Eighteen and Thirty-Seven

Eighteen years old and at my mother's funeral, I refused to go into the sanctuary until they had closed the casket.  After watching my vibrant mother self-destruct to drugs, alcohol and depression, I had watcher her morph into another person and couldn't imagine seeing her dead body dressed up inside  a box.  I had to concentrate to muster up tears that day.  I couldn't cry.  Everyone came up to me tearful and full of sorrow, saying how sorry they were for me.  Yet, I remained stoic and numb.  Tears that ordinarily come easily for me did not come that day.

I had already mourned my mother's death in the two years prior to her passing.  Watching her change and succumb to addictions and several asshole men was a devastating thing to watch as a teenager.  I knew she was dying a little bit more with every passing day.  All of my tears had already been cried, so the day she died I almost felt relieved.  Some of my pain would stop because now my mother was dead and gone, not just avoiding me and cutting me out of her life because it was too hard to see me.

My marriage was like that.

The day I went down to the courthouse and filed for divorce, I pressed inward to search my feelings but I couldn't find sadness.  There was peace and then guilt for feeling peace.

According to some of my family and most of my friends, I should definitely not be feeling peace when I am stepping out of God's will and ending the covenant I made to my husband before God.  I was afraid to ask Him why I felt that way.  Had it come from Him or had He left me now that I had committed what some believe to be an unforgivable sin?  Does God allow us to feel His peace when we've committed the magnanimous sin of divorce?  I was scared to hear those answers.

Thirty-seven years old, no tears fell on the day I went to finalize the divorce.  Seeing the words "decree of divorce" with our names written in black and white brought more peace.  I breathed deeply and that familiar feeling of relief set in as I knew some of my pain would stop because our marriage was officially and legally over.  All that I had been holding and living with was no longer a burden I had to bear.  It felt good to let it go.

Now I hold the tension of relief and sorrow.  My ambivalent feelings of abundant happiness and dark sorrow have been difficult to navigate through.  Daily, I feel the weight of the pain and hurt I have caused my ex-husband, the boys and our family and friends.  Those are the places I easily find my tears again.  I've held both of my boys in my arms weeping with them saying I'm sorry, over and over again; giving them permission to feel whatever it is they do, even if it's anger or hurt towards me. I imagine that is something I will always carry as this was a decision that I did not come to quickly or easily.  And it was costly - just as costly as I imagined it would be.

Maybe we're all given a certain amount of tears meant to be cried over one thing or one person.  Or maybe the lack of them, or the running out of tears means our grief has moved into the phase of acceptance and something inside us moves forward with surprising ease.  Because during the really, really hard times, we felt our feelings and cried our tears and screamed our screams.  We didn't stuff or suppress them or numb them away with too much pizza or tumblers full of vodka.  We gave those feelings words and paintings, tattoos and photographs because we learned to turn pain into beauty.

Remaining present in the sad, gray moments and feeling my longings collide with reality was a daily fight for me, especially in my marriage.  But I fought, and I felt it and I know in the depth of my heart that I gave my all, my whole heart and whole effort to my marriage.

The shift came and the hard decision I wrestled with for so long was made, my soul was finally at rest.  And regardless of what anyone else thinks or believes or assumes - there is peace.