Have You Seen Me? (April 12, 2011)

Becky Sarwate3 Comments

I hardly recognize myself these days. Ruminating and paroxysms of despair are my norm, so is it strange, when going through a painful divorce, to work through the stages of grief this quickly? It has been six weeks since Eddie and I made the gutwrenching decision to move on with our lives alone, and once the words were uttered, I was on top of denial right away.

The part where I had to leave was definitely real, but I kept the naive, delusional hope alive that separation didn’t necessarily have to mean divorce. Because once I vanished, Eddie would begin to beat his breast, realize that he was lost without me, and somehow morph into the kind, supportive and attentive spouse I had been missing. Yes in the long run this temporarily split could even be good for us. We’d laugh over our impetuousness in the years to come, regaling our embarrassed children with tales of stubborn passion leading to mature contrition.

This phase lasted about a week until endless screaming, defiance and open disrespect made it clear that I could not stay in Fantasyland for an unlimited time. There would be no opportunity for reconciling, and even if we found an opening, the will is simply not there.

Then I spent about three solid weeks in anger. I am a hot-blooded Italian and was raised in a family of explosive emotion of all varieties. Anger has never been tough. I was mad that I am the one who has to leave the family home because my income will not allow me to stay. I have to let go of car, family, furniture, pretty much everything I have spent the last five years helping my partner build. It’s not about the money. It’s about disposability, loneliness and the struggle to start over that should have been avoided. Hell, I feel an anger flashback right now just pondering it. But I have laid my hair trigger reactions to rest. They will not change anything and will comfort no one.

Bargaining came next: time to utilize the health insurance coverage I enjoyed through Eddie’s job before divorce cuts me off. A short window to use the car that’s no longer mine to pick up new apartment essentials, run errands and visit friends and family I may not be able to get to for some time. In this stage of grief, the power imbalance in my marriage was never more clear. Out of a need to placate and survive, I became the pleading sycophant, dependent on the whims and good humor of my estranged husband to take care of business. At this stage of grief, I never hated myself, or him, more.

Two more weeks of solid depression followed, although truth be told, I had been languishing at this stage of grief for nearly a year. The stages are not necessarily linear. I lost weight, sleep, and more tears than I believed it possible to shed. I haven’t exactly cleared this phase yet and know that I may not for some time. Sadness and loss go together and I am not going to rush this one.

So what’s been left for the last week is a tentative form of acceptance. Acceptance is a tricky phase because knowing something can never be fixed is not quite the same as being OK with it. But awareness that my energies will be completely wasted in hoping for a happy ending has allowed me to start considering and planning for the future, a future of self-reliance and hard work. I am not a great fan of the dense, needlessly complex writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson, but I have always ascribed to his philosophy that the self-made (wo)man is she who enjoys the most satisfaction. So I am all set to go with my move, every logistical detail planned to perfection. My career, the paid day job and the freelance endeavors, are starting to take off in ways I never imagined. Dating is a long way off, but I am reconnecting with friends, old and new, and feel a wider range of emotions suddenly available to me.

I feel better about myself and my prospects than I have in months, but there is a voice of doubt residing in my gray matter, hinting that I might be fooling myself. Is it possible to be somewhat ok already? Can I trust the endorphins that seem to be telling me life will actually go on?

Fake It ‘Til You Make It (April 6, 2011)

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The thing about divorce is, it’s good for the waistline. On the whole, given that I am a week away from embarking on a life of complete solitude, I have been coping well. I show up to work everyday and give it my full effort, despite a disorienting case of physical and emotional exhaustion. I stay engaged with friends and colleagues. I bathe. I sleep. I breathe. For those of you who have gone through a marital dissolution, just accomplishing everyday taks is a triumph.

The one thing that has completely fallen by the wayside is the ability to eat and drink. The glass of wine I wolf down to calm my nerves before Eddie and I confront each other for the first time every evening doesn’t count. We have nothing left to say, but the sight of his person walking through the door each night, casually humming as if the world isn’t ending, gives me the vapors. But the concept of actual nourishment is beyond me. I experience fleeting pangs that tell me it’s time to fuel up, but more often than not, I end up staring blankly at my plate and glass of water, like I do most other stimuli.

