There are many different directions a woman’s life can go
after divorce. Some are
self-destructive. Some are lonely. Some are inspiring. Some make no sense to anyone but her. Some include impossible ideals, fairy tales
even, of what life will be like some day.
Being who I am, I chose all of the above. It took a long time for my life to become
torn into tiny little pieces, hardly recognizable as belonging to me. So it only makes sense that it took a long
time and many paths to put all of those pieces back together again.
First there was the self-destructive. I don’t like to spend a lot of time
reminiscing on that particular period of my life. It was embarrassing, out of control, and
frankly quite ridiculous considering the amount of smarts I was blessed
with.
Then there was the lonely.
See, when you hit rock bottom and make changes such as no longer hanging
out in bars, you find out that most, if not all of your friends were not really
friends; they were just drinking buddies.
Remove the drinking; lose the buddy; which is actually a good thing
because I was not distracted from doing the work that I needed to do.
I call one path inspiring because that was the brain tumor
period of my life. That was when I was
unafraid to face a scary thing and I won.
That was when God showed me exactly how much spunk he had built into me
and when I finally started figuring out how to harness it and use it for
good.
And there was a period that probably makes no sense to
anyone who was not in my shoes. I felt a
strange alone-ness without loneliness. I
felt suspended in the never-ending consequences of my own bad choices. I was slowly tying up the loose ends of a
frayed woman who just wanted to be whole again.
I was slowly polishing the harsh jaded look I had been wearing,
patiently trying to rediscover the loving heart that lived underneath. I was trying to find every last little piece
of me, and while I did not want to put myself back together in the form that I
once was, I wanted every shred of my life experience available in my heart and
in my memory; reminders of how far back from oblivion it is possible to
travel.
During all of these periods I did one thing consistently: I
built an imaginary fairy-tale. (I am
totally talking about men here, in case that is not sufficiently implied). I convinced myself of how things would be and
dedicated myself to accepting nothing less than the perfection of my
make-believe eventual reality. Perhaps
this was a defense mechanism that worked by setting an impossible standard that
could never be met and therefore could never distract me from my path. Perhaps this was the result of me finally
realizing the worth that resides inside this body, heart, and mind of mine. I am aware that my self-love sometimes borders
on (or comes crashing across) a line of obnoxiousness. I make no apologies. I have learned that self-love is far better
that self-loathing and I will never apologize for who I am now. And I firmly believe that any person with a
significant place in my life should recognize, embrace, and appreciate my
awesomeness.
And now, now that so many different phases have been
completed and so many pieces of me have been polished to a brilliant shine, I
find that the fairy tale is no longer necessary. I find that I am okay with the way that
things are turning out and the way that things are happening. I do not need nor do I want a knight in
shining armor to come rescue me from whatever evil villain is currently playing
opposite me on my stage. I do not need
things to happen exactly the way my imagination scripted it in order to be
happy. All I really need is genuineness,
honesty, and faith in the lines.
Whether it is a frog or a prince that is cast opposite me, I
will take the script changes as they come, adapting as needed. And if an exit is needed, I will carefully
exit stage left with no looking back.
And if it turns out that I will be on stage with the same co-star for
some time to come, I will do so cheerfully, accepting both him and myself as we
are; regardless of whether our time on stage consists of forgotten lines and tripping
over costumes, or of brilliant performances.
All of this leads up to this: I recently met a new
co-star. And while we may still be in
dress rehearsals, there is a part of me that sees a potential for brilliant performances. Maybe that is just the romantic in me that wrote
fairy tales to begin with. Maybe it is
the result of a true connection. Maybe
it is eternal optimism, which is not such a bad thing. I don’t yet have all the answers.
I spoke about this with a friend I love and respect very
much. She calls it not a fairy tale, but
a fractured fairy tale. Hearing those
words, and understanding that it may not be what was imagined and may be a
little broken apart from the original expectation, it can still be a fairy
tale. After all, authors of compelling
stories must be willing to follow the plot line to the end, right?
And I am really looking forward to seeing where this
particular plot line takes me.
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