I haven't forgiven my ex husband.
I like to think I have. I think I've said in my head that I forgive him for his weakness. It's more accurate to say that in my head I forgive him for being a lying and betraying shmuck who got out of my life before he utterly ruined it with his irresponsible behavior and whacked out value structure.
That isn't forgiveness, I don't think. That sounds an awful lot like blame. And I think I have to forgive him. I think I finally see it.
I read the bottom of this article (http://health.msn.com/dietfitness/articlepage.aspx?cp-documentid=100169440), and I realized in all honesty that if I had to say those words of forgiveness to my ex-husband, even in my mind and not to his face, I'd choke on them. I carry my fury like a badge: "I didn't want to get divorced, so let me prove my sincerity by remaining righteously indignant. It's not okay that he up and walked out. It's absolutely unacceptable." After all, doesn't forgiveness mean admitting if tacitly that what he did is all right?
I think that until I'm able to say, and mean, "It's OKAY that this happened, that you did this, and I forgive you," it's not really ever going to be okay. But it's been impossible even to say it, to verbalize it, all these years. Even to say it insincerely. My attempts at forgiveness are, or have been, thinly cloaked accusations to illuminate his failings of character.
But what's the worst that could happen if I said to him in my head, "It's okay, and I forgive you?" Immediately, I think, "He hasn't asked for forgiveness, so he is not remorseful, so he doesn't deserve it." I fold my mental arms and furrow my mental brows, backing up for a tussle. The the more evolved side of my mind would argue that this kind of forgiveness isn't about granting restitution and reparation with him. This forgiveness is about me, about letting go of the anger and its power and control.
It has amazing power over me.
So... can it be "okay" so that I can be okay? Can I still think divorce is wrong, and can I even think that what he did is wrong, but can I grant that forgiveness and let it be okay so that I can move on?
I look at him and say in my mind's eye, and I whisper, "I forgive you for everything painful that's happened to me through you. I grant you complete absolution."
And suddenly... if I think of my anger, I remember the forgiveness.
Try that out for a healthy change of pace.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Baby with a Rattle
A baby with almost no voice,
Whose will's misunderstood to most,
With feelings equally a flush
Of energy and struggling
Does not begin to understand
The gibberish that makes his world.
All the time. Confusion swirls
His little head; it's all a blur.
It makes him scared.
But those around may know him well,
And if they're gentle and are kind
They'll give him love and make him calm.
But they cannot tell him what he needs.
He wants to sleep, he wants to play.
He wants to eat but not eat that.
He wants some peace but not alone.
He wants attention -- not from you.
But.
He has a rattle, small and loud.
It's his wand to rule his sphere.
And when he throws it, he can cry.
And always someone gives it back.
Naturally, he throws again.
He doesn't know what else to do.
Happiness lasts but a glint,
And with a thunk, another howl.
At least with this game he may cry.
Frustration finds an out to vent.
And others notice his control
Can cross from his world into theirs.
He matters, and that much he knows.
And in my mind, my rattle's blue.
I throw it, and sometimes I cry.
While others may not know the game,
Their gentleness can salve my spark.
I want someone to get my needs,
Because like him, I just don't know
What they are; it makes me scared,
Though I am "old enough to know."
I play games like two year olds.
Whose will's misunderstood to most,
With feelings equally a flush
Of energy and struggling
Does not begin to understand
The gibberish that makes his world.
All the time. Confusion swirls
His little head; it's all a blur.
It makes him scared.
But those around may know him well,
And if they're gentle and are kind
They'll give him love and make him calm.
But they cannot tell him what he needs.
He wants to sleep, he wants to play.
He wants to eat but not eat that.
He wants some peace but not alone.
He wants attention -- not from you.
But.
He has a rattle, small and loud.
It's his wand to rule his sphere.
And when he throws it, he can cry.
And always someone gives it back.
Naturally, he throws again.
He doesn't know what else to do.
Happiness lasts but a glint,
And with a thunk, another howl.
At least with this game he may cry.
Frustration finds an out to vent.
And others notice his control
Can cross from his world into theirs.
He matters, and that much he knows.
And in my mind, my rattle's blue.
I throw it, and sometimes I cry.
While others may not know the game,
Their gentleness can salve my spark.
I want someone to get my needs,
Because like him, I just don't know
What they are; it makes me scared,
Though I am "old enough to know."
I play games like two year olds.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Babes' Mouths
I've been thinking about my last post. The one where I alleged that I've blown it.
And today, I read of all things, a TAKS-essay composition from a grading guide... and you know that old saying, "When the student is ready, the teacher will come?" It's true, but it's not because of the specialness of the teacher. It's true because that readiness is the same as ripeness for truth. Only when an audience is ready can anyone else entertain it, after all.
So this paper explored the value of "new ideas," and this mystery girl from somewhere in the state of Texas expressed her disenchantment, anguish, and eventual acceptance of her parents' divorce and her father's remarriage. I heard that "click" in my head that happens sometimes. Maybe... well, maybe I've gotten some more of my head on straight, because I know better than to allege that I've got it all on straight, you know?
