The Best Worst Day of My Life

Somewhere in the early days when all I could think to myself was, "When will this feel less like a semi just hit my life?" I was consulting the all powerful Google and found this admittedly arbitrary formula. Recovery time from a divorce averages about one half the length of the marriage. 10 years marriage = 5 years recovery and so on, so I planted the seed in the back of my mind that I would give myself the first full year to focus almost entirely on healing myself up, and I have.

This is the year I will always remember as the year I slept just as much as my body asked me to, which sometimes meant going straight to bed at 6pm and waking up 14 hours later. I ate any and every thing I wanted and I let myself talk about my experience endlessly, processing it out of me by virtue of sheer repetition. I bought myself presents --nice dresses and red high heels, jewelry, and a guitar. I took myself on weekend trips, road trips, trips to the theater and movies and beach. I bought myself a reliable car and moved back to the home I'd left in a hope to appease The Mr. Then, I allowed my soul to let go of 9/10 of my earthly possessions to pursue my education (another luxury out of reach to married Frowfrow) in the two things I love most - art and teaching...in Hawaii, and when a beautiful African man said to me, in his adorable accent, "Come outside, I'm going to kiss you." I said, "Okay."

To some this year may seem overly indulgent or self centered, but it has been exactly what I needed to get my sea legs back.  I had to learn that I can take care of myself. I can meet my needs. There isn't a man alive that can fix the broken parts of me, and I can stop looking, because Jesus and I are enough. My poor little terrified, broken heart and soul have been quieted, soothed, cradled and nurtured back into functionality, and I must say, today, 365 days after the best worst day of my life, I am thankful for what's happened.

I was making up a whiteboard for the students at work the other day and came across these wise words from the mouth of Oprah. "True forgiveness is when you can say, 'Thank you for that experience'." I cannot say I am grateful for every aspect of what the past three years of my life have been like, but last night when I was talking to God about the whole thing, this is some of the list we were able to come up with:

I'm thankful that I learned so much about myself through this experience,  that I now have a much deeper understanding of the importance of my own needs, hopes, dreams and establishing boundaries. I'm thankful that I get another chance at life, and that being in an unhealthy marriage helped me to see more clearly the things that are most important to me in life. I'm thankful that I know how much I love being a wife and how much I love having a husband. I'm thankful that I was married -- that someone, at least at some point, loved me enough to ask me to be his wife and that I had the time I did in Long Beach as a newly wed. I loved that short season in my life so immensely.

I'm thankful that dating again has opened my eyes to the things I did to contribute to the problems in my marriage and that I have all the time I need to work through those issues and becomes a healthier individual. I'm thankful that The Mr. had the courage to put a final stop to everything, and that he has been very respectful of my request that he not contact me again. I'm thankful for the new world that has opened up to me with possibilities that were once completely off the table. I'm thankful for all the long hours those who love me have put in with me--helping me move, inviting me over, flying me out for a visit, taking me out for an adventure, sitting in with me for the night, all the talking, all the prayers, all the hope and all the love. I'm thankful for the incredibly cathartic, healing experience writing this blog has been for me, and ultimately, beyond any other blessing to come from this experience I'm thankful that I have new understanding of exactly what my Savior is willing to go through, just for me.

So thanks for being a part of this first year of recovery. Thanks for reaching out to help me know I am not so alone in this unexpected stage of my life, and thank you, thank you, thank you that the first year is finally over. : )

Part Three

I know I've written before about the importance of breaking all contact with an ex if at all possible, but I have an update for you on this topic. About a month ago things with The Mr. were in a place where we weren't talking, really just because there wasn't anything left to say. All the finances are sorted, possessions divided, words spoken, papers signed. But when you have been in such an intimate place with someone closing the door completely somehow seems caustic-- even while rationally acknowledging the trauma leaving the door even slightly ajar brings.

I was driving--windows down, sun shining, so I didn't hear the phone ring the first or second time. When I checked the message it was something I would have swallowed as sweet in days gone by. The Mr. wanted to know how I was doing. He wanted to know if I was happy.

