It's Christmas night as I stare at my keyboard, and I've put this off as long as I can but there's just no easy or nice way to say it.
I'm being divorced.
I say "being" divorced instead of "getting" divorced, because that should answer the three main questions that this kind of statement elicits: no, it wasn't my choice; no, I did not want this; and no, I didn't see it coming.
As to the details, the why's and wherefore's, good taste would dictate that those be kept to private conversations and not a public forum such as this one. I will just say this: over the past four years or so, I have found all of you who read this column to be friends -- supportive and kind. So if you want to ask me anything or tell me anything, please feel free. I am not ashamed of my position nor any of the turns I've made along my life's path -- even though right now it's leading me through a particularly painful place. Of course understand that I reserve the right to either answer you or not.
I was delivered this news on the day before our sixth wedding anniversary, and I've spent the last month wishing so hard that I wasn't going through this, I've half expected my brain (or maybe my heart), to just melt right out of my body into a puddle on the floor. But I am going through it. And no amount of wishing or hoping, or even praying, is going to change that.
For the first few weeks, I walked around carrying this gigantic extension of my soul ... this huge, gross, disgusting, fleshy bag of skin and pain, throbbing and heavy. I felt myself dragging it along ... like some kind of uncontrollable and untreatable growth. I couldn't possibly imagine that I could have a conversation with someone, complete a task at work, anything ... without them seeing this big awful painful thing that was attached to me, just sitting there hurting.
Time went by and my understanding of the situation grew. And so the thing grew. I couldn't even see over it, not even sure how I managed to drive or get dressed, it was so big and so painful to touch ... letting sobs and animal-style moans escape from my body every now and then made it a little easier to carry. But then it would just grow again -- like the tears had fertilized it or something. I screamed at the sky that I couldn't live without him, that I loved him, that I didn't understand why this was happening to us. I curled up in a fetal ball and moaned some more. I seriously thought my body would not be able to physically handle the hurt of the thing, that I would just crack open one day and disintegrate in a huge flash of light and tiny Shannon-shards, exploding all over the place and leaving little craters of pain on the ground.
I can't wish this away. I can't, by sheer power of will, move myself back into the place of someone who is cherished, back into the arms of the man I loved and trusted with all my heart could hold. I can't.
And it could be that I don't need to. I'm not sure that a month is long enough to adjust to this kind of earth-shattering change, but for now, right at this moment, I feel like I have my brain sort of wrapped around the situation. Like I understand what happened and why, and that from now on, things are probably going to get a lot better for my little girl and me.
The thing ... it became a little more manageable.
Being a single mom most certainly isn't something I ever saw myself adding to my resume, but here I am. And you know what? It's OK. Because I'm up to it.
Handing my little girl, my angel, that piece of my live and beating heart, my true soulmate if ever such a thing existed ... handing her over for visitation time with her dad? Not being with her, and feeling like I've had her ripped from my arms, knowing I need to let him have his time with her, which means time that I'm NOT with her? Having absolutely no control and no choice in that matter whatsoever?
That, my friends, may be the hardest pill I've ever had to swallow. And I know I've only lived 30 short years, but I can't imagine a tougher one coming at any point in this life.
There are a million little reminders every day, week after week, that bring tears to my eyes. Little things that cut me, bringing to light the fact that my family is no more, will never be again. That I was not chosen, that I was rejected, deemed not good enough and thrown away. That my baby won't ever have a holiday or a birthday or anything with her parents there together. My spirit weeps for that loss.
We're making it.
We're finding a new normal. There are days when I'm sure the amount of tears lost may actually dehydrate me. There are times when I have to get up off the floor, quite literally, because the pain forced me down there when I saw another reminder that I'm no longer loved. But there are moments when the music sounds lively, and my mind and body feel every day more strong, and I realize my choices are mine again. And that's a pretty good thing. And me and my baby, we have a lot of fun together. Homegirl plays a mean game of peekaboo.
I have the most wonderful, supportive, kind, loving and understanding family that anyone could imagine. They've held me while I cried, handed me mountains of tissue, just sat with me in silence. Made sure I didn't have to go through any of this alone. And there just aren't any words that even I could use to paint the picture of how beautiful a thing that is.
It really is true that we never can know what the future holds, and that we shouldn't be surprised by anything this life throws our way. But it's also true that it's only in times like this that I've discovered how deep the waters of my faith really run ... and I've found them sufficient. They are sufficient and it is well with my soul.
This hasn't been the greatest Christmas, true. But I'm already looking forward to the next one.
sharris@blythevillecourier.com