before dawn to ensure that I could fit a workout into my hectic schedule as a middle school teacher.  I fit long runs in on open evenings or on the weekends.  I watched everything I ate, avoiding meat and keeping a careful eye on the amount of fat consumed.  My favorite way to spend the weekends was working in my extensive garden or going on long hikes in the nearby North Georgia mountains.

I used to think I was well.  But, I wasn’t.  All it took to strip away all of physical manifestations of health was a few short sentences.  A text, sent across the country on a sunny Saturday afternoon, arriving unexpectedly on my phone.

July 11, 2009  12:38 p.m.

I’m sorry to be such a coward leaving you this way.  I am leaving. Please reach out to someone let the dogs out as I am leaving the state.  The code for the garage is 5914.  I’m truly sorry but I can’t do this anymore.   Please give me some time to come to terms with my decision.  I will call you in a few days.  I am sorry that I have failed you.

Lesson One

When two become ones, you are able to see yourself clearly.

Fear gripped.  Legs collapsed.  Brain stuttered.  Lungs heaved. Gut clenched. Body trembled.  World shattered.  Visceral.  Violent.

My father’s arms engulfed me as I lay shaking on the floor, my body and brain rebelling from my new reality.

“What can I do for you?  Do you want me to call mom?” my dad offered, seeking for a way to comfort his only child.

“Yes, please,” I responded, forcing the words out through my locked lungs.

He reluctantly left me in a heap on the hallway floor in my aunt and uncle’s house as he moved to the dining room to make the call to my mother in Texas, whom he had divorced decades earlier.

My brain barely registered his soft, yet strained voice in conversation several feet away from me.  My hands gripped my phone with urgency, willing it to send another message.  Wanting this to be a mistake.  A joke.  Anything but real.  A little anger pushed through the initial shock, enough for me to summon the courage to flip open the phone, using muscle memory trained over years to scroll down twelve names to Mr. T, the nickname he used to put himself in the phone he bought for me years before.

“Hello.  You’ve reached T of MMS.  I cannot come to the phone right now, but please leave a message and I will get back to you as soon as possible.”

I took a deep breath and left a message, almost unintelligible through my tears, my shaking, and my heaving chest.

“T.  I don’t understand.  What is this?  A text message?  Sixteen years and a text message? Please don’t do this.  Not like this.  Call me.  Please.”

I closed the phone, severing the connection.

It sat there silent.  Taunting me.  I opened it again, this time to send a text message.

What about the dogs?  Are the dogs okay?  Call me.

It remained silent, the screen dark.

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