There's a voice inside me that never lies and is never wrong. When I met The Mr. that voice said, "No thank you." But I kissed him anyway--a lot. When he proposed that voice said, "You do not know this man. How can you marry someone you don't know if you can trust?" But I told the voice to be quiet or we'd never find love. When The Mr. and I would sit in a room together, 15 months into our mistake that voice would say, "He's not here in the room with you. He's already gone." I would tell the voice, "No. He's the one who loves me."

So when I heard The Mr.'s voicemail I stopped for a moment and asked the voice what she thought. Two days later she replied in the form of a text message I sent The Mr.

I got your message. Thank you for your concern. How I'm doing is information I no longer feel comfortable sharing with you. I know you feel guilty for things from our past, but that's between you and God now. I wish you the best of luck in sorting it out and sincerely hope you find peace. Please do not contact me again. 

It wasn't easy to send, but it was easier than all that work it took to smother out the voice for those two years. My mama says that you don't have room for good things in your life when you won't let go of the bad ones. Mental energy is finite, after all. Since I calmly but firmly closed the door to all that pain, beautiful things have started happening. Or perhaps the more likely truth is that beautiful things were happening all along, but in closing the door I finally was able to look up.

My life is in the process of changing in big ways this week, not the least of which is where I reside. I am moving... again. But this isn't one of those little hopping around moves I've done every six months up until now. This is a mega leap of faith move from my seemingly eternally cyclical existence betwixt a few west coast states-- to a distant tropical island. 

I've never been to Hawaii. I've never rented a car or bought a one way ticket without any idea when I'll be coming back or really any desire to find out. In nine days I start part three of my Three Part Plan to Get on With Life, and I just want to say, it's coming together shockingly well. 

I bring this up, not to rub it in your face that I'm finally getting healthy when you likely have come to this blog in a state of profound grief or concern. I bring this up because I remember vividly the days that I was incapable of believing that things could ever, ever, ever get better, and I remember the day I started listening to that voice in me that never lies and is never wrong. 

I don't mean to seem overly inquisitive, but are you alive?

Photo attribution here.

If that is what you have been thinking in regards to where the crap I have been for the last bit, I am here to tell you, I am, in fact, alive. Quite alive, actually. And well. Thanks for asking. Here's a glimpse at my to do list for the last and upcoming week.

1. Sort, price and sell off every one of my adorable possessions but my laptop, clothes and guitar.
2. Plan an epic road trip that includes (so far): an elephant, Shakespeare, a teepee, wellsprings rumored to hold nigh unto magical healing properties, two beach towns, one of which is Santa Cruz which is on my bucket list, a real live California Mission (I've never seen one), a visit with a life long besty and her baby boy, all in the company of Mr. Fabulous, another life long besty.
3. Creating a new wardrobe that consists of 25 summer dresses and one light weight raincoat.
4. Securing employment in California.
5. Securing hosing in Hawaii.
6. Writing a lesson for Relief Society about how we cannot fail if we do what God asks. (It's not as bad as the time I had to teach a lesson called, "Sacred Family Relationships" on Mother's Day, but the lesson has its inherent challenges.)
7. Rehoming my Siamese. (Sniff! Sniff!)
8. Celebrating a bazillion birthdays, all of which require gifts.
9. Getting a blog called Cookies and Punch (which you will love) up and running with Lady Chief Editor Pants.
10. Crafting goodbye gifts for the families I work for.

Why, you ask, are you doing all these awesome and crazy making things?
To which I am happy to respond, Oh. Because I'm moving, first to Southern California for the summer, then to Hawaii in the fall. See, I'll be finishing up my education in massage therapy and then pursuing my BA in Art Education, proving to the world once and for all that you can have your cake and eat it too. Because really, who's going to get cake and not eat it? Not this girl, no sir.

#secondchancesareawesome

Somebody Looks Fabulous

Yesterday was my friend's birthday. Over the course of my early healing I have had the occasional invitation to some sort of activity that the general public considers fun, but when a chronically depressed person is also in the throws of mega grieving, social interactions can become somewhat ridiculous. The brilliant blog Hyperbole and a Half describes the experience of trying to hang out with people unaffected by such tragedy perfectly with this cartoon.

