The Stages of Grief....

It is said when something tragic occurs in ones life, we go through five stages of grief. Depending on the situation, the stages can last anywhere from a week to months, sometimes longer.

Because I was the one who left, I don't think anyone expected me be grief stricken.  Least of all, myself.  The first stage is shock.  Shock as in, you can't believe that what has happened, has really happened.  Shock was not my first stage of grief.  My first stage was denial.  Denial of what the reality of going through a divorce entailed.  I was so relieved to be away from the pressure, that I experienced what I would call a faux sense of euphoria.  I say that in a most respectful way.  I ran away from my pain and here in Arizona, I didn't feel pain.  I felt pain relief.

The reality of being truly alone didn't quite hit me until Thanksgiving.  Kicking into high gear, the holiday season and the first Christmas alone.  It never occurred to me at the time, that my Christmas would be quite so different from Christmas' past until I went through that first Thanksgiving.  The reality of the divorce hit me over the head...hard.  No, my first stage wasn't shock, my second stage was shock.

I have lived the same life, with the same man, under the same roof for so many years, I think I was so completely naive as to what a divorce really meant.  It never occurred to me then, that the man I spent so many years with wouldn't be there still; even though I didn't want to be married to him anymore.  He said he still loved me, why wouldn't he still want to leave family traditions like Christmas, the same as before?  Why?  My parents and kids said, "did I understand what it meant to be divorced?"  Apparently, it wasn't something I had thought would change.  Imagine the shock when I realized, not only had it changed, but it threw our entire family into a tailspin, because none of us knew how to do the holidays any other way.  That is denial in the most "slap me in the face" kind of way and it threw me into shock.  Was it really going to be this way forever?  What?

The next stage of grief is anger.  Although I alternated between shock, anger and denial for many months, the anger poured out of me in terrible ways. I became so adept at hiding my pain, suppressing my pain, running from my pain and denying it's existence that it knocked the wind out of me every time I went home.  I wanted my family to forgive me for the choices I had made.  I wanted their acceptance for choosing to live a different life then the one they knew.  I wanted them to be happy for me and to be proud that not only had I started over in a brand new city, where I had known no one, but that I was thriving! Ha! Wishful thinking and complete denial...again.  I was angry at all of them when I realized they didn't understand.  It didn't matter how much I wanted to explain my reasons why...no one wanted to hear it.  I was angry, furious even.  And, I thought, justified.  They hadn't lived enough life to understand.  Their experiences were minimal compared to mine.  How dare they judge me?

I made the decision to hide my life from them all.  Regardless of how lonely I was. How sad I was, how much I hurt...they would never know.  I would put on a brave face and flip them all the finger and fake it, even if it killed me.  And the running nearly did. I ran myself ragged, involving myself in anything and everything I was invited to.  Racing frantically from party to party, happy hour to happy hour, anything....anything to fill the void.  I wanted to fit in here. I was doing everything possible to fit in. But I missed my life in the northwest.  I missed normalcy.  I didn't even know what normal was anymore.  I felt lost.  But I would never have admitted it.  It took Mother's Day weekend without my kids around, and a middle of the night, drunken, sobbing, phone call to a friend, that finally, finally, I could admit how very sad and extremely lonely I was for my old life and my family.  I was close to the bottom, but I hadn't bottomed out yet.  Welcome to stage four...my old friend, Depression. 

As time went by and I got closer to my trip home for the summer, I was running faster, getting little sleep, drinking too much and spending far too much money, and dating frantically to fill the voids.  I became deathly ill.  I say it this way, because although I was seriously ill, now it seems a little melodramatic to say "deathly," but I really felt... deathly ill.  Before I left town, I had made some careless remarks, causing a rift among a few friends, that even now, I'm not sure if it will ever be the same.  The bottom was rising. 

When I arrived home, I was weak with relief at the familiarity and comfort of my lifelong home.  I was pretty low physically and emotionally and needed some unconditional love and acceptance.  I vacillated daily between extreme highs and extreme lows, depending on the day and who was around.  My mom was a mix of tough love and nurturing-my-heart kind of comfort.  I still hadn't hit bottom and I cried on a daily basis.  There were good days and bad days.  I wore my melancholy like a sweater around my shoulders in the chilly summer nights.  I knew I was depressed, and extremely lonely... but for what, and why?  I wanted this... remember?

The middle of July, everything came to a head.  It had to eventually I guess.  It knocked the wind out of me and made me want to curl up in a ball and die...again...but as in all things that seem horrible and traumatic, there was a lesson in there somewhere.  If I paid close attention, I knew it would be really valuable and important.  I spent three days straight sitting in my old counselors office, sobbing my way through my past year, pouring out the pain of my decisions.  This was the beginning of stage five...Acceptance. 

As my summer in the northwest drew to a close, I drew boundaries with my kids and my parents. I needed time now, to process all of the words that had been spoken to me by family and friends. The same people who, although I knew they loved me and wanted to fix my broken heart, I needed space from them.  I am grateful for those last two weeks there.  I spent long hours alone, thinking about my past year.  I thought about how I couldn't see before now, how hard I'd been running and how very tired I was.  It took an old friend from my past to put it all in simple perspective, simply by being honest.  I went home sad, but determined.  Homesick the moment the plane touched the ground, but  truly ready to start over again...only this time, ready to deal with the things I'd left behind in both places and to stop running. 

I've been home seven weeks now and making a scheduled life for myself.  I stay home most every night.  I go to bed by 10 because I am tired.  I wake up at 5 because I am rested and ready to start my day.  I do my homework, complain about how much time it takes, but am grateful for the time it fills.  I am spending time getting to know me.  I am finding the normalcy I miss so much.  I am able to talk with my ex without crying.  I feel oddly unaffected by the knowledge that he is seeing someone, in fact, I know that I want him to be happy.  I still feel pain in the knowledge that in leaving the way I did, I hurt him so deeply; forcing him to go through those same stages of grief as well, but through a divorce recovery group, I am learning to forgive myself, which is so much harder.   Most of all, I am moving on and I have accepted what those choices have given me now. 

I want to find love again.  I believe that I will.  I'm in a better space than before I left.  I'm not completely healed, but I am on my way, and as my friend Miguel would say "for reals" this time...

Next week will be one year from the day I filed for divorce.  This blog has been an open journey of my heart through this process.  I felt compelled to share publicly because, although I know my journey is not original, it was always my hope that others who read it, might find a piece of my story that resonated with them and helped them get honest with themselves, and heal through their pain as I have been healing through mine.  Many of my posts seemed to say the same things again and again, but the messages were fairly clear to me.  I left a place I was unhappy to forge out on my own.  I was filled with guilt over the choices that affected so many and had small victories along the way.  I sought redemption and affirmation for what I believed was right for my life.  But I tried hard to look at this journey with honesty.  I believe I have.  I'm not much of a religious person these days, but my faith runs deep.  A verse from the book of Proverbs is one I memorized at young age and have tried to live by..."Wounds from a friend can be trusted, but an enemy will multiply kisses."  Thank you my friends and family for being willing to speak the truth and allowing me to hurt, process and accept the love in the messages.

I have decided it is time to retire this blog.  The sadness here is a place I hope to never be again.  I realized the other day, that I no longer feel so compelled to write about my sadness.  I have moved through the five stages of grief and I arrived at acceptance. What a difference a year makes.  I am still learning and my capacity for compassion is huge.  Judgment has no place in any of us, but especially in me.  I want to write about other things.  Happier things.  Funnier things.  I am starting a new blog on Word Press.  It will be much lighter and hopefully I will gain more followers and keep your support.  I will post on Facebook when I launch.  Thank you for reading...Tam

And so...here I am

I've been back in the desert for two weeks.  The moment I stepped off the airplane, I felt the overwhelming heat of this desert.  The swamp-like feel to the air is stifling.  I hate it.  I can't figure out why I'm here now.  I originally came here to escape.  Now I want to escape from this place I've called "home" for almost a year.  I feel displaced.  I don't know where my home is anymore.  When I left, I ran from everything familiar because I was afraid of the pain.  I was afraid of my thoughts and what those thoughts were doing to me.  I thought about dying.  A lot.  Two days ago, I re-read all of the posts on this blog.  My thoughts as I read, were this...the woman that wrote it, was faking it.  She was trying so hard to move forward, but the pain was still so evident.  I read about a woman so torn in half by guilt and sorrow that she kept apologizing and explaining and defending all of her actions and decisions.  I hurt for that woman who sought redemption.  I hurt for that woman that needed to explain.  I hurt for that woman that wanted nothing more than to be forgiven.  I hurt for me.

As time progressed, I saw moments of her former self.  I saw her sense of humor and ability to laugh at herself and her mistakes.  I saw the pain lessen and the instinct of survival take root.  I saw her start to be okay.  Then she went home.  I went home.  The first week was relief.  I was so sick and needed my mom to take care of me.  I came home physically sick and run down.  I came home with a broken spirit.  Ready to throw everything I'd fought for away, and tell everyone...I give up. I'm back and I have nothing left to fight with.

