A Day in the Life of a Failing Marriage

Photo attribution here.

I was only eight weeks pregnant. It was almost as soon as I knew that I also knew there were complications with the pregnancy. Spotting. Slow heart beat. Bed rest. I can't blame the baby for not sticking around. I wouldn't have. No one deserves that kind of home life. I was lying to myself about as hard as I could, but all that the stress I carried in my body was absolutely unbearable, even for me, a 27 year old woman. That's no place to keep a baby.

Before it all ended there was a night where I started bleeding. I called the emergency medical line phone number they had given me when it was confirmed that I was with child. The friendly male nurse on the other end recommended I head to the emergency room, so I did.

The Mr. came too... at least his body was there. He was playing a game where he was acting as happy as he could about the whole pregnancy thing, despite the fact that he had told me moments before I showed him the plus signs (three, just to make absolutely sure) that he was essentially on his way out of the marriage. Let it be a testament to the power of stress on a human brain that I somehow avoided allowing what he had told me before the big reveal to even compute. I couldn't believe that he would be leaving. I literally would not let myself. It's a defense mechanism used in the worst of times by the most desperate people.

When we got to the hospital, everything happened very slowly--not like a slow motion sequence of something significant-- I mean really, actually slowly. It was the middle of the night so it took hours to even get an ultrasound tech to show up. While we waited The Mr. fidget and played with the ER room equipment like a 12 year old boy despite my stress laced pleadings for him not to touch anything. When the ultrasound tech finally arrived it took an incredibly uncomfortable extended period of time with an instrument inserted in me for him to ascertain with extremely shaky hands, that the heart beat was slow and I should go home. Nothing we could do but wait.

That night I spent in the hospital I was racking every crevice of my brain to find some method of comforting myself. Ideally in this situation, of course, a woman would feel secure enough knowing her partner was there, but regardless of how hard I suppressed the knowledge that The Mr. was on his way out, my body still knew and would not allow me to relax. I suppose if a partner isn't available for emotional support then a girl might think back on her childhood--tender moments with caring parents, but either my childhood or my memory failed me that night. I could find nothing to grasp in an attempt to cling to hope and stability in the eye of the storm of the demise of my marriage--until, I remembered.

I was in my third transfer of my mission. I was with my follow-up trainer that I always called my fairy godmother. She had taken my by the hand and lead me into the mystical world of the terrifying and soul expanding life of an LDS missionary. After two transfers of her holding my hand and walking me through, I was getting transferred--to Kansas. Away from the Visitor's Center where I knew and loved 15 other sisters. Away from the house we all lived in together-- sharing stories, giant vats of lasagna and clothes. Away from the spiritual powerhouses I had come to know and love and the streets I recognized, I was being sent to an area far away with a Sister I didn't know to ride a bike in a skirt in a college town and talk to everyone about Jesus.

I cried.

I didn't just cry, I cried my eyeballs right out of their sockets. The newly formed friendships I had made there in those short months were and are life-alteringly important to me and in that moment I felt like I was leaving them behind forever. Crying like this is not uncommon for me, but crying like this in the presence of another person, for me, is almost unheard of.

My fairy godmother companion-- born and raised in Utah, runner of marathons, setter of goals, maker of plans, product of a stable home--knew what to do. You do what any good mother does when her baby cries. You sing to her.

So as I laid there and sobbed my little shortsighted eyes out in my twin sized missionary bed, this Sister, with no concern of her image or the awkwardness I felt playing the role of a child so aptly, sang me the song Que Sera Sera.

Que sera sera 
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera sera
What will be will be

I think it was the most motherly thing that ever happened to me. It must have been, because in that dismal moment where my marriage, my life and the life of my unborn, unplanned, unprotectable child hung in the balance, that is the memory I finally found to cling to. My most salient memory of that night in the hospital is lying on a sterile bed with an IV in my arm, conscientiously monitoring my breathing in an absolutely futile attempt to abate my stress, The Mr. in my peripheral, and I'm singing myself that song.

Que sera sera
Whatever will be will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera sera

Two nights ago I had the experience once again of sharing my marital history with a friend who had not previously been aware of it. This is a lot more common for me these days. I find sharing the story lightens the burden of carrying it for me, and so I do--much more often. The question came, of course, as it always does, "What happened?" And I had that moment again where I felt a need to justify myself. I wished again for a way to encapsulate the bitter essence of that era into an easily distributable sentence, so that everyone could have a small taste of what that time was like and no one could hold my decisions and actions against me.

But there is no easy explanation. It just was.

It was horrible.
It was traumatic.
It was emotionally scarring.
It was more painful than anything I had previously fathomed possible.

But he didn't hit me.
He didn't cheat on me.
He didn't turn to pot or porn or develop a sudden affection for Neil Patrick Harris.
He just wasn't kind, and the story above is a 6 hour glimpse into the two years that caused me to draw such a conclusion.

I'm sharing this story for two reasons.
1. I feel a need to reiterate that it is acceptable, justifiable and important to place a premium on personal wellbeing. If you have a story like the one I just told, you are entitled to seek and find higher, safer ground.
2. If you know someone who has been through it, consider the possibilities of the vast realm of experience he or she may have endured before "calling it quits". There is more than one way to hurt a person. There is more than one way to die.

The Deal Has Been Unsealed - Temple Sealing Cancelation

Photo Attribution here. 

Today we're going to talk about something that nobody likes to talk about: temple sealing cancellation.

