I Had It Comin’…

I told someone the other day, just an acquaintance, that I thought I had pretty much played out the subject of the MD (marital dissolution) here at C?WC? Time to move on.

Man, I am such a big, fat, freakin’ liar.

How can it be over, just eight weeks (and three days, two hours, and 47 minutes – but who’s counting?) after the court date. Yes, the legal mumbo jumbo is over, the emotional ties broken long before that, yet there is still a physical connection – the house – and a mental one, at least for me. And this week, I stirred the pot a bit in the PMD (post marital dissolution, natch) era, letting out some of the anger I had been checking for so long. And the Ex fired back with her own pent-up barrage, dropping the F bomb and generally making me feel pretty lousy.

I guess I had it coming.

But score one for me on the karma board: I might have started the war, but I did not escalate further. I pulled back, and even managed to draw an apology, of sorts, from my co-belligerent. But it was the aftermath, more than the assault itself, that left me shell-shocked (and the martial metaphors are over…now).

Her email, as I think it was somewhat calculated to do, brought back all the guilt and self loathing I’ve been trying to therapize out of my psyche for almost a year now. (A year; holy shit! And I am “better” than on May 6, 2010, for sure, but that might not be saying much…) The rest of the week was basically a waste; all the meditations and visualizations I tried could not dislodge from my skull either her or the feelings she stirred.

And the capper was last night, in bed. With the lights off and Steve Reich’s Music for 18 Musicians starting its endless evening loop (this CD has been playing on a repeat cycle every night for, oh, about 6 months now. I do not know why, really. Other than instrumentals are good for me when I’m sleeping, and the rhythmic, repetitive pattern seems to soothe on those sleepless or sleep-disrupted nights; the  predictability too – I wake, hear a few bars, and know where I am and what will follow. Knowledge usually missing from my daily existence…), I once again broke down. Bawled like a baby. Let out guttural cries of pain, as I anguished over my state and the bleak future I fear awaits, at least as far as relationships go.

In that moment, I could not do what I have done so often post divorce: think of the poor wretches in Japan, or my friend with Parkinson’s, or the many souls struggling with terminal diseases. No, I could not put my pathetic plight into perspective and say with a grin, forced or not, “Gee, it’s good to be alive! It’s great to be me!”

The crying must have wore me out; I soon fell asleep. And pretty much slept straight through, such a rarity this past year without the help of drugs. But with the morning light, the memory of the pity party just a few hours before was my first thought. Followed by the memory of what got me there in the first place.

So, lessons learned, or reiterated by my many divorce masters I turn to for advice: NO, NONE, NADA contact with the Ex beyond the most fundamental business items. No expression of emotion – that‘s what friends and therapist are for. Get busy, get out, meet people. Occupy your time, your mind. And, the hardest of all, be patient. Time will continue to salve the emotional wounds, make her a slowly shrinking dot in memory’s rear-view mirror, and likewise present opportunities to meet someone new. Someone not like the Ex in every way that matters.

Patience. Unfortunately, I am not a patient man. I can be impulsive (Thursday, I was this close to booking a long weekend in Iceland for late April. Really.) Look at my many ill-advised missives to the ex-missus. I guess that’s more an issue of self-restraint than patience. But I will try to cultivate both. Yes, time will roll along, and I will get better.

Eight weeks, three days, three hours, 17 minutes…

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~ by mburgan on March 26, 2011.

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