I arrived the night before the 4th of July.  I was so happy to be going home.  I was  excited to see my mom, my kids...I was so happy.  I was home.  The feeling was indescribable.  I drove along the lake shore road towards my mom's place.  The smells were comforting and familiar.  I had the windows unrolled so my dog could smell it too.  I was almost home to the cabin where I'd spent so many of my childhood summers.  I could see the early evening boaters and a few skiers capturing the last few hours of daylight on the lake.  I was overcome with joy.  When I walked down those stairs into the cabin and saw the corny sign that said "Five skiers to a Bed" I smiled from the sense of familiarity. 

My mom greeted me with a hard embrace, both of us laughing and crying at the same time.  I was home.  I had requested the back bedroom because it was darker and quieter than most of the other rooms.  Part of my step family was there, but my mom moved mountains to make sure I had that bedroom.  No one was more important than her daughter.  I felt so loved.

The next few days were spent catching up.  It was a special time for my mom and I.  As we spent long hours in conversation, I realized how much she had aged.  I saw how worried she had been about me.  I saw her wince in pain every time she moved from the toll of osteoporosis.  I noticed how much she talked about getting well and her frustration of being in so much pain.  I should be taking care of her instead of her taking care of me.  She is only 70.  This is scary.  And I'm right behind her.

I was recovering slowly from the pneumonia, resting and allowing my mom to nurture me and be a mom.  I helped her and scolded her for doing things she knew she wasn't supposed to be doing.  I made my bed every day and did the chores I did as a child.  In the morning we would share a cup of coffee on the porch, watching the early morning skiers, and the Osprey swooping in to pick up a fish. At night we would sit together and watch 'The Bachelor," making funny, snarky, comments about the absurdity of it all.  Most nights, I went to bed early.  I woke up more rested and began to feel healthier with every day that passed. 

I moved into my "treehouse" at the end of the first week and settled in to receive my friends and family as guests and spend time alone on this beautiful lake.  Anyone and everyone was invited to come see me there.  I had no cell service or internet and was forced to break my technology habit.  I kayaked daily, in the quiet hours of the morning with my dog on the bow,  feeling the burn and strain of the muscles in my arms with every dip of the paddle into the still water of the bay, I felt stronger.  I allowed myself to be quiet.  The only music that could be had was one station on an old radio.  I sang along to old country songs while I cooked and BBQ'd for myself in the evenings.  The days felt long and not rushed.

 One day while I was still at the treehouse, I drove into town.  I was feeling disconcerted.  I couldn't put my finger on it, but I knew I needed a change of scenery for a few hours.  I was still recovering, and my chest was still racked with a painful, nagging cough that wouldn't go away.  I had made an appointment with a massage therapist.  Already feeling down before I got there, I lay down on the bed and waited.  She had a quiet, soothing voice and asked me a few questions.  I answered her questions with short answers, wanting to sink into the massage and feel that dreamy, quiet state overcome me.   Her firm, rhythmic hands, found every sore muscle.  All the sadness I had been feeling came to the surface and I started to cry. I don't know what happened.  That's never happened to me before.  I cried through most of the massage.  She pretended not to notice.

The rest of the summer was spent living out of a suitcase.  I drove from lake to lake,  my water ski in the front seat of my car, begging a ski from anyone that would pull me; couch surfing at anyone's house that would offer me a bed.

Looking back, I see how broken I still was when I arrived.  I wanted to believe how far I had come, but the reality of the decimation and rubble of the life I'd left, was hard to deny.  The time spent finally facing the pain I'd run from became healing, but not until after another crisis forced me to get real with what had happened and my responsibility in all of it.  The truth hurt, but I was no longer committed to the lie.  This time, there was no where to run   I was here now.  I couldn't hide out in my cabin or home.  It wasn't there anymore.  It hurts me to know that this will be the year my family will remember as..."The year I fell apart and ran away from home."
So I quit running.  I was tired.  I am tired.  Now I am walking.  One step at a time, one day at a time.  Resolution is near and I am planning my future.  I want to go home.  The Prodigal daughter.  

I ended my stay in the cabin I raised my children.  On a lake that holds special memories.  I had a tiny romance that filled me with hope, that still makes me smile as I remember, and my voice soften when I get to talk about him.  And then I flew back.

So now I'm back.  In Arizona.  The place I ran to.  In this oppressive heat that makes me wonder what I was thinking.  Oh, not all the time.  But now, while the weather is so mild in the Northwest, as their Indian Summer begins and the leaves begin to change color.  I didn't know I would be this homesick.

But, it was a good summer.  I reconnected with my children.  I had good quality time with my mom, I spent time with my friends.  I came back feeling rested.  And although I came back to a lonely apartment,  just me and my dog,  I felt missed here.   And so...here I am.  For now.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation...Final Chapter

That night, I wasn’t going to go to the bar, even though his sister was still here, the same band from the night before was there.  I wasn’t going.  But I wanted to.  I wanted to see Cort again.  But I wasn’t going.  Of course I went.  It was a lighter crowd, but the music was great.  Cort wasn’t as busy as the night before, and he seemed happy to see me.  I danced.  Almost every dance.  Cort would come out from behind the bar whenever he could and dance with me.  He kissed me on that creaky, old floor in front of anyone that was watching and he danced with me.  I laughed as I moved my hips to the blues I find so easy to dance to, stepped on toes and made up dance moves.  I haven’t felt so alive in over two years.  Cort had to go back behind the bar and I kept dancing.  His sister was my partner in crime.  At one point, there were 10 men on the floor and just myself and Cort’s sister.  We danced with everyone.  From time to time, I would take a break from my whirling and twirling and hip shaking action and look up at the bar.  And there would be Cort, standing there behind the bar, watching me with that big shit-eating grin.  I danced for Cort, and he knew it.  I want more, but I wonder if he is feeling the same way I am?

We dance another dance.  A slow one.  I am in high school again.  My head is against his chest, and his arms are around me.  Help me.  I’m falling.  I ask him if he will come over after the bar closes.  He looks at me and simply says…yes.  I dance more; with anyone that wants to dance, I dance.  The bar is closing and I drive home and wait for Cort.  I text him and tell him the back door is open, to come to my room and make love to me.  I fall asleep waiting.  I wake up when I hear my phone go off with another text.  It’s Cort saying he is tired and going home.  He will explain tomorrow.  I text back…”Really Cort?  Okay, life is short, I was looking forward to you, but your decision, I don’t know what to say except…sleep well?”

I feel so lonely and sad.  I miss him and want to feel his arms around me.  I was looking forward to sleeping next to someone again.  I miss the intimacy of lying next to a man and waking up and making love.  I wanted to and knew I could sleep next to Cort.  But I can’t force someone to feel what I feel.  I don’t understand, but I know he will explain, as he has said.

The next day, we are supposed to hike together up to a waterfall and take a picnic.  I meet him at his house and he shows me around.  He introduces me to his horses and his dog.  His house is a hodgepodge of ideas, and even though it seems helter skelter, I can see where he is going with it.  We drive to the trailhead and start our hike.  He says nothing about the night before.  He begins to tell me about the mountains here.  He says that huckleberries always grow where these tiny, low green plants are.  If I want to find huckleberries, look for those.  He points out the edible mushrooms.  He notices where elk and other wild life have cut their trails through the brush.  He comments on the age and beauty of the cedars.  He begins to tell me a long story about a moose he had the privilege of watching die. How he felt so helpless to save her.  He told me how throughout the two days it took her to die, how many times and how hard he tried to save it, arguing with himself for messing with Mother Nature, and how the cycle of the food chain was playing out in front of him and how he had to let it happen.  He tells me how, when the moose cow was finally near her death, how he held her head and looked into her eyes and sang “You are my Sunshine” because it was the only song he could remember.  I have never heard such a beautiful story.  I have never been so moved or in love.  Who was this man named Cort?

He had lots of stories like this.  He talked most of our hike.  All of his stories were beautiful, poignant, funny or just plain unusual.  He told me about one his friends.  How she never changed her oil on her car or worried about any of the idiot lights that came on in the car, until one day, her car wasn’t working…duh, and would he mind coming over and checking it out.  Cort came, got the car running after changing the oil, replacing plugs and what have you.  The best part of the story was the punch line.  She tells people she drives from town to the mountains to have her car serviced.  This is Cort.  Patient, funny, kind, giving.  Mountain Man.  I told him, I could see someone writing a story about him like they did with the old man that died on Lake Tuttle when Mt. St. Helens erupted and obliterated his home.  Cort says, “Yeah, he did it on his terms.”    

I asked him if he believed in God.  He said, “Mostly.”  I ask him if he is afraid of dying.  Not at all, and he really doesn’t care how they dispose of his body, thinks that burying is a waste of space, but that his loved ones need to do what gives them comfort.  He tells me that his boys have worried aloud that he snowshoes across the frozen lake, what if the ice breaks?  No one will know.  He assures them it is the perfect way to die.  A few moments of thrashing, as the instinct to survive is natural; and then peacefully slipping into hypothermia and sinking to the bottom.  No suffering.  We talk and hike for a couple hours.  Time flies again. 