I mentioned a couple posts back that The Mr. has gotten engaged. I received a phone call from his bishop asking me to write a letter addressed to the First Presidency of the church explaining how I felt about the idea of him getting remarried in the temple. The letter went something (a lot more formal than, but in essence) like this:

Dear awesome leaders of the church I love,

I'm supportive of The Mr. taking a second chance on love. While the speed with which he is pursuing marriage is concerning to me personally, I recognize that this is no longer any of my affair. I sincerely wish he and his fiancé happiness in their new life together. The prospect of being in what essentially amounts to a polygamous sealing with my ex-husband and his new wife against my will, however, is a concept that makes me more uncomfortable than I have words to express. May I please have a sealing cancellation? Thanks.

Love,

Frowfrow

I wasn't really sure why I asked them for a cancellation in that letter... I mean, it's not as if I expected them to write me back saying, "Sure thing, doll. Would you like fries with that?" But The Mr.'s bishop asked for my feelings on the matter and feelings he received.

I was then instructed that the proper channel is to go through my bishop here to start the process of officially requesting a cancellation, which I immediately did. He's a very nice guy, my bishop. He's got that simple, clear cut, straight forward thinking I admire so much. I explained my situation to him and he agreed. Why stay sealed with someone who you aren't married to anymore? Being a singles ward bishop and somewhat unfamiliar with procedure he went to the Stake President to ask what to do next and came back a couple weeks later to let me know that the Stake President had put the kibosh on the whole effort, saying, "That's not what we do."

There seems to be an idea floating around out there that there are blessings afforded a woman for staying sealed to a man in the temple, regardless of the state of their marriage (or non-marriage) and who did what to whom in the divorce. This has always struck me as absurdly illogical. The blessing I wanted was to have any and all ties with that life cut, quick like a band aid, the sooner the better. Being free from any other process I would have to go through to distance myself from him at a later date, knowing I am in absolutely no way connected to him and his damaging influence on my life, that's a blessing I understand. That's something I can sink my teeth into. That was what I wanted, and last week, aforementioned kiboshing of the Stake President notwithstanding, that's what I got. It was a letter in the mail. Unexpected. Maybe that's why it affected me so.

Dear Frowfrow,

The Mr. contacted us asking for a cancellation. Would you like fries with that?

Love,

Tommy Monson

Captain Amazing sat across from me, dumbfounded at why I was crying, saying, "But I thought you wanted this...? Why are you upset?"And the truth is, I was a little dumbfounded too. I did want it. I was grateful for it. I was relieved and happy and free and... alone and devastated and sad all over again.

It was supposed to be permanent. It was supposed to be serious. It was supposed to work out alright in the end, but this is the end...again. Yet another element of ending, and it's not alright, not my marriage to the Mr. And it never will be alright.

Today I'm grateful. At least in my mind I'm grateful. Logically grateful. Mind made up to be grateful. Feet set on a grateful path. I do not miss being married to The Mr. That time was so unexplainably painful. However, I do miss the person I thought he was and the husband I thought he would become. I miss our home in Long Beach. I miss being a wife and not having to sleep alone and knowing I would never have to date again and having a permanent buddy all the time. Most of all I think I miss the concept that something in life could ever be completely stable, safe, secure. I miss the feeling that I could be a part of a functional family, and that something and someone in life could be trusted.

Skinny Love

Photo attribution here. 

Oh, hello there blogging world. I've missed you so. : ) Where was I? Ah, yes! Captain Amazing. It's been about two months that we've been dating now. Here's a time lapse recap of the roller coaster we've been on in the form of a short list:

-Intercultural romance and all it's glorious gaps in communication.
-My neurotic fear of being abandoned and the way it manifests in destructive ways, right before my very eyes as I'm watching, thinking, "Stop it, Frowfrow! Stop it! Stop it!"
-His views about how public my divorce should be and why which happen to conflict with my views about how public my divorce should be and why
-Learning to balance time together and time apart, how we act in public and what each other's pet peeves are
-The endless inquiry, almost from day one of our time together, "Are you two getting married?"
-The bliss of a first kiss
-The bliss of many, many more kisses after the first ; ) I did mention how very much I love kissing, yes?
-The hormonal deluge that ensues post many, many kisses, and the havoc it wreaks on the mind and body, plus the added bonus of negotiating how to handle that, having tasted the forbidden fruit in my marital days of yore
-The beautiful, powerful, healing blessing of being with someone who will hold my hand when I'm lonely, kiss me when I'm happy, make me laugh when I'm too serious or sad, listen when he's tired, talk when he's mad, and tell me I'm beautiful, just because

I'd be lying if I told you it's an easy experience. There are so many triggers, so much to wade through. The communication it takes to keep us going is fairly intense. I freak out and tell him we need to break up every couple weeks. Sometimes I tell him I just want to kiss him and punch him at the same time. Once or twice I've cried so hard I think he thought my eyeballs would pop out, but the man is kind, calm, stable and supportive. He's a tender mercy, straight from God to me via Africa, all with a backdrop of Hawaii.

And by the way, Hawaii is every bit as magical, beautiful and lovely as they say, and Art Education is my soul mate in the form of a major. My depression and anxiety are at a very healthy low, my stress is managed, my family is positive and supportive, and my boyfriend is hilarious, hardworking and handsome.  Also, I get to teach Gospel Doctrine every other Sunday, which makes my life complete.

There's not really much of a moral to the story this time, just a basic update. We're coming up on one full year out of divorce now, so the stories are likely to become a lot less epic or dramatic in terms of being directly related to divorce. It is kind of nice to see the way life is evening out emotionally, just like they all said it would. I'll keep posting here, hopefully about once a month. This would be a perfect time for some guest posts as well. How is life as a Devout yet Divorced treating you? What issues have you been facing? What issues would you like to have addressed in a post?