I could no longer rely on genuine emotion to generate facial expressions, and when you 

have to spend every social interaction consciously manipulating your face into 

shapes that are only approximately the right ones, alienating people is inevitable.

Because of exactly too many of the experience described above I generally find a way to eschew social interactions that require any form of genuine positive emotion displayed on my behalf. It's really best for everyone. But it was Mr. Postman's  birthday, and I love Mr. Postman. He's the husband of the girl I spent my first magic summer with, swimming endless hours in The Padre's pool, cruising around my small home town in her mama's Astro, listening to mix tapes of Weezer and The Weakerthans, sewing, painting and thrifting with the occasional round of laser tag. Her baby and I share a middle name, and this is not happenstance. Furthermore, for a reason inexplicable to me, people are always bailing on them. I couldn't flake on Mr. and Mrs. Postman. I just couldn't. 

And still, the morning of the party I woke up already inventing ways I could excuse myself from this terribly intimidating thing of going out to enjoy myself with people I love. "Maybe I could offer to watch her kids for her. That would still be nice and I wouldn't necessarily have to do any smiling... or I could just tell her I'm having a panic attack, which really isn't far from the truth. Alright. I'll simply explain that the idea of meeting a few friends for dinner and drinks is the most fear inducing concept known to my brain right now. She'll understand that. No problem. Where's my phone. I'll send her a text..."

But a text had already come. "Lady Lame Pants just canceled on us. Looks like it'll just be us 5." It's just like Lady Lame Pants to take my out off the table. Okay. I'll do it, I thought. I'll do it for Mr. Postman. 

I spent my getting ready time practicing my faces that I thought might be expected of me and doing the usual cavity search of my brain for anything I might say about myself other than, "I'm a divorced cat lady, nice to meet you." I finished tying my bandana, Rosie the Riveter style, and buttoned up the new blue polkadot shirt. Red lipstick. Last bobby pins. Deep breath. Practice smile. Well, the eyes are still stuck in sad land, but I've made a valiant effort. And out the door I went. 

The night progressed pleasantly. The practiced smiles seemed to be enough to squeak through the dinner conversation, and I lasted a full six minutes before letting some comment about my divorce slip out; possibly a new personal best. I wouldn't call it fun... what I was doing... but it was admittedly much less terrifying than I'd imagined going out into the world of the living would be. 

With dinner done we headed over to a trendy Barcade down the street. Now, a word about bars. Admittedly I am currently in the worst place to defend myself from titles like "stick in the mud", but the truth is,  I haven't really been interested in hitting a bar since I was about 21 and one day old. The thrill of surrounding myself with inebriated individuals was short lived, but tonight was Mr. Postman's birthday, so with that same sticky smile I diligently took my Shirley Temple to a Pac Man machine. The first few rounds I spent the minutes pondering the existential crisis of a society deriving joy from a deranged yellow dot chomping at other less deranged looking, smaller dots, then ultimately (in my case rather quickly) being overtaken by cartoon ghosts and dying a pseudo death, all in an attempt to get your money. Other people seemed happy though, so I mirrored that whenever it seemed like someone in our group was watching. But then something started to happen. Mr. and Mrs. Postman were playing a round of Dance Dance revolution and there was something so endearing about the way they were jumping and spinning in unison with such focus. It made me smile. A real live, from the inside smile. 

Photo attribution here.

When the barcade had served its purpose we hit the street once more to take our chances with another bar. Russian roulette lead us to a magical land where the people were smiling, the bar top was an aquarium, and the entertainment was several gentlemen in heels higher than Bob Marley and enough glitter to outfit an entire cheer squad. Yes, we'd stumbled (some of the group more literally than others) into my very first gay bar with a drag show. 

Now, a small confession here. The first boy I ever fell in love with is queerer than a two dollar bill (and still my favorite), and both he and The Mr. grow a beard in three days that could punch your dad's best beard in the face. The Mr. also rides a Harley almost exclusively. I guess you could describe my ideal man as kind of a metrosexual lumberjack, and lately I've been severely lacking in the metrosexual (or just plain homosexual) companionship department. Imagine my delight, then, as the following conversation unfolded. 