Finally, we are back at the car and decide to find a cool place along the creek to eat our picnic.  I tell him I want to talk about the subject he conveniently keeps changing.  What happened last night?  Why did he change his mind about coming over?  He tells me casual flings don’t work for him.  I look him in the eyes and I say, “You know, this isn’t casual.” He stares back and says, “I know.  It was your text that changed my mind.  It wouldn’t have been casual, it would be making love.”  He has already told me, he falls in love easily.  He says,  “I am a ‘temptress’ (his word).  The text that said “come make love to me” was the tipping point and he knew what the outcome would be.  He says, “I know your dream is not mine.  You left your marriage for your dreams.  I am here living mine, and this is not yours.”  He tells me he is single, but a woman he knows, a good friend of his, is moving back here.  This is her dream.  She grew up here.  She wants to be here.  They have been talking.  They are not together, but if she knew, it would hurt her.  This is why he didn’t come over.

 I am deeply saddened, a bit rejected, but I understand.  And I do understand, but after the damn moose story of the day, I am head over heels in love.  That woman is going to be the luckiest woman alive.  I am okay with the “why.”  The respect he has for this woman, is so great, that even the chance he might fall in love with me, is not the person he is.  He is not a person who can have a casual fling.  I am jealous he will love her the way I dream of being loved.  The way I know Cort will love her.  But Cort gave me a gift…I know that the beginning stirrings of deep love don’t just happen overnight.  I know I am a big romantic sap.  I know I’ve blown this into something bigger than it probably was, and I know that Cort may not have felt this same way either.  I teased him and told him that he only made it more of a challenge for me.  But I also know, I couldn’t respect him if he changed his mind and it became casual, especially knowing he respected this woman enough not to hurt her.  Even though they are not together yet.  I know who Cort is now, and he is not that person.

But Cort is this person: Cort is a man of great integrity.  A man of great thought in his choices and his decisions.  He is living life on his terms.  He is comfortable with who he is and what he stands for.  He stands for a lot.  He is one of the kindest souls and most unique man I’ve ever met.  I’m grateful he even noticed me and thought I was cute way back when, let alone now.   I’m richer for having spent those days with him.  I love him.  I truly do.  The gift he gave me was… knowing.   Knowing what I want.  I know “Cort” exists, I just met him.  I know that I will meet another Cort and the timing will be right.  There are no accidents, just collisions of destiny.  I found peace in the Northwest on my summer vacation.  I found forgiveness, and I found release.  I found love and I found that I deserve it.  I have been cracked open and I’m ready to receive love again.  It is true, love never fails, but damn…timing is everything. In a few years, I might be ready to hibernate in the woods in the middle of winter and write.  But not yet.  I told Cort, we should wear T-shirts that say, “The One That Got Away…”

One last footnote…the two years ago, the first time I saw Cort before this week, my husband and I were splitting up.  I gave Cort my phone number on a slip of paper, telling him, “if he ever needed a haircut…” he said he kept on his dresser for a year.  He kept it because it had my handwriting on it.  He never called.  When we hiked to the waterfall the other day, he picked an unusual stone out of the creek and handed it to me.  I will keep the stone he picked it out, because he thought I would find it special.  It is.  Thank you Cort.  I love you.  You are a good man and a true friend…

And I am a sap for romance with a big imagination.  This is a story that begged to be written.  Every woman wants to remember a moment of romance that seems so sweet and too good to be true.  This was mine.  It happened at a moment when I needed hope… in this special place, on this lake of happy memories.  Now I have a new memory here, I will cherish it forever, and even though there may be moments of artistic license, you get decide where. 

How I Spent My Summer Vacation...Part Three

It is Friday.  I am cutting Cort’s hair this morning and we are going to hang out.  He works tonight.  I try hard to look like I’m not trying hard.  I shower, wear a light fragrance.  I wear a bathing suit under my sundress and flip flops.  A little tinted moisturizer, blush, mascara and little gloss.  I look at myself in the mirror and I wonder, will he notice the lines around my eyes?  Will it matter? After all, it might just be a haircut and this is the lake.  I blow dry my bangs and let the rest of my hair dry in natural waves.  I’m nervous as hell.  This is my first high school crush and I feel like I did in high school, shy, self-conscious and terribly excited.  He texts me he is on his way.  Shit.  Calm down, Tam, this is silly.

Once he arrives, all is good.  He is witty, and charming.  We decide to decide what we will do to “hang out” after I cut his hair.  My girlfriend is here, she talks with him as I run around gathering my things to proceed with the haircut.  He is wonderfully entertaining, easy to talk to and my friend and Cort are instant friends.  I start the haircut.  His hair is long and thick.  I cut carefully, afraid to cut too much because I can tell; he likes it long, but how long since his last haircut?  Cort is an easy client.  We continue our banter, and I confess to my schoolgirl crush in typing class.  He smiles that brilliant smile and says, “kinda like the one I had on you?”  We both laugh and I say, “Why didn’t you tell me”? 

After working my way through that thick head of beautiful, gray hair, I ask him to go into the bathroom to check it out.  I follow him.  “He is so tall…” I think to myself.  He makes the appropriate comments and tells me how great it looks.  We stare at each other, grinning for just a moment.  Then he bends down, puts his arms around me, placing a tender kiss on my lips.  Oh shit, this can’t be good. 

We “hang out” on the beach for about half an hour and decide to go to lunch at one of the local places on the lake.  Cort is well known on the lake.  Everyone knows him.  Everyone is wondering, ”Who is the blonde with Cort?”  He introduces me with no explanation to anyone.  We have a delightful lunch.  It’s easy.  We are catching up on the last 32 years.  There are no uncomfortable silences.  He is interesting as he talks of his dream of living on this lake.  He tells stories as if I know the locals he talks about.  I watch how he looks ahead while he thinks, and how he smiles as he remembers how it all went.  His hands are large and expressive as he speaks and I want to touch them and look at them closer.  I like to think I can read palms, so that will be my excuse to touch him.  I notice that he pulls his bottom lip in as he pauses and how he flashes me that big toothy grin when he says something funny.   I am smitten.  I am 15 again and I am afraid.   

Time slipped by so fast and it was time for Cort to go to work.  He drives away and I can’t quit smiling.  We will go to the bar tonight, my friend and I.  Cort’s sister will be there and her boyfriend is in the band.  We arrive early to get a seat and our table is big.  I see lots of people I know and recognize; small world, as usual.  Cort’s niece is our cocktail waitress and she is extra friendly to me.  She takes our drink order, and before too long, Cort is next to me, delivering my drink and sitting beside me.  This goes on all night.  The band is great and the music is blues.  I danced most of the night.  Once in a while, Cort comes out to the dance floor to dance with me.  It just feels right.  Cort’s son stops in and introduces himself to me.  He is the very image of his dad in high school.  I can see why Cort is so proud.  The night ends too fast and I am lonely thinking about going home to an empty bed.

The next day we go to lunch again.  Same lake, different location.  Same reaction from the locals…friendly, but curious.  Cort leans over and says, “We are giving them all something to talk about.”  Today feels different.  My hair is in two braids and I keep nervously twisting the ends.  He notices and tells me it’s endearing.  I am suddenly feeling much shyer, much more self-conscious and the conversation feels less natural.  As we walked onto the patio of the bar, I look up at him and all of his tallness and feel small.   There is a first time for everything.  I liked that feeling of feeling protected by this big giant.  We order and Cort begins to tell me his stories.  He is a mesmerizing storyteller.  He tells about his years of growing up on this lake, of his father, his sisters, his first hunting experience with a man who was not his father, and the impact this man made in his life.  I begin to see Cort.  Not his tallness, not his smile, not his big brown eyes, but I begin to glimpse who he is.  I ask him questions.  When did he finally decide to live here full time?  Why did he give up the rat race?  How does he do the winters up here?  Why is he alone and not with someone?  Where has HE been all my life? And WHY didn’t he tell me he had a crush on ME in high school??   Of course, those last questions, I don’t really ask, but I want to, and now my damn head is spinning and I am overwhelmed and confused by my feelings.  I am leaving to go back to Arizona in less than a week.  I love Arizona.  I have my new dreams to pursue and fulfill.  They don’t include an old high school crush that I just reacquainted with, and no matter how wonderful he seems, I know I couldn’t survive more than one winter in this frozen piece of tundra, November through May.  THIS isn’t why I’m here.  Shit, shit, shit. 

I begin to rationalize how I can have just a summer fling.  It wouldn’t be casual; after all, I have developed feelings for him.  I like him.  I might even love him.  But, I am still fragile.  I am still learning and growing and, (ugh…) dating.  AND, it’s only been three days.  What the hell?  (I know he is reading this, and I should put in a disclaimer, but I’m the storyteller now Cort, it will unfold the way I felt/feel it)  As a consenting adult, you get to make choices of who, what, where and when, but, this just seemed surreal.  I feel disillusioned by what I thought I was looking for; what was this?  Infatuation?  Fantasy?  And what the **ck?  I don’t even like to camp.  He is a mountain man.  I’m a city girl that likes to hike.  He hunts, I shop. He eats moose!  And venison.  I eat sushi and chocolate.  I get botox for pete’s sake!  We have almost zero in common in regard to lifestyle.  But we have a tiny past, a huge connection of chemistry, a shared love of this lake, but…different dreams.  