So the result is that I weigh 12 pounds less today than I did at my senior prom, and I was not heavy in high school by any means. Under different circumstances, the vain parts of my character (which are embarassingly abundant) would be turning cartwheels. But I can’t experience pride in results that stem from being hollowed.

The unintentional weight loss is a fairly apt metaphor for the shrinkage I feel as an individual. In very quick succession I find myself without husband, family, but even more than that, I have lost my guiding purpose. For five straight years, Eddie was my drug of choice, the center of my chaotic universe, the hard emotional rock against which I continually broke my body and spirit. I realize this isn’t the most positive of images but a purpose of any kind can be more comforting than gazing out into the unknown abyss. At least I knew the rules. Now, I am going through the motions but hardly know what to do with myself at a station that has stopped playing “all Eddie, all the time.”

Intuitively, I understand that I will figure it out. Somehow. One of the reasons I ended up in this predicament is a lifelong failure to learn how to live for myself. Now there’s nowhere to hide. I have always had someone to take care of. It’s kind of what I do. Growing up, I was the adult in my home, the one trusted with secrets, sought out for counsel, the cleaner of messes my parents couldn’t or wouldn’t address. This precocious level of responsibility didn’t leave a lot of time for figuring out what it is I wanted and needed, and if I’m being completely honest, I was fine with that.

As a young adult, I punted and focused on my my sister and her first daughter until I saw her safely married to a wonderful, responsible man. From there I jumped into a “starter marriage” that encompassed all the drama you would expect from two people barely old enough to drink, trying to play at adulthood. Not long after the ink dried on those 2006 divorce papers, I threw myself headlong into an all-consuming fascination with Eddie, the handsome, exotic, powerful man I was certain I needed. It made perfect sense. By aligning myself with people who had definitive ideas and opinions of the way things should work, I could defer having to draw a map for myself.

I can’t say I ever felt fulfilled but for a grown woman in complete denial, pretending at a self-assuredness she never actually possessed, the arrangement suited its purpose. Until I began to chafe. Until little voices I never knew existed started to scream that I had it all wrong: a career in corporate operations that asked nothing of my creative capacity, a union in which my voice was the fourth most important (after that of Eddie and his folks), an upper-middle class lifestyle as foreign as walking into the men’s room by accident.

A part of me would love another human project to throw myself into. I am a creature of habit, of schedule, and am not really sure how to pencil “find myself” into the weekly calendar. But I am nothing if not stubborn, and I admantly refuse to let myself duck a responsibility that has led to so much poor decision making.

So I go through my day making swift calculations, taking actions to establish the next phase of my life with a certainty that I don’t yet feel. It’s all about forming new pathways to replace the destructive ones.

 

Losing My Religion (April 1, 2011)

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Earlier this week, I was able to open up about my impending divorce for the first time. I understand very broadly that I have only begun to process the millions of conflicting emotions and feelings that overtake one, often at the oddest times, when going through a separation from a spouse, even under the best of circumstances. So far, our schism has been the opposite of cordial, which rather reflects the general combative tenor of our five-year relationship. I do not lay the blame for this on Eddie. For whatever reason, we always seem to bring out the worst in each other, and hammering out the financial and logistical details of our split has been no exception.

The last four weeks have been marked by attempts to discuss business like adults, inevitably devolving into a flaring of tempers, finger pointing and tremendously wounded feelings. With two weeks left before I officially relocate, we have worked out most of the details, and while sidestepping each other in our still-shared space, there is little conversation left. We both carry the mien of two PTSD-afflicted soldiers who want to patch ourselves up and go back out to the field, but no longer have the tools or the emotional bandwidth. We’ve lost the ability to comfort each other, because how can the person killing you be the one who saves your life?

In one strained and measured discussion held this week however, Eddie raised a point that I had yet to consider. Born into Lutheranism, I had pretty much rejected all organized religion by the time I reached high school. I flirted with Buddhism in my 20s before finally converting to Hinduism at age 29 as part of the package deal of marriage to my Indian-born mate. I will not go so far as to say I’ve been a devotee, but there is really a lot to appreciate. Though there are rigid, right-wing practitioners (as there are in all religions), at its core, the Hindu religion is quite flexible. If one so chooses, they don’t have to move much farther than two core tenets: do no harm to the living (humans, plants, animals), liberally thank the god(s) and seek their blessings.