Sitting at the bar, inconspicuously sipping at my water, a tall, slender man approached me, and in a tone not unlike Jack from Will and Grace said, "So, my friend over there (who was bearded, for the record) and I are gay, and we just wanted to tell you, you are FABULOUS. We love you. We love your hair, we love your outfit, we love your lipstick. We think you are beautiful! Your whole look! You are like something off the silver screen, a 40s Starlette! We just can't get enough of you, and we thought you should know."

Now, spending time with such beautiful people as Mr. and Mrs. Postman and company, watching a fully grown black man shake his money maker in a hot pink mini and enjoying the magical experience of tropical fish swimming beneath my fingertips were all elements pushing me closer and closer to an authentic experience of happiness, but this sassy, happy, lisping doll of a man loving me up like he'd just rediscovered his favorite teddy bear was what finally put me over the edge. An authentic smile bubbled up from the belly of my sorrow and unforgivingly slapped itself across my face, bringing with it several traces of the girl I once was. The girl that laughs and smiles, sometimes for no reason, and gets out of bed in the morning without having to slay the demons of panic and despair on her way to the shower. The girl that gets pleasure out of the way sunlight looks as it filters through leaves in the afternoon, and repeating the word "elongated" in her mind over and over when she's otherwise unoccupied. The girl who can be happy.

Photo attribution here.

I made a kind of involuntary squeal noise of joy and hugged this man I'd never met. He gave me the biggest, fattest kiss, right in my ear, and disappeared into the night, leaving me glowing with a full heart, good company and the slightest recollection of what it's like to be me. 

I'm happy to say, this magical moment seems to have cracked open my crusty exterior just enough to let in some sunshine and boost me up to a place where I feel fairly prepared to get my "six months divorced" gold star and enter a new phase of healing where things are a fair bit lighter, freer, less tormented and (dare I say it?) hopeful. Now, I'm not recommending you find yourself a gay bar and wait for someone not attracted to you to hit on you, but in this documenting of my journey through the unknowable path of Mormon divorce recovery I will venture to suggest that moments of healing may come in unexpected packages, at moments you don't feel ready for them, while you're doing what you do out of love. 

A beautiful little video.

I've been working on some posts about such exciting topics as: loneliness, spousal abuse in the church,  the challenges of post marital abstinence and forgiveness, none of which are ready for you yet. However, it has been a week and I like to keep in touch, so today's post is this.

I  discovered this lovely little gem of a video, and now you have too. It gives me courage, hope and inspiration. #itsokaytobealone

Stay tuned. Posts of greater sustenance in progress.

See? Even this cat is sad for me.

Photo attribution here. 

Part of the reason I started this blog is because there are few things in existence scarier to the freshly traumatized mind than the unknown. In the first few weeks of my breakup (and sometimes still) all I could ask those who had boldly gone before me was, "How long does this part last?" This blog is many things. An attempt to sooth your involuntarily frantic four year old soul by providing a basic trajectory for how things may or may not play out for you, is one of them. In that light, I invite you to please look the other way while I tell you how I really feel this day, about 4 2/3 months into divorce recovery. You may want to grab a little cheese to go with this whine.

I present to you, Ten Reasons I Have a Right to Feel Sorry for Myself:

1. My bike has been sitting on my deck in a state of slight disrepair for the last 6 months. The Mr. has the tools and know how for fixing my bike. I clearly cannot purchase tools or learn to repair it myself, and therefore cannot ride my bike.  (Appropriate responses to this may include, "Poor baby", "That scoundrel!" or, "I'd be happy to come do that for you!")

2. Everywhere I go in this town that I never wanted to move to in the first place is plagued with memories of my miserable life with The Mr. 98% are awkward and/or sad. 2% are happy. Either way I'm screwed.

