The Kids Are Alright (at least, they WILL be...)

“When mom and dad went to war the only prisoners they took were their children.” ~Pat Conroy

It’s been a crazy few weeks.  Recently I was treated to my eldest daughter being celebrated by her elementary school PTA for her outstanding art achievement and composition skills in music.  (Shut up for a minute…proud mommy, here.  Bear with me.)

I sat in the media center, glowing with pride at the beautiful, courageous little moppet before me—singing in front of a room full of strangers, nary a blush to her cheek, as she belted out her original piece about dreams and believing in oneself.

Now, to be clear, I am always astounded by what my children achieve—no so much because it surprises me, after all, they ARE spectacular human beings in their own rights—but more so by their fearlessness to reach out for what they desire and their tireless efforts to make their dreams a reality. 

(Once again, excuse me, but I did alert you to the pontificating, prideful mother moment—)

When we arrived home that evening, the youngest daughter asked me to take a picture of her with her latest drawing and post it on my social media.  It would seem that she and her sister had actually paid attention to the news reports on the plight of the stolen Nigerian girls and wanted to be photographed to join in the awareness.  In bright magenta crayon, my kindergartner had perfectly scrawled “#bringbackourgirls” and held her sign aloft, all the serious stoicism that could be mustered within her six year old, forty four pound body.

People…do I even really have to explain the weight of the pride and joy I felt in the fact that these were MY creations…?  MY offerings to this earth…?  MY gifts of hope to the next generation…?

I made THAT???  THOSE???  THEM???  They’re MINE???

If you know me at all or have followed what I’ve written or shared through this blog, you’ll probably recall that I’m going through a particularly insalubrious and bitter divorce.  My ex and I, together for twenty years, have apparently both conceded that happily ever after was not the ending for our particular story and instead are currently litigating ourselves into crappily ever after territory.

[Boo.  Bad pun is bad.]

Poet Charles Bukowski coined the perfect expression for it all: love is a dog from hell.

There are absolutely two sides to every story, but as I pan through this mire, trying desperately to secure what nuggets of wisdom and personal growth might be gleaned amidst the chaos and bitterness of this dark sludge, I realize that there will be no victor in this championship fight from the two main contenders.  No, the real winners WILL be the two miniature wonders we created in our unholy union. 

Don’t believe me?  Hear me out—

Of course, if I were to lay out my actions in all of the events of the past year, you would likely curl your lip at me and stammer bewilderedly about needing to be somewhere as you backed slowly from the room—but, conversely, if I were to delineate the timeline of what I withstood in the nineteen years prior, you would surely shake me like a ragdoll, trying to determine what the hell was wrong with me for setting women’s rights back a century (and you’d also most certainly call for the white-coats to  have me committed for single-handedly annihilating my own socio-emotional well-being over two decades…)

My ex hurt me in ways that are unfathomable, with vicious…cruel…debilitating…humiliating twists of knives I never even knew he possessed.  At the very end, in my desperation for freedom from pain, degradation, and isolation, I’m certain I left him a serious set of scars of his own. 

I have those that rally for my rights and my freedom from his monstrous choices; he has his own entourage who will sit and lick unsavory wounds with him over my incomprehensible quest for personal identity and peace.  SOMEone has to be the “bad guy,” right?



It’s sad when someone you know becomes someone you knew.



Stalemate.

But you know what I’ve uncovered from my introspection and reflections through this process?

It’s deceptively simple, really—

I don’t give a flying fuck what the court of public opinion thinks—their indictments or acquittals don’t matter. 

I don’t matter. 

My ex does not matter. 

The innocent lives in this debacle—this clown-show of fate and circumstance? 

THEY are all that matter.  

These months of musing have led me to five secret lessons that this divorce has taught me—and I’m compiling said lessons into an open letter to my daughters that I hope they discover one day…not today…but someday.

Secret Divorce Lesson Number 1:  Kiddos?  It is your fault.  But not in the way you think.  No, this didn’t happen because of you—this happened FOR you.  Mommy and Daddy together weren’t what would bring you the best life—I swear to GOD.  I know that might not make sense now, but one day you will understand that false security is no security at all.  Because of all of this, Mommy will forever be a better parent—more attentive to your needs.  More aware of your fears.  More validating of your strengths.  More encouraging of your dreams.  More supportive of your concerns.  [Daddy will, too.  Maybe.  No…I’m kidding.  That’s grown-up bitter asshole humor there.  One day, when you are one, you’ll get it.]

