Thursday, March 26, 2015

No Shortcuts



There’s this short-cut road I take to school when the snow melts, a dirt road maybe a mile long.  When I drive down this road, my concentration washes out, maybe it’s the bland, brown ground or the long tunnel of trees, but I drive without really paying attention which is a terrible mistake; this road, because it is dirt and because it has just been winter, is riddled with crater-sized potholes that can take out my undercarriage.  And it often feels like they do.  I need to be driving with the skill of Mario Andretti, not some addled, Sunbelt retiree.

But this is what my post-divorce emotional attunement—or mis-attunement--feels like.  A kind of disaffection or disconnection from my own feelings.  All those potholes riddling my insides after the brutal winter and I just want to drive right over them in blithe obliviousness.  Though of course, it is more than just obliviousness, isn’t it.  It is holding the heart at bay.

There are things you do when you’re alone that you didn’t have to do when you were together.  For me, that is dinnertime cooking, aka mechanized cooking.  My ex-husband is a splendid cook, naturally gifted.  And we had an often shared rhythm: I would help where I could, but mostly, I would watch, hand him things, and keep up the chatter that focused on the comings and goings of the days, about our kids, about the small, what might seem inconsequential victories of our lives.  And then we’d eat, together.  (Yes, this ritual had been badly damaged for a time by my eating disorder, but it was rescued.)  Alone?  I’m a tortured, neophyte cook, needing the steps of a recipe.  I make a big batch of something—soup, stew, chili—at the beginning of the week so I don’t have to think about it again until the end—and then  eat it every day, microwaving it over and over, feeling its repetitive tyranny over me by Day 3, which also by this fact loses its flavor.  Little pleasure, no conversation.  Just driving over the potholes.

It is difficult to simultaneously come back to life and to my beating broken heart.  Part of me is trying to be Marlo Thomas in “That Girl,” new life, new career, striking out on my own with a brave, independent front, trying to say “yes” to what the universe is offering to me.  The other part of me is still reeling from loss and betrayal and the end of the dream.  Sometimes I still believe that I am that twenty-four year old girl, because I was a girl, wearing the long flowy dress, standing beside the stone wall overlooking the port of Hydra in Greece saying “yes” to C..  It feels so close and all still so possible, and all the intervening years, the ones where things went wrong, anyway, so distant.  And even now, after all the pain that has transpired, I want to call him to talk about the losses and gains of the day, about the hurts and the joys, about him and me, about our kids.  But I don’t.  I can’t.  Because I am paying attention now to feeling and this is supposed to hurt and it’s not supposed to be easy.  My heart is supposed to break and he can’t put it back together for me anymore.  Only I can do that.