More to come...it's all written, but it's not like I can say, long story short...tomorrow.... 

How I Spent My Summer Vacation...Part Two

And so I am here. Everything smells the same.  I look through every drawer and cupboard, finding the same pink plastic plates, chipped bowls and empty buckets for picking huckleberries.  Some things have changed, but not much.  It seems sad that this place stands empty for most of the year. I fall asleep in this large, empty, cabin with many beds that should be filled with friends and family, but, other than my dog, I am the only one sleeping here.  It is lonely, but familiar.   I sleep in the same room I always slept in with my husband.  The one closest to the window.  The bed where once, he woke me in the middle of the night to show me how the moon shimmered on the water, and made love to me.  This place, this room, this bed, this place…

I wake early on the first day, make my coffee as usual, go out to the porch that overlooks the lake and sit.   The first of the die-hard skiers are out because the water is still smooth and the window for the water is short.  My happiest memories are here on this lake.  Not the other place… the place I feel obligated to fight for; but, this lake, these mountains, this place…is in my soul.  I say a prayer of gratitude, because finally, I am at a place in my heart, where I can pray again. 

I am heading across the lake today to visit one of my oldest, dearest friends.  Our plans are to spend the day on the beach, BBQ and head back across the lake for a drink at an old, historic bar on the lake.  We did all of that, and that is when I see "Cort"…. again.

Cort and I go back 34 years.  He was my first big crush.  One of the first boys I ever kissed.   His hair is gray now, his face more lined that I remember, but there he was…the boy I sat across from in typing class.  Over thirty years have passed, but those school girl crush feelings returned in a nanosecond.  I tried to be cool, but my heart was beating rapidly in my chest and I could feel my face flush, as I smiled and said, “Hey Cort, how are you?” 

Over the course of thirty some years, I only recently have run into him again in the last five, once in our hometown, and once here in this place, two years ago.  I knew he still worked here, as I had just had dinner with his sister two nights ago and she told me.  “Yes, he still works the bar there.”  This was no “coincidence,”  I wanted to run into him, I planned it, because I knew I would.

He was charming as always, cute as hell, taller than I remembered, but with those same big brown eyes and huge smile.  He knows everyone in the bar and while my friend and I roll into a dice game with people at the bar, Cort and I begin a friendly, flirty, banter.  And this place, this lake, is where I have found the next love in my life. 

Before you either sigh deeply, or throw up, there is more to this story.  The real story isn’t about falling in love with someone I knew thirty odd years ago, the real story is about Cort.  The real story is what I learned about myself.  The real story is what I discovered.  I have written about my sadness, my guilt in leaving, my grief, and my pain.  The real story was a gift from God; a higher being, the Universe, whatever we want to call it, this was a gift.  There are no accidents, but only collisions of destiny. 

After a fun evening, my friend and I boat back across the lake and head to bed.  The next day after spending the morning drinking coffee, looking for huckleberries and waterskiing, she drops me at my car.  Back to the land of cell towers and service.  I turn on my phone to find a friend request on Facebook from Cort and a voicemail asking when we can get together again.  I am happy.

I return his call and we make arrangements to see each other again in a few days.  He requests a haircut from me.  He says, of course, he will pay me.  I think I was asked out on a date, but I’m not completely sure.  Maybe I am just cutting his hair.  But, if nothing else, I am seeing him again and I will be cutting his hair…for free. I am happy.

The next few days are filled with anticipation and imaginary conversations in my head I will have with Cort.  I am enjoying my time at this place and have met the neighbor next door, but I am counting the hours until Friday.  I will close this story for now, and write again tonight, as this story is bursting inside to be written, but I am only here for a few days longer, and I need to sit on the porch, drink my coffee and watch the skiers.  This sadly, is probably the last time I will be in this place, and I need to enjoy every moment I have left.  The story of Cort is not over and it never will be.  Hang on…we’ll be right back…

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

Last summer I was in the Northwest at my beloved cabin on the river.  I kayaked, I ran, I water-skied; spending the majority of my time, hiding out, depressed, unable to make a decision to end my marriage; afraid to face people, basically doing anything to avoid the real issues of my life.  My family accused me of a mid-life crisis.  I was in crisis.  It was the middle of my life.  I resent the term. 

After finally making the decision to leave for good, filing for divorce, moving to another state, going through the winter and spring trying desperately to figure out what I wanted, where I was going and wondering if I could ever find what I was searching for, I have found peace.  Peace in the choices I made, regardless of what others may or may not think, peace with judgments my kids may or may not have, I feel peaceful.  I’ve made many mistakes along the way.  I learned hard lessons about myself, paying a high price for what I thought I was fighting for, but couldn’t articulate what it was I thought I needed and wanted, other than my freedom.

As this blog can attest, I have struggled with the hurt, the grief and the loss that I have felt since I left.  I wrote many of my entries out of enormous pain, that sometimes seemed even too much to write.  And my writing was the outlet for my pain.

What a difference a year can make.  Everyone says that time heals.  It does, but as I have learned, just because time passes, it doesn’t mean that you heal.  It means the pain is less.  True healing is happening because I am willing to do the work; to examine my own faults, get the tools and strategies I need to relearn my life to help the process along.  This is what takes time.  It is a journey.  The pain is less, the grief not so severe, but the loss is still there.  The road to recovery is not through just a couple counseling sessions.  I wish it were, because the way I see it, I am about to turn 50 and I don’t want to spend the second half of my life, wallowing in the failure of my marriage.  I want to live and experience as much as I am able to do in order to move forward to fulfill the dreams I’ve always had.  The dreams that were so strong, that I made the decision to disrupt and overthrow my entire existence, comfort and safety, the only life I ever have known, to pursue and fulfill what I needed to survive as an individual.  I risked it all and dared to leave.  I am here to say, I am surviving and beginning to thrive. 

But it is just the beginning.  I have so much more to learn.  A good friend just said to me, as I allowed yet another round of self-pity overwhelm me, “Today…You start today, not tomorrow, not when you get back…today.”  A veil lifted. 

My almost ex-husband gave me a gift.  It’s complicated, but a gift nonetheless.  A gift that allowed me to stay on a lake that was filled with happy memories.  Memories of  my children’s childhoods.  Memories of where I first fell in love with him.  When I first arrived, I was overcome with a sadness that was mixed with the memories of what is now gone.  I sat cross-legged on the dock and stared at the sand where I could still hear the echo’s of my boy’s laughter, the images of my youngest little girl, wading through the water and crossing under the bridge of the dock over and over, while her sister and brothers buried each other in the sand.  Regardless of the divorce, I think I would have felt the same melancholy, because those young children are gone, replaced with adulthood and their own lives.  But it was a bittersweet moment that I am grateful to have experienced right then.   And then I was over it.  I was so happy to be here and I felt so grateful for the gift that I began to cry.

This place is the beginning of the last of my time here for now.  It is hardly the end of what I have experienced and learned.  I have more to share that seems profound and miraculous.  I don't believe in coincidence.  I believe in flow.  I believe in synchronicity.  I believe that things happen exactly the way they should and as I look back over the last six weeks, I believe that this was God's hand.  My friend Meg keeps saying that love is always here.  It is.  I can't wait to write more tomorrow, but for now you have to wait.  I have no internet and this was just a good place to stop until I can get back to this spot.  Stay tuned...I still have flow and it won't go away until I write it.

Now is a Better Place to Be Than Then...

I feel as if I'm on a sabbatical.  I've been learning about gratitude and the art of being okay with being alone.  Two totally different subjects, but in the time I've spent here alone, I've felt so grateful.  Grateful for my physical health, that is beginning to return, for my mental health, my sense of humor and ability to laugh at my ridiculousness, my fortunate life, my children and of course, my amazing friendships.   Excuse me while I mush a bit.  This sabbatical has made me sentimental.  

So many of my friends are cheerleaders.  They stand beside me, they encourage, they never let me feel like a loser.  I'm so grateful for these friendships. I have to give Facebook a lot of credit.  In the last two years, Facebook became a gateway to reconnecting my past with the present.  The re-connections I've made have blessed me in so many ways.  A friend who has lived in Japan for 25 years+ has been a lifeline.  Facebook gave her to me. 

I recently hosted a few old high school chums at my "treehouse" getaway.  We spent hours on the dock, sitting on the deck, drinking wine, dining on delicious food and getting to know each other as adults.  We weren't friends in high school.  We knew each other, but ran in completely different circles.   These girls, were considered part of the "popular kids".  I'm still not sure where I fit into all of that, but I know I wasn't considered part of the "elite" crowd.  There is a line from "The Jane Austin Book Club" that says..."high school is never over..."  It's true, but yet,  it isn't.  I still look at these women as  "girls".  I feel like a young girl when I am with them.  They don't seem any older to me...just wiser, more seasoned with compassion.   I am delighted they like me.  I know this sounds strange.