Secret Divorce Lesson Number 2: I said it earlier—but I’ll say it again: Mommy doesn’t matter anymore.  Neither does Daddy.  My sweet babies, never let it be said that we don’t fully realize that WE broke this great big world that we’re laying in shattered pieces at your feet like guilty, sheepish pets leave remnants of trash across a kitchen floor.  Our failings will become the kindling for you to build a funeral pyre to the end of our era and let the flames purify the grounds for the foundations of your empire.  We had our chance and we blew it—this will be your time, I promise.

Secret Divorce Lesson Number 3: Strange as this may sound, Mommy will always explain Daddy and defend Daddy to you, even when he doesn’t deserve it.  Not because he’s right…and certainly not because I agree with him.  Why?  Honestly, because if I don’t, I know from firsthand experience, that you will forever seek your approbation in the wrong people, the wrong moments, the wrong places.  You will not be able to chart the course to navigate your own waters in this life if you are forever questioning the value or the veracity of those who helmed your ship before you.  Doubt destroys and I commit to removing as much of it from your shoulders as I possibly can for the rest of my life.  In time, I can only pray that this act of faith on my part will afford you the confidence you will need to heed to your own compass and to sail confidently into a life of your own design.

Secret Divorce Lesson Number 4: As absurd as this may sound, this really does hurt me more than it hurts you.  This is not to discount your feelings—I know you are both hurting.  I see it etched in your sparkling eyes, I hear it in the dulcet tones of your tender voices…and I would give my life to take even an ounce of it away.  But I am fully confident that if anyone can create greatness from adversity, it will be you, my daughters.  I believe you will illustrate beauty with the broken crayons we are giving you right now…you will paint perfect, heart-stopping portraits from the pain that you will conquer.  You will emerge from this wreckage victorious and what you have endured will be the legacy of every life you touch…

“It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace.” ― Chuck Palahniuk, Diary

Secret Divorce Lesson Number 5: All of the love songs are absolutely right—love hurts. Love will make you sick.  Love will scar you.  Love sucks.  But here’s the kicker, my darling girls—NOTHING but love will take your heart…your spirit…your soul…to the next level.  Love…when it is real and true and right…will lend you its wings and, my baby girls, even if it falters (or, sadly, drops you on your asses), it is worth sacrificing everything [except who you are] to try for it again. 

Simply put?  Without love, there wouldn’t have been you…and without you…well, there wouldn’t be anything.

P.S.  One of the most tragic detours of this acrimonious avenue my “conscious uncoupling” has brought to bear is that I do not forsee ever being able to say goodbye to your daddy’s family—my only family for two decades—the good nor the bad.  [And honestly, there were far more good there than bad.]   I suppose it is only customary that they will see things through a lens skewed by righteous indignation for their kin…for a time. 

But…as that time weathers and wears their memories, I hope…not for my benefit, but for the sake of my innocent children…that they will reevaluate the years I withstood what I could to shape and nurture those thriving, clever, creative, magnificent young people that I know that they love. 

So, my footnote to my former family…and to the world itself…? 

If and when along your journey you happen upon a beautiful girl with a broken smile…or a tender heart beneath a crisp candy-colored shell?  Look behind the shadow smiles and the bravura of their bravado.  Like you, they are hurting from wounds they never asked to create…and they are doing the very best they can with them.

Please be kind to them.  Show them that there is still plenty to believe in—in themselves, and in others, as well.  Offer them your smile.  Hold their hands.  Let words of kindness come from your lips.  The real world will reveal its gruesome truths to them soon enough…please help me to buffer them gently into the embrace of a society that will not care what they’ve endured nor recognize their triumphs amidst such chaos. 

Please be there for them when I cannot.  Please help my babies remain active curators of their own existences…I’ve given them their canvases… please provide them with any media to fill up the emptiness in their own beautiful fashion. 

Please don’t let them believe that the rancor and the vitriol of the life they are currently braving are to be their destiny, as well. 

The universe gave these children to me and I’m not certain I’m ready to give them to the world…not while there is still an ounce of fight or faith left within me. 

But I do know that I can’t do this alone. 

I need you.

They need you.

This is where it all begins.

 

What the HELL is wrong with Mrs. El?: Volume One (A confessional in five parts.)

I’ve sat down many times over the past few months to compose this open letter to the internet and anyone who stumbles across it…

 

…but every time I’ve come close, I withdraw and retreat like a little bitch with a skinned knee. 

 [I’m a girl, ergo, I can say things like this about myself.  You, however, are not me…so take note.  Also, I should know.  I’m very clumsy and shred my knees on the regular.  It’s kind of my thing.  *sigh* I digress.]

I’m too chicken to peel the scab, too stupid to leave it unpicked. 