3. I have watched every episode of Bones, transferring any inkling of hope I had for the male species onto the character Booth. (Don't judge! It was January in the dreary Northwest!) Not only am I up to date on the series and have to wait an entire week for an episode now, but I watched an interview and David Boreanaz is inexcusably and irredeemably idiotic .  *Bonus: I just googled his name to make sure I got the spelling right and the first autofill was, "David Boreanaz affair" followed by "David Boreanaz affair texts". Really? Texts? In the words of Meg Ryan in the film French Kiss, "All men are bastards."

4. I have absolutely no hope of getting laid in the foreseeable future.

5. Not only will I not be getting laid, but my shrink has advised that I should not date for the full year following my divorce because...

6. ...divorce rates apparently actually increase from the astounding failure rate of 50% for first marriages to something like 60% of second marriages and 70% of third. (He attributes this tragedy to rebound marriages, hence the year off.)

7. While #6 is really bad enough on its own, renowned psychologist, Dr. John Gottman who's got over 25 years worth of longitudinal studies on marriage under his belt relates in his latest book that people who remain alone after ending a relationship are a bazillion times more likely to have health problems related to loneliness... and die.

8. While I was typing just now, my cat dove face first into my pineapple salsa.

9. I won't be having sex tomorrow. I also won't be having sex on Monday. Did I mention sex is my favorite?

and

10. According to my shrink I have every legitimate reason to be sad, angry and upset. This will only dissipate with time.

So here's to me passing another evening with chips, a fresh bowl of salsa and some Netflix, sans Boreanaz, I can assure you. I'll let you know when my state improves. In the mean time you just feel free to think lots of thoughts like, "That poor Frowfrow girl, she deserves to win the lottery," only I don't play the lottery, another downer. You really shouldn't waste your positive intentions like that.

Maybe month five will be better?

If you love me at all, don't call.

When we first broke up the thought that The Mr. and I would somehow stop being involved all together was so mind boggling I just refused to accept it. I told him I thought it would be helpful for us both if we could kind of check in with each other from time to time, support each other.

This was my grand idea for how to get healthy after two years of a toxic marriage, and this is why God invented therapists.

I have this friend who is, in many ways, 100 times more interesting than me, but in many other ways we're like two peas in a pod. She expressed one of my favorite similarities perfectly at a friend's wedding a while back. She had just been spilling her guts to who I think was someone's parents that she'd met ten minutes before...? I don't really know that she was sure herself. She turned to me at a break in the conversation and said, "Whatever it is that makes people afraid to open up and talk about themselves, I think I have the opposite of that."

Which is why it should come as no surprise to you that one day in therapy I asked, in a slew of angsty, concerned, frantic questions, "But, I mean, should I keep talking to him? Like, maybe we could support each other through this! Maybe it would help us both to..." I'm sure I would have continued, but Professor Rationality (Let's call my shrink that. He's so very logical.) could have knocked me over with his cocked eyebrow.

"Why would you do that?" he said, his voice kind but dry. "It's over."

And you know what? He's right.

One of the best things I've ever done is decide to cut off contact with The Mr. as much as I can manage. There's the occasional text about a lease agreement or some detail about his Harley, but it has been at least a good solid month, maybe two, since I've taken his call. I can say unequivocally that it has been a profound step in my healing.

I mention this because I know this can be a big thing for some people. To be divorced is to have a relationship with someone that is likely the most intimate relationship you've ever experienced, while simultaneously being irrefutably toxic. The dichotomy is enough to disorient you and cause you to wonder if your should trust your own judgement several times over. At this moment in time, take it from me, four months (today!) in and going strong... or not so strong... or terribly weak at times, but going nonetheless!

Don't call him (or her).

Don't call him, and don't pick up when he calls you. Don't text him, especially when you're angry, and don't respond to his bitter or pitiful texts. Don't email her. Don't page her. Don't write him a letter. Don't send the Pony Express. Even a telegraph is out of the question. In every situation that it may seem remotely feasible just say no. 