But this girl -- well, her parents, in a form or fashion -- "blew" her chances for a happy and intact childhood family. That's something she isn't ever going to have, you know? I don't have the fairytale anymore, and she doesn't have a childhood dream. But her paper continued that after four years, she's able to be rather friendly with her new stepmother, and she has besotted feelings toward her new baby brother. She concluded by saying that without being open to new ideas, she'd never have found peace about her family being different than she expected.
Is this what I have to do?
Accept it?
It's patently obvious that I don't have peace inside my head, however much I try to believe that. There's peace so long as I don't stir up my emotions by trying to move on, to challenge my comfortable status quo by finding friendship and companionship with men in my personal life. It's obvious, if I admit the truth to myself, that on some level, my quixotic personality continues fighting what's happened to me. I can accept my marriage was largely a facade of my own creation that existed nowhere except in my head. I can accept that my ex-husband as well was a creation of my imagination, a shadow of a real person on whom I projected all sorts of Godly virtues he was ill-equipped to manifest. I can accept that I'm a strong independent woman with imagination and good character, although I'm divorced. But there's a part of me somewhere inside that resents this happenstance. That wishes it would simply not be a fact of my life or part of my history. That wants to deny it altogether. But I can't. And it's not fair.
But that charming writer whose family collapsed around her shrugged her teenaged shoulders and looked forward. No, her family wasn't want she wanted it to be. She hated the woman to whom she referred as "my father's girlfriend" -- because she thought it sounded disgustingly tacky to do so. When her father and his girlfriend announced not only their impending marriage but that they were expecting a baby and moving out of the country positively rocked her young world. She blew like a Roman candle... but then she stopped and thought about what maturity meant. What negative emotions could do to relationships. To what she could control, when there was so much she couldn't. And she decided, quite deliberately, that she could be civil, if not friendly. She could make an effort, at the very least.
Is that enough for me to do? Can I make an effort just to meet a man? Just one meeting? Can I be civil? Can I deal with the step after a single date when, or if, it arises? Do I know myself well enough as a mature and independent woman... my needs, my expectations, my values, my priorities... well enough to remain myself in the face of a potential relationship, I who was always the accessory to the man and his needs?
It's scary, but is that what it all means, what I'm supposed to do now?
And today, I read of all things, a TAKS-essay composition from a grading guide... and you know that old saying, "When the student is ready, the teacher will come?" It's true, but it's not because of the specialness of the teacher. It's true because that readiness is the same as ripeness for truth. Only when an audience is ready can anyone else entertain it, after all.
So this paper explored the value of "new ideas," and this mystery girl from somewhere in the state of Texas expressed her disenchantment, anguish, and eventual acceptance of her parents' divorce and her father's remarriage. I heard that "click" in my head that happens sometimes. Maybe... well, maybe I've gotten some more of my head on straight, because I know better than to allege that I've got it all on straight, you know?
But this girl -- well, her parents, in a form or fashion -- "blew" her chances for a happy and intact childhood family. That's something she isn't ever going to have, you know? I don't have the fairytale anymore, and she doesn't have a childhood dream. But her paper continued that after four years, she's able to be rather friendly with her new stepmother, and she has besotted feelings toward her new baby brother. She concluded by saying that without being open to new ideas, she'd never have found peace about her family being different than she expected.
Is this what I have to do?
Accept it?
It's patently obvious that I don't have peace inside my head, however much I try to believe that. There's peace so long as I don't stir up my emotions by trying to move on, to challenge my comfortable status quo by finding friendship and companionship with men in my personal life. It's obvious, if I admit the truth to myself, that on some level, my quixotic personality continues fighting what's happened to me. I can accept my marriage was largely a facade of my own creation that existed nowhere except in my head. I can accept that my ex-husband as well was a creation of my imagination, a shadow of a real person on whom I projected all sorts of Godly virtues he was ill-equipped to manifest. I can accept that I'm a strong independent woman with imagination and good character, although I'm divorced. But there's a part of me somewhere inside that resents this happenstance. That wishes it would simply not be a fact of my life or part of my history. That wants to deny it altogether. But I can't. And it's not fair.
But that charming writer whose family collapsed around her shrugged her teenaged shoulders and looked forward. No, her family wasn't want she wanted it to be. She hated the woman to whom she referred as "my father's girlfriend" -- because she thought it sounded disgustingly tacky to do so. When her father and his girlfriend announced not only their impending marriage but that they were expecting a baby and moving out of the country positively rocked her young world. She blew like a Roman candle... but then she stopped and thought about what maturity meant. What negative emotions could do to relationships. To what she could control, when there was so much she couldn't. And she decided, quite deliberately, that she could be civil, if not friendly. She could make an effort, at the very least.