Either way, it won’t heal and I can’t leave it alone.

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

In part, I suppose that a measure of me knows that I should continue to shoulder the experience I am enduring (authoring?) on my own, but the truth is that so many people dear to me have sought understanding from the trail of cryptic breadcrumbs I’ve been leaving for months and have approached me directly with their concern. 

Frankly, I’m exhausted with the charade—

—so—

DEEP BREATH.

Here goes:

After exactly twenty years with my husband…I am here to confess my admission into the ultimate American Claim to Fame Club—

I, Mrs. E.L., will now and heretoforever be defined by being on the losing side of the 50% success / failure rate of American marriage.

Yep.

D-I-V-O-R-C-E

Please, suffice it to say that over the past few months, bridges have been set ablaze, social media accounts pirated, emotional arbitrage conducted…and every foul piece of behavior you can imagine has transpired as promises and pledges have been transgressed and dreams defiled.

THIS is not the blog to explain (that will arrive later), nor is it the blog to attack (that will never come), nor is this the blog to defend (perhaps… one day)…

As children [spelled v-i-c-t-i-m-s] of divorce ourselves, I honestly believed my husband and I could do better by one another than the template set forth by our parents. 

As the divorce and its imminence loomed, I surmised that one of four things would transpire:

1) We’d get our shit together and reconcile for the kids—because why SHOULDN’T we be able to do so as educated, privileged, first-world citizens with every reason and opportunity in the world to make things work???

2) He’d kill me.  (Seriously.  Marital tension is no joke, yo.  I won’t even make light of domestic violence, because there is little that weighs heavier on my heart than this subject.  This may be the place, but it is most certainly not the time…)

3) We’d find some hip new divorce style that honored our two decades together (and, more importantly, the two magnificent daughters we created in our union)—you know, where we met for coffee, invited one another over for game nights, sat holding hands at the kids’ events.  Then, of course, the default option—

4) We’d take what little scraps of money we ever even had and humbly bow upon our knees to beg to award it to litigators who would drink their fees in thirty year old scotch over two forty-something idiots who couldn’t get their heads out of their respective asses long enough to avoid becoming a pathetic statistic amidst the divorcé clichés.

I was always down for options one or three and I made this clear, but—as it goes—my proposal was moot and well…here we are:

Lawyers receiving dollars that should be spent on our daughters…so that we can pick and poke at one another, digging our fingers deeper into wounds of our own creation, spreading the pus and poison of infected hearts and bilious, cankered souls.

Hot DAMN, it’s a great day to be alive, ain’t it?

[Pity?  Party of one?  Your table is now ready…]

So how does this happen? 

How does a pair of hearts go from “…th’ exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine…” to “…a plague o’ both your houses…”?

Honestly, this is what I anticipate uncovering as I roll myself into a chrysalis and cocoon myself through this process—hopefully emerging from the viscera of the tears and the years at some measure of better transformation from this corrosive metamorphosis.

Where am I now in phase one of this drama? 

Well, my wit has abandoned me and reason is hiding within my rationalization, so I am left with only this pithy bit of bitterness:

Relationships are not mushrooms:

love can’t live in shadows, faith can’t grow in shit.

[How ya like dem apples?  You’re totally welcome for that little nugget of awesome.  I fully expect the royalties from having that printed on your t-shirts and coffee mugs to pay for my overpriced counsel.]

 
There is so much to say, so much I want to reveal…so many veins to drain…but, what is the thesis at this juncture?  The bottom line of all this cathartic word vomit?

 

Perhaps only this:

 

Have you love in your life?

(Seriously?  Does it still have a pulse, however faint?)

 

Treasure it.

Sanctify it.

Bandage it.

Bond it.

Protect it.

 

 

Have you not found that love yet?

 

Stop looking.  It will find you.  I swear to almighty Sagan, it’s the truth.  The moment you stop seeking love, it will mow you down like a Mac Truck.  This I know, but...again...this is for another blog.

 

Have you had love, but now acknowledge that it is fractured and broken beyond repair? 

(Are you bruised beyond all recognition?) 

 

Well, my friends…then welcome to my table: pull up a chair and join me. 

Let’s laugh our way through this…or at least toast to our pathos and pity one another’s shortcomings over strong drinks and even stronger language.

 

This is my brave face, folks.

[Please bear with me if it falters.]

 

Your regularly scheduled Mrs…I mean…Ms…El will return posthaste…at least, I hope she will...

 

 

P.S. Want to understand my feels, from one sad bastard to another...?  Give this a play and you might land somewhere nearby...

 

Ms. El's Sad Bastard Song for Life