I recognize some of you out there have children and joint custody and mortgages and such to work through. My heart goes out to you for all the challenges this must present. My advice is to find the system that works best for you with the least amount of direct contact possible and stick to it. (*Side note from 8 year old me: Dear divorced parents, Communicating through children is a terrible idea. One day they're going to grow up and realize what you did. Love, a child of divorced parents who communicated through her.) There is nothing more likely to mess you up in the head than poking around in a dead marriage.

Divorce means the end. Forever. Thank God for that! Even if you don't feel like it at first, build the habit. He'll show you ways to be grateful for it.

One of the things that my mom told me that was true could be paraphrased thusly: When you fill your life with the subpar and that which does not serve you, you have no room for the magnificent or for that which brings you joy.

You can do it. Let it go. Say goodbye. Open you your life to greater possibilities. You deserve better.

Maybe you should get some...help?

For those of you out there who have heard this statement reluctantly leave the lips of your loved ones, you are not alone. There is a depth of grief that comes with certain life events that your average momma or papa bear just doesn't know what to do with. I sincerely hope you have people in your life that love you immensely and want very much to help you, and for some people that may be enough to get you to a healthier place. For those of us who have spent one too many nights rehashing the breakup with our best friend, bishop, sister or the poor, unsuspecting guy who sat next to us on a bus, there is another place to turn. We have the option of seeing a professional.

I've encountered three basic camps on this issue. 1. Camp Shrink-tastic. 2. Camp Never Can Decide-y Pants. 3. Camp I Don't Need Your Voo Doo. To the skeptic I say, okay. Don't get therapy. Everyone has to work this out in her own way. I sincerely wish you luck. To the enthusiast I say, I hope things are going well for you. The rest of this post is for group two, the as of yet  undecided on the topic. I'll write this in the way I imagine a Q&A session might go. You'll be the Q, I'll be the A. My qualifications to be A are: I have seen a shrink or two in my day. One odd, a couple totally unhelpful, one pretty good, and Professor Rationality (we'll call him) who I see now I like quite a bit. Also, I am, as an acquaintance once described me, "very opinionated".


Q: How do I find a therapist?

A: Ask your Bishop for a recommendation. He likely refers people in your ward for therapy often. If you prefer a non LDS counselor or don't want to ask your bishop, ask around or talk to your buddies, Google and Yelp.


Q: What do I look for in a therapist?

A: Decide what issues you want to work on and look for a therapist who specializes in that. If he doesn't do the work you're looking for, ask him for a referral. Also, you may prefer a male or female, LDS or non-LDS, etc. Do your research, then email or call. Feel free to ask a reasonable amount of questions before scheduling an appointment.


Q: How do I know if I found a good one?

A: This is an important question that most people don't consider. The first session should be an interview with the therapist where you ask him or her anything you want to know: where she went to school, why she chose this field, what her methods are, how she structures a session, etc. You'll need to feel you could build trust with your therapist and feel confident in her abilities to lead you on a path to healthier living. Don't be afraid to shop around 'till you find the right fit. It's important. Once you're in therapy, know that the process brings up a lot of emotions. It's not uncommon, therefore, to feel deeply after a session or to be very tired. Ultimately, however, you should feel hopeful throughout the work.


Q: How long will I have to be in therapy?

A: This one is really must be taken case by case. It depends on what you want to work out, how often you attend, what the theories of your therapist are etc. The man I see is pretty firm in his belief that therapy is one of many tools to be used for the time that it's useful. He recommends an appointment just once or twice a month and has no qualms with the idea that our sessions will likely end when I go off to school in September. This is something you will want to discuss with your therapist as early as the first interview.


Q: So, what happens when I get in there? I mean, do I lay on a couch and close my eyes and talk about my childhood while some grey haired balding man listens and writes down cryptic notes while occasionally parroting my expressions?

A: Good glory, I hope not. I have never been laying down. That would be weird. And I hate when people just parrot what I say in a validating way. How the session is structured is largely up to you and your therapist. He'll help you identify where your thinking patterns have become distorted and are causing you grief. He may have exercises for you to try (ie:writing a letter to someone who has wronged you), books for you to read, or practices for you to incorporate in your daily life to help move you through what you've been struggling with.


Q: Couldn't you just talk to your friend? Isn't it the same thing?

