I met The Mr. literally days after returning home from my mission. I was raised in an active LDS home. At age 8 my denim jumper wearing, FHE chart touting mom left my Stake President Counselor dad and took (most of) my siblings and I with her. There was another marriage, first one for my mom which also ended in divorce, then one for my dad which remains intact. This upbringing left a hole in my soul that took one look at The Mr's eccentric, enthusiastic, quirky, bearded self and swallowed him whole.
When we met he already had his mission call, which by no means inhibited us from finding any and all quasi-secluded site to make out in for a grand total of one month that glorious summer. Then, he was gone. I told him I wouldn't wait, that I was headed to the Mormon Mecca of Provo, but that I did love him. He professed his love in endlessly idiosyncratic and endearing ways and told me his heart was mine, if I'd have it, then and in two years.
Two of the things I said I'd never do, because they were stupid, were 1) Wait for a missionary and 2) Get married really fast. 100 letters and 2 years and 3 months later, almost to the day, we were sealed in the temple. I was stoked out of my mind and completely oblivious to the 87 incompatibilities my brain, blown out on oxytocin inducing love rants, kisses and caresses had overlooked.
Now, I want to start this blog off right, so let me clearly state that this is not an ex-spouse bashing blog or a place to try to out do each other in tales of marital mutiny. If you're here it's safe to say your worse half has done something significant to piss you off or break your heart. I believe you. In crafting this blog and online community I'm deliberately choosing to cultivate an honest, open dialogue, civil and respectful. So I will summarize those 87 incompatibilities by confessing that I had absolutely no idea when I married him that he hated Bob Dylan and that his favorite band was Nickelback.
Yes, you read that correctly. Nickleback... as in concert going, ring tone sporting, huge fan of Nickleback.
Needless to say, after almost exactly two more years of serious marital struggles, we made like Jacob in the Book of Mormon and bid our Adieus. (Seriously, have you ever noticed that about Jacob? Throws me every time.) I was heartbroken. He was heartbroken. Such is the nature of divorce.
I now live in the Northwest in a city with a vibrant arts and music scene, endless farmer's markets and all the delicious food you could ever imagine. We've got sickeningly beautiful nature to explore, art museums, excellent public transit, and a number one slot in the race for the "Most Depressed and Suicidal City." It rains here. A lot. So much that when the sun peaks out for more than 18 minutes you see ecstatic folks sporting khaki shorts and columbia fleeces running and/or biking amuck all over town.
My apartment walls are teal, my couch is authentically retro and orange, my floors are hard wood and checkered tile, just like I like them. I have a lovely roommate who understands my excessive need for sleep and ice cream at this time in my life and a Siamese cat named Samson that has officially turned me into a cat lady, and I don't even care. I do dishes when I want to and spend my money however I see fit. I work full time and support myself just fine. I teach in Relief Society once a month in the singles ward I attended six years ago and I celebrate the anniversary of my divorce every month with thai food.
I grieve, I cry, I get happy, I feel relieved. I gain clarity and then I lose it. I get angry. I get hurt. I get hopeless. Then I spend an afternoon out of my house and laughing and I feel normal for a while. Life is slowly but surely coming to a place of routine and forward motion. They're baby steps, but they're baby steps toward a brighter life.