In a fit of pique, Eddie suggested that the breach of our partnership invalidates my Hindu “membership,” the argument being that since I converted simply for expediency’s sake (his family would never have accepted the marriage if I hadn’t), deciding to invalidate the union did so with my adopted beliefs by extension.

I mention that this was said during one of many tense discussions, but emotions aside, I had the sense that my estranged husband was fairly serious. But do things work like this? I have a friend, a converted Jew, who made the switch after marrying early in his 20s. The religion stuck even when the wife didn’t, and now in his early 50s, he is one of the most dedicated members of the Jewish faith I have ever encountered. His rights were not “revoked,” so to speak.

But branding and permissions aside, I find myself wondering what my admiration of the Hindu faith means without Eddie and the rest of his family. His mother has spent a lot of time over the years educating me about mythology, the holiday calendar and the auspicious meanings behind it, rituals, etc. I have gone to mandir (temple) on my own numerous times, a practice that often bring me a lot of peace, but I realize that in the past, a lot of that peace stemmed from a sense of belonging – not just to the faith, but to a family that pays more than lip service to the teachings.

So what do I do with all of this knowledge and experience now? Why do I feel like I am not wanted and no longer have the right to practice, though I stood up in front of literally thousands of people in a foreign country to swear my allegiance? And mind you, I don’t go around doing that sort of thing regularly. I realize that my religious quandry is part of a larger and troubling question of trying to figure out where (if anywhere) I actually belong, odd and broken bird that I am.

 

Black and Blue Part II (March 29, 2011)

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The last time I posted on these pages, almost a month ago, I wrote about the physical pain I felt after a freak, but still kind of humorous ski accident. An unplanned collision between myself and a block of ice in Galena, IL relegated my left hindquarter to several weeks of existence as a piece of abstract, performance art.

Once a prolific blogger, I haven’t been able to write since that time. I wish I could lay blame for my creative coma on an exciting new publishing job. I am now in my seventh week at work ghost writing for a widely respected real estate and financial expert. After a fortnight spent as a deer in headlights, waiting for my boss to uncover my secret lack of talent and send me packing, I am adjusting remarkably well. Turns out I have a much greater mind for writing about personal finance and the housing market than I ever suspected. This is ironic because I am eight years past a personal bankruptcy, my runaway mother’s final gift, and I own neither property nor dare to approach a credit card. Go figure.

The story of my life the last two years has been the struggle to obtain a writing career in a decimated job market, which feels even more depressed for purveyors of the pen. I temped, I freelanced, I danced, I interviewed until my eyes crossed, but that mission is finally accomplished.

Now my story takes a different shape: the tale of finding myself and losing a marriage in the process.

I have written, often opaquely, about my complicated, crazy love story with husband Eddie. Two people born continents apart (he: India, me: US), from completely differing family backgrounds (his: traditional and close knit, mine: erratic, unorthodox and unstable) who had very little in common on paper. But opposites attract don’t they? And once Eddie and I came together in February of 2006, the proverbial sparks flew. Some might say the flames burned a little too brightly. Even before “I do,” there were the kind of third degree injuries that should have given us both pause.

But we would have none of it, united by stubborness if nothing else. Eddie and I were soulmates, so ignoring warnings from friends, family and co-workers, who saw where our volatility and lack of common ground must lead, we married in a lavish ceremony in India in December of 2007. Pop rock artist Pink released a song right around that time. The track, called “Who Knew?” contains the following lyrics:

“If someone said three years from now, you’d be long gone, I’d stand up and punch them in the mouth, ‘cuz they’re all wrong.”

That sums up the feelings of a lonely bride in Raipur, a small Indian city, on 12/5/07. I missed receiving my Master’s degree in person to marry the man of my dreams. I flew thousands of miles without so much as a friend or family member by my side to watch me walk down the aisle (or around the fire, as the case may be). I agreed to face-saving schemes (for my new family) that required lies about my age and parentage, and worst of all, I pretended not to notice that my groom was a little bit more reluctant than could be explained by the phenomenon of “cold feet.” All this I did because I KNEW Eddie was my destiny. It didn’t matter how we got there, just that we did and oh! The stories we’d have for our children.