Is that enough for me to do? Can I make an effort just to meet a man? Just one meeting? Can I be civil? Can I deal with the step after a single date when, or if, it arises? Do I know myself well enough as a mature and independent woman... my needs, my expectations, my values, my priorities... well enough to remain myself in the face of a potential relationship, I who was always the accessory to the man and his needs?
It's scary, but is that what it all means, what I'm supposed to do now?
Monday, September 3, 2007
Blowing It
Would you expect that on some level, I realize that I think I've blown it?
Blown what, you ask?
Blown it. Blown the chance at the fairy tale. Blown the chance to find genuine happiness from a relationship with a man. I really believe that on some level, I've completely blown it. That I don't have a chance anymore... at least, not in this time and place.
How on earth could you've blown it, you ask with a note of confusion. Just because you had what everyone now realizes was a really ridiculous marriage? Because you had a ridiculous divorce? So what? That doesn't mean you've blown it, you argue. You're the person who says that the only failure is in giving up. Doesn't that apply to relationships, too? So if you can keep trying, then how could you have blown it?
Because the it that I've blown isn't just the idea of relationships. I've blown my chance at the entire fairy tale. You know the story. Everyone does. Boy and girl meet, boy and girl have stars in their eyes, boy and girl believe that every happiness is possible for them, and boy and girl dance off into the sunset of mature love. But now that I've been married, or more properly failed at being married, I lost that chance to do it right for the rest of my life... and that chance mattered to me. I'm never going to grow old with the love of my youth who will adore me forever. I'll never be a genuine starry-eyed bride again, and if I find a great guy who navigates my barriers, who deserves to be my husband in all ways that matter, he won't ever be the husband, not with a living precessor running around who had that place first. So long as my ex is around in the world, there will always be another man walking around who was my husband, the husband. This sounds mighty Catholic of me, doesn't it? But it really is my value, it really is an issue in my mind.
I've blown it.
Okay, I can hear one of my friend's friends yelling that I didn't blow it, that my exhusband blew it, and that I need to get past the idea that it's my fault. Well, yeah. But some of it was my fault. If I'd picked more carefully, maybe I'd never have married him in the first place. But then, I wouldn't be divorced now. I'd have a chance, still.
Three and a half years ago, when my exhusband just left, a friend of mine (also divorced in her thirties but since remarried) told me that she grieved a while after her divorce that she'd lost the chance to do it right the first time. At the moment she told me, I didn't grasp the implications of what she said. I couldn't see past my own immediate crisis. But I've thought of her recently. I've thought of her story. That's how I feel, like I've lost the chance to do it right the first time. I'm leavings now. Although I recognize myself as a rare and special person, somehow at the same time, I wasn't good enough. Maybe I'm still not.
You know?
Blown what, you ask?
Blown it. Blown the chance at the fairy tale. Blown the chance to find genuine happiness from a relationship with a man. I really believe that on some level, I've completely blown it. That I don't have a chance anymore... at least, not in this time and place.
How on earth could you've blown it, you ask with a note of confusion. Just because you had what everyone now realizes was a really ridiculous marriage? Because you had a ridiculous divorce? So what? That doesn't mean you've blown it, you argue. You're the person who says that the only failure is in giving up. Doesn't that apply to relationships, too? So if you can keep trying, then how could you have blown it?
Because the it that I've blown isn't just the idea of relationships. I've blown my chance at the entire fairy tale. You know the story. Everyone does. Boy and girl meet, boy and girl have stars in their eyes, boy and girl believe that every happiness is possible for them, and boy and girl dance off into the sunset of mature love. But now that I've been married, or more properly failed at being married, I lost that chance to do it right for the rest of my life... and that chance mattered to me. I'm never going to grow old with the love of my youth who will adore me forever. I'll never be a genuine starry-eyed bride again, and if I find a great guy who navigates my barriers, who deserves to be my husband in all ways that matter, he won't ever be the husband, not with a living precessor running around who had that place first. So long as my ex is around in the world, there will always be another man walking around who was my husband, the husband. This sounds mighty Catholic of me, doesn't it? But it really is my value, it really is an issue in my mind.
I've blown it.
Okay, I can hear one of my friend's friends yelling that I didn't blow it, that my exhusband blew it, and that I need to get past the idea that it's my fault. Well, yeah. But some of it was my fault. If I'd picked more carefully, maybe I'd never have married him in the first place. But then, I wouldn't be divorced now. I'd have a chance, still.
Three and a half years ago, when my exhusband just left, a friend of mine (also divorced in her thirties but since remarried) told me that she grieved a while after her divorce that she'd lost the chance to do it right the first time. At the moment she told me, I didn't grasp the implications of what she said. I couldn't see past my own immediate crisis. But I've thought of her recently. I've thought of her story. That's how I feel, like I've lost the chance to do it right the first time. I'm leavings now. Although I recognize myself as a rare and special person, somehow at the same time, I wasn't good enough. Maybe I'm still not.
You know?
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