I am a downer. Fragile, vulnerable, needy, tired, broke, powerless. Pick your poison. If you’re after depressing company, I am your gal.
Persistent drama facilitated by X even a year after the split, claims my time, my energy, and my relationships with others – futile though they may be.
Divorce is downright common, a personal rite of passage, where, if you are lucky, you come face to face with the lost part of your soul that you dumped on the poor schmuck you married.
Divorce is also a cultural rite, one of the lower tone discussions , “oh, she’s going through a divorce.” Like tonsillitis, it creates a buffer zone, where the designated victim is offered ice cream and lots, trust me, lots of chocolate.
My vision of the situation is dim, forest for the trees sort of thing. If I were canny, I would say divorce is visited upon those in need of change – not just in marital status – but in orientation toward life, and the distinct, but fluid pattern that makes each person unique. The bigger the conflagration, the larger the needed adjustment.
The lower tone discussions, the train wrecks of life – labels worn on the outside – provide buffer space, opportunity and a solid excuse, to change, suffer, need and admit, with society as witness. Divorce cashes in quiet desperation for emotional currency, and lots of it.
Divorce is ordinary, one in two marriages walks this path. Ordinary appeals to me, always aware that just beneath dusty, sometimes revolting exteriors, there is usually something novel, complicated. Thus, seeking ordinary – people, places, situations – is usually meaningful to me. Unclear if I bit off more than I can handle this time.
The deeper truth to the buffer zone, is that it provides a temenos, a sacred container, in which I am held fast. Unfortunately, this particular container is full up with that wondrous universal solvent, chaos, as befits dissolution – the real premise of divorce.
And that makes me a downer. Over these months, I notice a loss of emotional pliability, a lessened ability to keep poisonous content from leaking into cherished relationships and the perpetual question – do I harden off to present a happy face, or do I allow the diminishment, try to contain it, live it, feel it, and apologize best I can?
Being friends with me – holding hands with a lower tone discussion – means feeling helpless, commiserating, getting bored, likely having your birthday forgotten, accepting that I am not what I was, and being frightened with me, of what I might become. Hanging in for the ride when the going gets tough is not so easy, especially when it is a train wreck.
I am a downer, this bog is a downer. I have nothing to offer but a reflection that bogs in youth are rich, diverse, curious, filtering systems. Over eons, in their dotage, their habit of filtering and containing decay creates marvelous fuel that provides enormous energy and warmth.
My gratitude, my apologies, to friends who have stayed, and the same to those who have not. Even as a lower tone discussion I am rich – with health, and the health and presence of the friends and family I love. Thank you for every comment on this bog, every email, card, e-card and every phone call. Thanks for hanging in on the downside.
Shouldn't...but Do 