But there are no children, and now there is no longer a marriage. Almost four weeks ago, we made the mutual and terrible decision to separate. I will move out of our rented condo on the 16th of April. A chain of events that began almost two years ago with infidelity (his), therapy (mine), and a divergence of career and family goals has culminated in two very sad, very tired, very estranged broken hearts.

In the coming weeks, months and years, I will need to learn to live a life I never anticipated but probably should have. There is much more to do, to think and to say before I can begin to make sense of where I stand at the age of 32.5: at long last professionally satisfied, but personally annihilated.

 

Black and Blue (March 3, 2011)

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Last weekend, I went away for a ski trip with my sister, niece KK and some other friends, old and new. As a young teenager, I had partaken in the sport a number of times and developed a certain proficiency, even without the aid of formal instruction. To this day I am not a fan of organized lessons where sports are concerned. Trusting in what I have learned in the past and my usual aptitude for the physical, I prefer to wing it.

The important detail to this story is that my last trip down the slopes was a full 18 years ago. You would think I might find this time lag, more than half as long as my life, to be some sort of deterrent when making decisions about which equipment I should choose. But here we encounter another Becky Sarwate enigma. In many instances, a crippling uncertainty all but shuts me down. However when it comes to physical activity, I am absurdly overconfident.

Last Saturday was one such occasion. As our group emerged from the Chevy Suburban that ferried us to the lodge outside Galena, IL and ran for the equipment rental, I was given a series of decisions to make. My first mistake (of many) on this day was the absolutely unshakable belief that I needed the mid-grade speed skis. The low speed skis were for beginners and I felt absolutely confident shoving aside the ensuing two decades after my last time out that could potentially impact my performance today. Skiing is just like riding a bike, I told myself.

And as our group started cruising down Rookie Lane (one step above the bunny hill), it seemed I made the right call. I was tearing it up – weaving in and out of my group as they struggled to find their footing, taking a couple cracks at the slalom course, and rather arrogantly adopting the tough trainer tone with KK, who was quite nervous her first time out.

In fact things were going so well in Rookie Lane that I started to feel bored. I needed a new challenge. Just to the right of where the rest of my group was practicing, there was a mid-level hill called the Moser. The initial dropoff looked daunting but between the mastery I recalled of 18 years ago, when I was able to ski black diamond hills, and the 30 minutes I had spent getting my groove back that day, I was ready, right?

This part of the story turns into an extended metaphor. You have been warned. Picture me as the Titanic, look glorious in my ski cap, pants and jacket. I’m in the best shape of my life (so I think), and brimming with confidence that I am going to get down this hill without so much as a stumble.

I make it down the first steep launch and my sense of invincibility only grows. I confidently pick up speed with each swoosh of my mid-grade speed skis. I enter the second section of the tougher course, careening just under the speed of sound and then it happens: iceberg! I see the ice rock in front of me before I collide with it.

I elected to pass on wearing a helmet (another great choice!) and have a split second to make a decision. Believing that crashing into a rock with my face might not be a lot of fun, I did the alternative. I forced myself into a backward fall. In doing so, it was “only” the left side of my thigh and glute that took the impact. For those of you who have seen me in person, there’s a lot of padding back there and for once I pay tribute to the fat for sparing me a broken leg or hip.

I felt rather proud of my disaster aversion skills until I pulled my pants down in the ladies’ room. Not only did I feel a tremendous pain, but I saw something that looked a lot like this (image above). I tried gamely to return to the slopes with my group after lunch. The skiing was fine. It was the chairlift repeatedly crashing into my tender backside that finally did me in.

For two days I could neither sit nor lay on my left side, which resulted in minor back strain. The lesson I have learned is that, fit though I might be, I am not Picabo Street and will opt next time for the beginner skis. There’s no shame in it. The second lesson I have learned is to appreciate the protective qualities of my jiggly bits. They may have saved my life.