I'm not sure how or why the anarchy of high school royalty is formed, but it is real.  Ask any one who wasn't a part of it.  We go back to our reunions (or we don't) to either prove something or to say "screw 'em...I never want to go back".  However, my experience in HS wasn't terrible.  It wasn't without it's traumas and dramas, but generally, it was okay.  Not spectacular, and I guess that is a good thing, as I would hate to have had that be the best years of my life and want to relive them over and over.  But the feelings associated with HS return with every reunion I've attended.  What I've discovered as an adult is, that except for that evening of the reunion, it doesn't matter anymore.  We all made our own lives and we are either happy with the outcome or we aren't.  And...we accept what life has become for us.

The interesting part is we all lived a life.  After 30 years, there are marriages, children, divorces, deaths,  grandchildren...in some way shape or form, life made us the people we've become.  Unless we are in complete denial, most of us became real.  We are no longer trying to fit in or trying to impress anyone.  Having just left a long term marriage and trying to look like I had the perfect life, the surprise of reacquainting myself with these women from my past,  who weren't really a part of my adult life until now, it feels good to be myself with women that knew me in my youth. It feels good to be with women who knew me alone and not as part of a couple. They remember 'me'.

The three of us took a walk along the dirt road behind the treehouse the other day and talked about these feelings of reconnection.  For the two of them, it's probably not such a big deal, because they were always friends from way back when.  But for me,  it's affirming.  It's hard to describe.  I grew up in this area.  I've been a fixture here my entire life. Our parents knew each other, we know so many of the same people.  You make a mistake here and trust me, people know it.  Does our history connect us and put us under the scrutiny of judgment?  Or does it connect us and give us grace?  In the case of these women, it gave me grace.  I have made friends with old friends.  Although we can laugh about our HS days and memories, it doesn't define who we are anymore.  I feel blessed to call these women my friends.

I revisit a lot of the same topics sometimes, and I know I've shared a backhanded compliment someone gave me years ago.  I still love it and I still use it.  The person said to me, "You're not as shallow as I thought"...I love that.  I got a text yesterday from one of these women I spent the weekend with.  She said, "You are so down to earth".  I'm sure my parents would disagree as maybe would some other family members, but, I was so blessed by those words.  I still dream big, I still want great things, I still believe in lasting love...I don't think that makes me NOT down to earth, I think it makes me hopeful.  Thank you for those words...it made my whole day. (You know who you are...) :-)

I've made many acquaintances over my lifetime.  I've had people come and go, and  I rarely meet someone I don't like.  I'm open, (probably too open) and  I'm more real today, than I've ever been.  I'm learning to be the most true,  authentic self  I've ever been.  Many of the friends I've kept close to me, I've known for 20+ years.  When we've lost touch and reconnected,  we've been able to pick up where we left off, as if no time has passed at all.  These people are like precious gems.  If you are still in my life, it's because you are so very valuable to me.  Facebook brought many wonderful people both into my life and back into my life.  My new, old girlfriends?  We grew up.  We are wives, mamas, grandmas...we are women connected because of our past, bonded by life and because we are women that know how to love, nurture, feed each other and be cheerleaders... 
 The days of high school ARE over...and now is a better place to be, than then...

Decisions...Decisions....

It has been almost a year since I decided that my marriage was over.  I spent a year previous to that decision trying to decide... in pain, riddled with guilt and trying to make a decision.  It was a year that I feel was wasted.  Or was it?  I've asked myself a million times if I could have saved myself and others close to me, the terrible toll of the pain and anguish?  Would things be any different if I had just walked away without that terrible year of indecision?  The price was huge.  Was the outcome already decided, but I didn't have the strength to end it?  I wasn't brave enough to pull the trigger two years ago.  I wasn't strong enough.  Did I spend that year trying to get everyone used to the idea?  Had I already made that decision?  I still don't have the answer to that question.  I know that once I made peace with the possible consequences, I still wasn't prepared for the fallout.

And now, here I am, almost a year later, spending six weeks in the area I grew up in, finally facing  the reality of what I left my children and their dad to deal with.  I am ashamed of my actions, ashamed at how afraid I was to face the people that thought they were my friends.  I've been defensive and angry, hurt and tormented by my own guilt.  I was my own worst enemy.  But in this year,  I've learned to be kinder to myself.  And... although forgiveness is harder, forgiving myself for my choices.

I have made phone calls and dates to purposely deal with what I left behind.  This is a small town.  People talk.  I'm not puffed up with so much self-importance that I think I was the topic of too many conversations, but those who heard the rumors of my impending divorce, talked.  It's a pride thing.  I didn't want to defend my actions.  I was embarrassed.  I was so committed to the lie of the "perfect family" that I didn't want to admit that not only did I fail, but that I had been failing for years.  I had been perpetuating a myth out of my own insecurities. 

And, I've had so many firsts.  So many hard firsts.  First Christmas, first Easter, first Mother's Day, first flat tire, first date...everything was a first.  And I've had so many lessons.  Not just in humility but in friendships and navigating the world alone.  I've been sick twice this year.  Twice.  The woman who was supermom, super woman, super human...run down and sick.  I was rarely sick before I left my marriage.  This last one, took me down.  I don't recall ever feeling quite so alone in the world.

I miss the feeling of security, and I don't mean financial security.  I mean the security of feeling safe.  I used to tell my kids, that no matter how harsh the world treated them;  their refuge, their safety, was family...it was home.  I ran from my refuge and I don't know where it is anymore.  Leaving the safety net was hard.  I never feel sure-footed, I question every decision, because for the first time ever, I am making every decision alone.  I ask myself a lot, what would I do if something happened to my parents?  Who would be my emotional support system?  Who would care?  When I was so ill a couple weeks ago, I felt like I had no one to call in the middle of the night.  It wasn't true, but it felt that way.

I made a decision to rent a cabin on the lake I grew up on.  Far enough away from my mother's place to feel independent, but close enough to meet her for lunch in town.  Not too remote, although internet and cell service are non-existent. (Thank God for the next door neighbor's wi-fi that I am now able to pirate)  Across the lake from me is a tiny grocery store, bar and grill.  I call this place my tree house.   There are about 75 steps down to the lake.  My lungs are still screaming every time I climb back to the cabin, as I am still sick.  But, I feel myself healing.  In the few days I have spent here alone, I am feeling peaceful.  I fall asleep to the sound of crickets and water lapping on the shore.  I wake to birds chirping and a view of the still water.  I sleep like a stone. The one bar bar of cell service I get, allows me to text, but not have a phone conversation.  I spend about an hour on the water in the morning in a kayak, walk my dog several times a day and read.  So far, my hardest decision has been whether to drink another cup of coffee in the morning.  I brought along several books.  Two mindless fictions and three self-help books about finding courage, finding love and the study of body language.  I get bored easily by the psycho-babble but it gives me lots of food for thought. And I am quiet. 

I've spent years feeling lost and wanting things to be different.  I spent a year trying to figure out what I wanted to do but not knowing how to do it.  I spent the next year confused, sad, depressed and mostly alone.  I am spending this next year preparing for the next portion of my life. I am learning who I am without someone else to give me my identity.  My tree house getaway is helping me.  It was a good decision to be here and one I made by myself. I am relishing the quiet of my heart, and learning to listen and trust myself.  I am beginning to make decisions without agonizing over every  one.  I listen to the words of others, but ultimately, it is me making the decision that is best for me.  I give myself good advice mostly, but I still can't figure out if I need that next cup of coffee...

Can I Be Frank?

I have thought a lot about what I wanted to write about next.  Sex is always a great subject, and my readers may think I'm a bit obsessed with the topic, but it is just so fascinating!   Think of what risks people take just to get laid... Kingdoms abdicated, presidents impeached...plus, I'm not getting much these days, so that could explain a lot.   Dating is also an entertaining subject as well, and there is still so much to say about that topic, but I've reached a point where I'm just going to sound like an angry feminist on that one now.  Still, I've figured out a few things recently in regard to both of those subjects, but for today I'm going right into sex.  So can I be frank?

I've thought about writing about sex in a way that would lend itself to great discussion.  Specifically, about sex and aging.  I think about that, well, because I am aging.  I talk about sex a lot because I believe with all my heart that it is the key to true emotional intimacy in a loving, committed relationship.

I went to a wedding this past weekend.  I was a guest of a friend who knew both the bride and groom. 
It was an interesting ceremony.  Unlike anything I've witnessed before, but then, I had to think about the ages of the bride and groom.  I'm not sure if it was a first time marriage for the groom, but I heard it was for the bride.  She radiated happiness.  She was 44.  I guess she knew what she was doing.  At 44, I think you know who you are and what you want.  It's the young ones that get married that I want to protest when the priest says..."If anyone here objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace..."  How come no one ever speaks now?  I don't.  I just think to myself...'suckers...

