When I read these blog posts and when I listen to my friends and when I hear stories about, well, anyone, wrestling with the divorce question, 9 times out of 10 my answer is "end it." Mostly I keep that to myself.
If I’m jaded, I’m jaded. I see no benefit in prolonging relationships which aren’t healthy or that bring more suffering than they alleviate. So we stay together because that is our tradition – marriage for life – and we believe a broken commitment is failure. For better or for worse.
Most of us meet young and marry before we are 30, we don’t know ourselves. And then we grow and change and, thank the gods, we are not the same two people who flirted and dreamed and swore till death do we part.
I look at my parents. Most of my life they haven’t even seemed to like each other. 50+ years of marriage. In moments their love is obvious, visible even in the constant ways they peck and pick at each other.
Did you know that women use 20,000 words a day while men only use 7,000?
March is Women’s History Month. I still don’t understand why it isn’t women’s herstory month, but I’m doing everything I can to change that. Language is very important, as we 20,000-a-day women know. It’s the only tool we have to claim our power short of shouting. That’s why we tell our kids to “Use your words!”
Meanwhile, I’ll just keep ranting. According to the national women’s history project, before 1970, women's history was rarely the subject of serious study.
As historian Mary Beth Norton recalls, "only one or two scholars would have identified themselves as women's historians, and no formal doctoral training in the subject was available anywhere in the country." Since then, the landscape has changed dramatically. Today almost every college offers women's history courses and most major graduate programs offer doctoral degrees in the field.
Standing on the podium at the National Arts and Club with a microphone in hand, I stumbled, trying to remember Susan B. Anthony’s famous words, "Failure is impossible." What came out instead was, “Never give up.”
Other Susan B. Anthony Award recipients took turns giving speeches and receiving their awards. I’ve never really been one for giving or getting prizes, but as I write this, the night after the Oscars and almost a week after the NOW-NYC gathering, I realize how important it is to be recognized by your peers.
My plaque sits on the piano, and somehow makes tangible all the hours, days and years I’ve spent speaking with women. Listening to their struggles and brainstorming ways to make marriages, divorces, careers, families, and personal passions less of a struggle and more of a joy.
Empowering women to find their voice is what really gets me going, and I honestly believe the breakdown of American marriage is one of the more obvious signposts for how much work American women still have to do to change limiting behavior in their personal lives and homes.
How have you been? Is that a new haircut? You look good. I like those shoes. So, what’s going on with you?
Me? Yeah, sorry – kind of disappeared there. I know, I know, I should have left a message. Checked in. Something. I know, people worry. Feelings get hurt. Sorry about that.
Luckily – for those who feel some investment – my return means you’re in for a blow by blow of the last couple of months, complete with introspection, pondering, rhetorical questions, and (undoubtedly) overanalysis.
It’s been a bit of a time. The major highlights, to be discussed at length in the coming weeks:
My divorce is final (Huzzah!) as of December 29th, 2008 – a mere, oh, two years after starting the process.
Wait, wait – two years? Wasn’t this supposed to be a fairly straightforward process, what with the two of us having no kids, no property, no real disagreement?
Why, yes. And this brings us to the land of How Do You Know If Your Lawyer Is Screwing You, in a metaphorical and non-delightful way.
I heard a woman say the other day that she’s been feeling like Superwoman since her husband’s stroke. She’s had to do all kinds of new things, like handle their bills and make small repairs around their home.
I understood where she was coming from. Trouble has a way of tossing that red cape around our shoulders and making us capable of amazing feats.
Divorcing my husband, Edgar, was probably the heaviest lifting I’ve ever done, emotionally speaking. I had to get rid of my guilt over breaking my vows, the guilt he heaped on me for the same, my fears of economic insecurity and loneliness, worries about what family, friends, and strangers would think.
And now, I’m calling on my newfound strength to handle a sort of eviction of a good friend.
Robin was strapped for cash, so I let her stay rent-free in my mostly empty house, now for sale. The plan was for her to house-sit until it sells – whenever that is.
My neighbor and I were talking about our perplexing positions in life. We are both in the same boat, contemplating divorce for a couple of years now with young children involved. She revealed to me that her husband had been physically abusive to her a few times throughout the marriage and that he continues to verbally assault her in front of her kids on an almost daily basis.
When I told her that I think my husband may be either cheating on me or planning on cheating on me, she said, "Oh, that's where I draw the line. If he cheats on me, I'm out of here."
This got me thinking about the different thresholds we all have as women. Before I was married I always assumed that my threshold would be "If I'm unhappy in my marriage, I'm out of here." After we were married and we had kids my threshold evolved into something like, "If he ever lays a hand on me in violence, or becomes verbally abusive, or cheats on me, then I'm out of here."
It was while wrapping Christmas presents that I thought of him. The memories tend to sneak up on me like that now; something unexpected will trigger this explosion in me and they come flooding back in.
I thought of our last Christmas together. The one where Adrian was just twelve days old. That one, where I was still white knuckled, sick to my stomach, clinging to the hope that he wouldn't do exactly what he's done: leave us. I did everything for him, his way, hoping that he would stay. Right down to circumcising my son (which I didn't want to do) and giving Adrian his last name (which I've come to regret more than you can know). I understand now that desperation will do these things to you; make you give parts of yourself that you otherwise would never consider.
I thought of that day, how stressed out my body was from just giving birth and the lack of sleep that ensued, but how in comparison that was nothing on how stressed out my mind was.