A: In some cases, talking to my friends has been way more helpful than seeing a shrink for me, but I happen to have phenomenal and wise friends and family who are kind, down to earth, and helpful. That being said, with the therapist I have now, I do feel like going to a session to work with him is different for these reasons.

1. I don't feel guilty burdening him with anything I'm going through.
2. It's a set time for me to "work" on important challenges regularly.
3. He's been in practice for 27 years and is very scientific in his approach. He is excellent in explaining
to me what is a normal reaction/function of the brain and/or body and what I can expect to come next. He puts things in a helpful context for me, helps me see where my upbringing or relationships were off or unhealthy. Sometimes when you've grown up in chaos or been in an unhealthy relationship for so long it can be hard to distinguish what's healthy and what's not on your own.
4. There's something about paying for something that causes one to be a little more invested, action oriented and concerned with results. I find this helpful and motivational.


Q: Isn't therapy for crazy people and sissies?

A: No. Well, I mean, actually yes. Counseling sessions can be useful for some forms of psychosis, however, all candidates for counseling need not display symptoms of psychosis or even neurosis. As for being worried about people thinking you're a sissy, that makes you a sissy much more than attending therapy. (Nipped that one in the bud, didn't we? ; )


Okay, kiddos. That's all I've got for tonight. If you think of any more shoot me an email or post in the comments below. I'll add any good ones to the list. Sleep well, and whatever you are doing to help yourself through this, I sincerely hope it's working.

Top 10 reasons I'm happy I'm divorced

You know how we do that thing where we pick something to identify ourselves?

I'm a student.
I'm a mom.
I'm a doctor.
I'm an artist.

What am I these days? I'm divorced. And not only am I divorced, I'm divorced and sad about it. When I introduce myself I have to cavity search my brain to see what other significant facts I can offer about myself. When people ask me in my singles ward where I moved from I have to invent a way to explain why I was attending the family ward close by. When people ask why I'm in Portland or what I do here I have to find some way to not say, "My former husband told me if I didn't move here to be closer to his family, he'd come without me. I actually never wanted to leave my perfect apartment three block from the ocean in Long Beach, California." There's currently a lot of bitter in here, which I feel is fair. I mean, let's be honest, the last two years were painful in a way I found previously unfathomable. But today I am tired of being bitter and sad. If I have to be "the divorced lady" for a while, even in my own brain, I can at least be a happy divorced lady.

So, without further ado, the top ten reasons I'm happy I'm divorced.

10. There is no stinky man breath in my bedroom, or beard hair trimmings in my sink.

9. There are no guns and nothing camouflaged in my apartment, and there never will be.

8.  I can keep my hair as short as I like and rock as many mustard colored cardigans as I please without complaint.

7. I know exactly what I will never tolerate in a relationship again and how important my wants and needs are.

6. I can sleep in and work part time, completely guilt free.

5. I get a do-over at one of life's most important relationships, but I get to keep all the wisdom I gained along the way. It's kind of like being sent back to high school, knowing what you learned in college.

4. There is no one to steal the covers while I sleep, or complain about how much I spent on them.

3. I don't have to be a mom yet, and I never have to share custody with The Mr.

2. I get new first kisses.

1. I get to go back to school this fall . . . in Hawaii. I just got the letter of acceptance last week. This never, ever, ever would have happened if I were not divorced : )


So, yes, it's sad. Yes, my heart is broken. Yes, I had a moment yesterday afternoon where I sobbed like a baby for 30 minutes, but also, it's pretty freaking amazing. And it's good to feel and embrace that too. I firmly believe God doesn't want us to spend the rest of our lives rehashing or punishing ourselves for what happened, or grieving the loss forever. Life does go on, and life is a beautiful thing, especially when you're the one at the wheel again.

What's your number one reason you're happy to be divorced?

Oh, and PS - My good friend recently sent me a mixed tape for my birthday and this was on it. It's where the title of this blog came from. You have to see it. It's too good not to, and totally relevant to this post.

No Man's Mamma, Carolina Chocolate Drops
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vujXNH-qRWc