At any rate, that is not what I'm speaking about now.  I had the opportunity to meet two very delightful couples that sat at our table.  They were obviously older than me, somewhat older than my parents, but both couples, very youthful in appearance and in life.  I watched them interact with each other.  I watched how they laughed and enjoyed each other.  Both couples had been previously married.  Out of the four of them, at least two had been married multiple times.  No one was married now,  they were... 'living in sin'.

What I find very interesting about this particular generation, my dad's generation, (plus maybe a few years), are the social stigmas that no longer exist for them. The ones that existed when they were young.  Let me explain...When my mother and father got married, she was pregnant.  They had to get married.  They couldn't live together, grow up a little and decide whether they should get married.  Even if they hadn't been pregnant, they couldn't live together.  That wasn't the social norm of the day.  You either got married, or my mom was an unwed mother with a big scarlet letter on her chest.  Oh, couples were still  having sex as singles alright, but you either got caught or you didn't.  It wasn't acceptable to be having unmarried sex. Obviously, not the case now.

So in just 40 years or so, things have drastically changed.  These couples are not only living together, but in all likelihood, having sex.  Even now.  Haven't we all thought at one time or another, that our grandparents could not possibly have been having sex at their age... could they?...Ewww.....!  But not only did they, but they probably did right up until they were dying and absolutely couldn't. There was a study recently that STD's in nursing homes were on the rise.  Someone's getting some....
I take my hat off and bow down to them.  Having reached my middle years, I not only still want to have sex, I want to have a lot of it, when I meet the right person, of course.  Thank god for Viagra.

So, back to these two couples.  One couple, were clearly in a new love relationship.  Unmarried, and happy to be that way.  Living together.  They had many of the same interests, they were affectionate and clearly, at this point in time, happy they had found each other.  Awwww....

 The other couple, they laughed a lot together.  I couldn't tell how long they had been together, but they teased and poked each other, and I could tell, they really enjoyed the fun that each brought into the relationship.  It was really heartwarming to see, that at this stage of life, they were still living it to the fullest and enjoying each other.  I think they have a lot of sex.  I don't know for sure, but I would be willing to bet money on it.  I'm definitely going to ask. 

I think of my grandmother and how sometimes she would flirt shamelessly with my husband.  I never minded, of course, but I would see the young woman in her,  that still felt young in her spirit; young enough to still want sex.   I think of myself and my own mortality these days.  When you are 30 and busy raising kids, you kind of resent sex on the nights you feel exhausted and...obligated.  At least I did.  And it got so mundane.  So routine.  I would look at the clock at 11 pm and think..."I want to catch the weather at 11:15...'it can be done..."  How sad is that?  How true is that, for couples that have been together for so long?  Why don't we take care of each other so that we have great sex, with  great enjoyment and fulfillment in each other for years to come?  Maybe it takes the second marriage, or the end of our lives to know and understand what it means to let go of societal expectations, and appreciate how wonderful life really is...and how great sex still is and can be.  (You can laugh now, but I will probably get a lot of hits on this blog today because I keep using the word sex)

 And now that  sex is in short supply for me these days, I find I miss it desperately.  (I guess I should have thought about this when I thought I wanted to watch the weather instead huh?)  And, I think about being in a relationship, because it is in such short supply.  I want what these couples seem to have found the second (or third) time around.   The key will be research.  (This is another place to insert a laugh.)  As I sat at the table with these couples, I also sat with my friend Matthew.  He and I are the perfect couple.  We laugh, we talk on a very deep and emotional level.  He is a perfect gentleman.  He listens to me, he is kind, considerate, funny, a great dancer...for he and I, we have what I think those other couples have, except for one thing...he's gay.  He is my Will and I am his Grace.  If only sex wasn't an issue...

I'm going to delve deeper into this.  I'm going to ask my new friend about her sex life and I'm going to find out how they met.  Maybe she met him online?  I'm going to find out if she feels if, at her age,  she is settled and found what she wanted all along, but it just took this many years to find it? Of course, with that generation, you never know, some things may have changed, but she might just tell me it's 'none of my damn business'.... The couple that were married on Saturday?  I wish them well.  I think they will be fine.  I think they both knew what they are getting and will be very happy.  I wonder if they have very much sex?  Maybe I am obsessed, something anyway....

Running Back to Home...

Over a year ago, whenever anyone asked me what I was doing in Arizona, my answer was always, "I ran away..."

That's not how I answer that question now.  Now I am working.  I am writing.  I have created a life.  A new life.  It doesn't feel like running away anymore.  It feels like home.  The past few weeks I have been traveling for my job, for pleasure and for personal business that can no longer be ignored.  I had to go back to my hometown and take care of things I left unfinished.  I've been running for sure, and now I have to go back.  I've had a few moments of overwhelming sadness.  

The moments of sadness are not as many anymore.  They come and go.  But, when they come, it slams me to the ground.  I'm always surprised by it.  So many people have asked me why I'm sad when I was the one who left.  My kids especially don't understand the sadness.  As I was driving through town, my hometown, I am swamped with memories of a life that seems like it belonged to someone else.  I know every inch of that town.  I have been there forever.  I see the changes that it continues to make.  I still drive through the town without thinking about where I am going.  It is instinctual.  I'm never lost, but I feel confused by the familiar. 

The other day, I had my hair done at my old salon. I ran into people I haven't seen for 8 months...they seemed excited to see me, but I see the questions in their eyes they are afraid to ask.  They look down at my hands to see if there is a wedding band there.  They don't know what to say to me.  I don't know what to say to them either, except, "I'm doing well".  I speak to them as if they know my marriage ended, because while they may not know everything, they know enough.  It's a small town. 

The hardest part of going home is running into people.  I've known so many of them for so long, they feel they deserve to know why.  They are confused.  They are grieving the loss of this marriage too.  As I drove across the state yesterday, I thought of all the people I left behind without a word of explanation.  The friends I thought were friends who turned out to be...not so much.  I thought of the shock they might have felt when they heard, he and I no longer were... 

I left no closure for them.  I cut everyone off because I couldn't face them.  I didn't know who to trust anymore.  I was self-preserving.  That's what I told myself.  It was easier to run and pretend I was fine among strangers, than to cry and show my weakness to people I've known my whole life.  And now I'm back. 

I want to face the demons that still haunt me.  I want to explain to people that didn't understand why.  I know I don't owe anyone an explanation  or justification for what happened in my life, but the need to be understood is strong.  The need to defend myself and my actions hang on.  I grew some thick skin, but it's uneven.  Some spots are thinner and weaker.  I learned who my true friends are when I left, but I also left behind those that thought I cared enough about them, to say goodbye and were hurt when I left town without a word and cut them off completely. 


When you go through a divorce, you split your life in half.  The things you took for granted are suddenly gone.  The sadness I can't seem to explain is for the loss of a lifetime of memories that everyone remembers.  It was a lifetime.   My friends only knew "us".  I alone, am someone they don't know anymore.  Together, we were their friends.  Separately, I am unfamiliar to them.  Starting over in a new town is easy.  I am known as Tam.  I am known as myself.  I am not part of a half that has always been whole.  I am whole on my own.

When I went back East a few weeks ago, I realized how very homesick I was.  Everything looked like home.  The leaves in the oak trees, the tulips just starting to come up.  The smell of cut grass.  Everything was green, not brown like the desert.  I ached for home.  I was ready to be here.  Now I am here.  My heart hurts here.  I feel sad here.  I am afraid here.  I walked into the empty house that used to be "our" home and I cry as I hear the voices of my children arguing, laughing and playing outside.  I remember the holiday dinners I use to serve on the china I am boxing up.  I stand on the porch and remember the summer mornings sharing coffee together before our days started.  It hurts and I don't want to remember.  The temptation to run again is strong.  But I have things to finish.  It's another hurdle I have to jump before I can move forward. 

The instinct to keep running is always there.  I take a break every now and then to catch my breath, but right now, I have to forge on, even though I am afraid.  I refuse to be paralyzed even though my biggest fear is rejection.  And so, I keep facing the demons.  I sometimes wonder if it has been worth it?  But with every person I run into, they smile, hug me and ask me no questions.  They seem happy to see me again.  My animal instincts keep me wary, but as a lover of people, I am happy to see them as well.  Most of them.  Has it been worth it?  I think so.  My life is different.  It has changed a full 180 degrees.  I am happier.  It is foreign ground to run away to a new place.  It feels familiar to go home.  Scary now, but familiar.  There is a country song with a line that says "Who says you can't go home?"  I know that I can...I am here and I'm still alive.  Now, whenever anyone asks me what I'm doing in Arizona, my answer is always....I am living!

The Art of Kissing Frogs....Part Two...

Tonight, as I sit here and type, I am listening to the most beautiful, romantic, Italian music. I am smitten with this artist and was only recently turned on to him in the last few weeks.  I am obsessed with learning the words in Italian.  I've played them so much, I'm close.  Now to translate.  It's not as hard as I thought it might be.  Music is powerful.  It fills my heart with hope and wistful yearning.  I don't think I'm so different from other women, when I say, I want to be swept away.  But at the same time, I am at the age where I know being "swept away" can be very intoxicating, but also leave you with a horrendous hangover if you only have feelings of passion and lust instead of a solid foundation to build on.

I lived a whole life on wistfulness, imagining, wishing for something different.  We had lots of passion for many years.  But it seemed the only real things we had in common were our children.  I wished for someone I could have deep, philosophical, engaging conversations with.  I wanted someone that could feel the pulse of my heart and want the same things I did. Someone that had a innate sense of wanting to know more of the world. Share rich experiences and adventures.  Love the differences in people and celebrate life every day.   When you are 20 years old and pregnant, you don't think about these things being important.  All you know is...you love him.  All you know is the day to day of responsibilities of working hard to pay the bills, raising children and putting your dreams on hold, because there is always something more pressing to take care of.  Not necessarily more important, but, when you are being responsible and doing the right thing...everything is more important than taking care of each other.

Since separating from my husband, I've had to learn to be alone.  I've always enjoyed my alone time, but actually living life alone is a whole other ball game.   The loneliness comes in waves.  Time is a precious commodity, but when you have too much time to fill, you get into your head more.  At least I do.  Whether that is a good thing or a bad thing, I'm not sure, but I continually think, or (maybe obsess, is a better word) about what I am looking for in a future companion.  I love the thought of having someone in my life.  I hate the thought of sharing my space.  I love the thought of nights of raging passion, but hate the thought of sleeping next to someone again.  I love the thought of nights snuggled on the couch watching a movie with someone, but hate the thought of losing control of the TV remote.   I love the thought of cooking with someone, but hate the thought it would be expected to make dinner every night.  Even though there is comfort in the familiar rituals of life, is it possible to have a relationship that doesn't turn ordinary and lackluster?

I've put the online dating thing on hold for the time being.  It was difficult.  As I said in  my last post, it was soul stealing.  It's not that I don't think there are good men out there, I just think with online dating, it's too forced.  You have men that are seriously looking for a lifetime relationship, and men that are looking for "a casual friend".   I actually had a man turn me down after I wrote in an email, that 'I wasn't interested in getting married in the near future.'  His response was, "I noticed you aren't interested in getting married.  I'm actually hoping to be married within the next 6-8 months."  Wow.  Another one wrote me an email asking  "Do I like massages"?  Great, I love massages, but this is your line? 

When you are lonely, you are susceptible to falling for the BS they write in their bios.  At least at first......I had one recently that went through every line of my bio and analyzed, broke it down and categorized the things he felt we had in common.  Flattering, but creepy.  My favorite emails are the ones that can't punctuate or spell. Come on Jethro....

My favorite two stories of online dating were in the beginning.  Kate tells me I made "Rookie Mistakes".  (Gawd, I don't want to be a seasoned pro at this...)  My very first online date was a "meet and greet" at a coffee shop.  His pictures looked reasonably attractive.  The moment I laid eyes on him, I knew there was no chemistry, no attraction whatsoever.  He didn't even have to speak.  After ordering a coffee, we sat down to talk.  His first mistake?  He sat next to me on the couch. Like in my space bubble.  He then filled my ears with banal talk about shutters and pixels, high resolution etc.  He was an incessant blinker.  I couldn't concentrate on a single word he said.  I was too distracted by the blinking.  Pretty soon, my mind was wandering...I really needed a manicure and a pedicure.  Badly.  Being that it was my first official date, I didn't know what protocol was on timing.  I needed to stop him.  I stood up abruptly and said, "I'm sorry, this isn't going to work, not now, not ever."  Apparently, blunt honesty is not appreciated, but I did get in a mani and pedi.

The next date, and remember, I've only had one previous to this one, was worse.  Much worse.  First of all, I felt talked into it.  If you remember, one of the biggest problems I've had in my relationship is my inability to say 'no', stand up for myself and say what I want.  This guy, who was almost old enough to be my dad, talked me into meeting him for a coffee date.  According to him, we had a 95% compatibility rating.  I don't give a shit about algorhythms anymore.  If I'm not attracted physically....ain't never going happen.  His age was the biggest issue for me.  He was too old.  I know how old I am, I'm under no illusions that I'm going to be with a 30 something in a lifetime/committed relationship, but please, 65? I also know, that my choices are not what they use to be, but I still have lots of offers.  Including 20 somethings.  Just as I have no interest in a 20 something, I have no interest in a 60 something.  I barely have interest in a  50 something. But, I digress.  So yes, 65 was too old.  Upon meeting him, I was completely and utterly turned off,  not to mention pissed off.  His photos in his bio were about 15 years old.  Clearly, he was not toned and athletic as his bio said.  As per protocol, we ordered coffee.  I sat across from him and listened to him tell me that he had now been single, longer than he had been married and after several knee surgeries, and pressing health issues, he was at the point where he really wanted to find his lifetime partner.  I'll bet.  To make it even better, he (of course, they all do) brings up sex.  His words were something like this: "If and when we are intimate..." okay, I don't remember the rest of the sentence.  I just heard the when we are intimate part and I wanted to bolt.  To make it all the more entertaining, he had the hiccups the entire time we talked.  Not slightly....but, bad hiccups.  I was very nice, as I always am, and told him I didn't mind if he wanted to hold his breath to try and get rid of them.  I thought perhaps, he would do a slight inhale and no big deal.  Oh no.  He took a gigantic breath in, closed his eyes and turned his head to the ceiling.  His entire face and ears turned purple as he held this pose for about 45 seconds.  He lets out a loud exhalation and nearly blows me off my chair.  Omg....what the hell was I doing there?

A few more dates like this and becoming a lesbian was a real possibility.  I was discouraged, but again...loneliness won out again.  I gave it another stab.  I had a few decent dates, no sparks, but nice men.  Then, another really bad one.  I should have known by his profile name "Onion Ass" that there was something seriously wrong with him.  I guess I just thought he was really sarcastically funny.  I told him in an email, that I was certain I was going to hate him (thinking I was being funny) but I was intrigued by his humor. 

After agreeing on a date, time and place, I show up, looking my best and as always, hopeful.  He was 15 minutes late.  As I got up to leave, thinking I had been stood up, my phone buzzes.  It was him texting me.  The text read like this: 'just jumping in the shower, 6 right?  Are you scared?' Uh...I wasn't....but now?  I'm fuming.  I'm not waiting until 6 pm when the agreed upon time was 5.  I stood up again to leave.  Another buzz.  "Just kidding, I'm inside at the bar".  He had been watching me out the window.  Creepy.  I sit down again.  Dumbfounded.  He allows me to sit there another five minutes.  Finally, I get up to leave AGAIN, and he walks through the door. 

Right.  Let me describe my first impression.  Scruffy, unshaven, and not in the rugged, handsome way.  More like the "I just got off a drinking binge and I'm hungover and didn't have time to shower and shave, unshaven way.  Baseball cap, stained T-shirt, faded shorts that looked to be plaid at one time and flip flops.  He couldn't look me in the eyes,  as he described without stopping;  his daughter in Juvenile detention for meth use, his ex-wife, who is serving time in prison for dealing meth, his DUI and time spent in Tent City, which turned out to be such a great experience because he met so many interesting people.  I'll just bet.  After 15 minutes of this, I put up my hand and said "STOP!  You have to stop right now!  You are a shitshow and I can't stay."  I said that.  Then I got up, paid my bill and left.  A new low for me. 

These are the most memorable.  The ones that make you question your decision to leave.  Was being married so bad?  I have had moments of doubt.  I've had lots of "firsts" as a single woman.  First Christmas, First Thanksgiving, First Easter, First Mother's Day... by myself, not as a family.  I'm learning what it is to create new memories.  Writing my own history and figuring out how to do it differently; the way that isn't the "old way".  It isn't easy, but it's getting easier.  Meeting men in this shallow dating pool, helps you to know what your values are and what you want.  But, is it out there?
I'm not ready for anything serious.  What I want short term, is friendship.  Companionship.  Someone to share a glass of wine or a concert with.  What I want long term is the same.  Eventually, I will be ready to share my bed all night.  But for now, I'm not.  My subscription runs out at the end of this month.  I won't be renewing it.  Not for a while at least.  The prize in the cereal box is at the bottom.  It will be the last place I look, where I least expect to find it.  No one keeps looking after they find something.  It will come.  Patience Tam.

The Art of Kissing Frogs....

I haven't wrote in a couple months.  I use my writing as therapy, in case no one figured that out.   I process my feelings and thoughts through my writing.  I spent a winter of discontent trying to heal, find forgiveness for myself and learning to forgive others for what I held against them.  I cried a lot.  Every time I wrote, I was a blubbering ball of wadded up tissues, red, puffy eyes and a nose so full of snot I couldn't breathe.  Pretty.  By the time January 1st hit, I was tired of being sad.  I put on my big girl panties,  and began to heal with it.  I was ready to start new and put that damn year of sadness behind.  I felt like I'd come so far.  I thought I had arrived. And I really have.  I am happier, I have loads of friends, I am busy, I am working, (albeit part time) I am doing well, I am doing really good.   Then I started dating.  A sure way to put things in perspective. 

The trouble with starting to date when you think you might be ready, is... you don't know you aren't, until you start.  Putting 28 years of marriage behind you, is not easy. I carry more baggage than I was wiling to admit.  I have a huge fear of commitment.  A fear of making another mistake. I have a longing to make a connection and break the pattern of repeating what feels normal.  The trouble is, what feels normal, I know is not healthy for me, but the pattern is there.  Embedded deep.  My brother said it best to me this past week.  He said, 'You want to believe that every small connection you (I) make, instantly goes to my head of potential boyfriend material.'  It's true.  I immediately want to jump from A to L .  That is, until the second date, if there is one. 

I understand why my mother made such a quick decision to remarry. Let me put out the disclaimer at this point, that I have no desire at this time to remarry, let alone, anyone in the wings that I'm contemplating.  I just understand why she did.  The desire and longing to have companionship and consistency in one's life is huge.  The waiting, the need to move forward, the feeling of "time running out" on you, the impatience and feeling of limbo is frustrating.  The loneliness.  The worst part, is I'm not even divorced yet and that alone, is a strike against you in the frustration of wanting to move on.

I understand now, why my friend Kate (and just about everyone else) keeps saying to me, 'you're not ready for a relationship'.  They are right.  If, statistics and studies are correct, it takes about two years to really move on from a divorce.  Two years from separation?  Two years from filing?  Two years from final papers?  Two years from what?  Am I just practice dating at this point?

In order to get myself out there to practice, meet new people, be exposed to new people, I gave online dating a whirl.  I knew lots of people who were doing it, so, I thought, what the hell?  It's worth a try.

I've had hundreds of offers to go on dates.  The sorting and answering the email alone, is like a full time job.  It can be addicting at first.  Then, at some point, tiring.  In the two months since I joined this online dating service, I've gone on lots of dates.  Lots of first dates.  Only two second dates, and one third date.  It's like picking up a stone and flinging it back into the water.  And so far, not one has really given me pause to think..."aha....he could be it..." Not one.  At least not after the first date.  The funny part, is how very hopeful I still am.

I have met a few nice guys.  The date can be going really well...I think.  I'm analyzing their words.  I'm studying their face, trying to imagine if I could see myself with them.  Because I'm trying to break old patterns of what I'm attracted to, I look for clues as they speak.  If I'm not physically attracted to them immediately, I do a little self-talking.  "He may not be your "type" physically, Tam, but, could you grow to love someone like him"?   Could it be one of those situations, where a person grows on me?  All of this on a first date.  Instead of enjoying the person and the evening, I'm looking for the flaws.    This is why, I think it takes at least two years to move on and be ready, you don't know yet. 

  This dating stuff can steal your soul.  I feel like mine is being slowly drained from my body with every date I've gone on.  I'm lucky.  I am a sought-after date in the world of online dating.  Lucky in the way that I have lots of choices.  Unlucky in the way that, I have too many choices.  I've had weeks where I literally had a date almost every night of the week with different men.  You may have a date that went fairly well, but you're thinking, "Well, he's nice, but, maybe the guy tomorrow night will be better".  Maybe, but the flaw in this type of serial dating is: A) I'm not getting married after a first date, so why not give this guy a chance if there is potential for friendship?  And, B) I have this horrible little quirk of mixing up their names and the facts they've shared with me on the phone.  Oops!  My bad.

On a first date, you ask the same questions of each other.  Only to repeat the same answers on the next first date.  Every date is a lesson in what you're not looking for.  Every first date has the potential to be wonderful, and  before every first date, I am excited.  I am hopeful.  I am not jaded.  I am bright with excitement and I glow with anticipation.  Then you sit down across from them and you know right away, uh...no.  Sometimes it's just a feeling, other times it's zeroing in on a physical flaw...like their face seems too long, or a weird mole on their face, or a mustache...(Ugh, I threw up in my mouth just a little...)   But usually, it's something they say.  One date actually revealed that he had intimacy issues.  On a first date!  Another told me he had trouble controlling his anger.  Geez....let me think about that one...A man that has never been married sends red flags.  No kids?  Probably selfish.  Too many baby mamas?  (Yes, I said "baby mamas) Too many exes.. Danger Will Rogers!  Danger!!

Sometimes, the date goes alright and I think, "Hmmm, should I give it another try? "  Bringing up sexual intimacy on the first date?  Automatic elimination.  If a man  tells me how 'beautiful, special and unique' I am, over and over again...I am annoyed.  I got it.  Is there anything else we can talk about, besides my amazing beauty?  Seriously.  If a date talks continually about himself and never asks me any questions, I am soooo not having a second date.  I actually asked one of those, if he had anything he wanted to ask me?  His response was "Nah, I already know everything about you".  Same guy actually asked me if I would write him a report and let him know in an email how I felt about the date.  GAWD!   I feel like I've heard it all and I've barely gotten started.  Kate said to me last week as we walked the dogs, "If you're feeling this way, imagine how I feel, I've been doing this my whole life..."  Soul stealing.

And things have changed in the world of dating these days.  You would think if you date within your own age parameters, especially if they were over the age of fifty, that a man would begin to evolve, learn from his previous relationships.  That The game would be unnecessary.  Oh no...that is the same.  I don't know what's worse really, the guy that likes the game, or the guy that wants a commitment right out of the gate.  Isn't there a happy medium?  There are textbooks written about The game.  The rules.  The do's and don'ts.  The secrets to landing your perfect man.  Puhlease.  It's a crapshoot at best.

I honestly believe, it's not about landing a man, it's about, what you can do to make it last if you find him.  If dating has done anything for me, it's shown me how very different men and women really think.  Coming out of a long term marriage, I have some very strict, non-negotiables.  One of them being, that, right now, as in, right now, I don't care how hard I fall in love with someone and vice versa...there is no way I'm sharing my space or giving up my space.  I fought too hard for it, and I'm not ready to give it up.  I don't care how lonely I am.  The man I give my heart to, will get that and work to earn my trust and know he doesn't need to control me or live with me to have my heart.  Then maybe, I will be ready to do that again someday. 

And speaking of control, one of the patterns I recognize I have to break, is allowing myself to be controlled.  I'm not talking about control in the sense of financial or telling me what to do.  I'm talking about the more subtle ways of control.  Emotional control.  Passive aggressive control.  These are the most dangerous types of men.  It's hard to detect at first.  My problem in the past, was always the fear of saying my truth, and worrying about the wrath to follow.  The consequences of being honest.   The silent treatment.  The "No, I'm not mad, because you said that, but I'm going to treat you like shit for 5 days as punishment..."  That kind of control is the kind I live in fear of repeating.  Therefore, if I think I get even a small whiff of it on a first date...I run like hell.  But the sad part of that, is I'm so afraid of it, so afraid I can't stand up to it yet, that I avoid a second date, just in case I am right.  But, I might not be right.  But then again, maybe I am.  See... not ready for relationship yet.

I don't want to bring the baggage of my past, to my next relationship.   I used to think of people's baggage in the form of children.  Baggage comes in many shapes and sizes.  Obviously, 28 years of marriage has had an impact.  It's not fair to my next relationship to simply expect that he will be like the man I was married to for so long.  He needs to have a clean slate.  This is the work I must do, in order to be ready.  I must think like a virgin.   

Almost every date I've gone on, the subject of relationship comes up.  In my limited experience of dating, I find it interesting that the men want to pin you down for that second date.  Second date is one more date closer to sex.  They aren't sure how many dates it will take, but they know how the online dating thing works.  They know I have options, and they are anxious to close the deal.  I'm already on to that.  It doesn't work.  I've gotten too strong and confident to let flattery go to my head.  Remember, I understand "why" my mom married too quickly, doesn't mean I will follow in her footsteps.  I may be new and a bit naive in the dating world, but I'm getting savvy, and I'm not anxious to repeat the mistakes of my past or my parent's.  

And, I realize, I have just gotten started.  I know I'm not divorced yet.  I know the two year point of any marker has not yet passed.  I also know that even If, all of a sudden, HE walked into my life, AND I recognized him to be The One, I could not, would not, even contemplate remarriage for several years.
If he loves me on the terms I have to have, if  he understands the scars that have formed over my wounds and shaped the topography of my thoughts and heart, if he wants the same things and all things are like synchronicity, then...he will wait.  He will know, that he already has me.  I can wait for that one.  I will wait.  In the meantime....another frog down. 

I could go with this subject for hours.  I have been cataloging my "adventures".  It's worth writing about.  It's worth the laugh.  I think my next blog might be part two.  Stay tuned.  In the meantime, I commence forth, weeding out the Mr. Wrong's, looking for Mr. I Can't Live Without, and maybe finding happiness with Mr. Wonderful Most of the Time.

It's good to be back and writing again.  I got my mojo back,  I just needed something to bitch about I guess.