On dead things, and anger, and boats.

He said to me, “our marriage is dead.”

And, I agree; three weeks ago, I cut the head off.

In truth, our marriage had been a ghost of an idea for a long while, and I had exhausted myself being the one to propel us in whatever direction we could go.  He was a ghost of man; an invisible husband whom I recognized every now and then when we shared funny things, or when he would fly off the handle at something.  Mostly though, he was unrecognizable underneath his shroud of bitterness and resentment.  It was so heavy, it burdened both of us.  I tried for years to help him exorcise it but he seemed determined to hold on tight.  As if letting go would expose him, would force him to see outside of himself and thereby, see who he was on the inside.  Perhaps he was afraid of who he might discover?

But, I was tired; I couldn’t carry him, or us any longer and I let him go from my heart.  I didn’t know what to expect when I went home that day to tell him that I was unhappy, and that I wanted to leave.  Had no expectations for the future except that I knew I didn’t want to be in this union anymore.

He will crumble and wither away, and I will be the cause of it, I thought. Seeing him weep in front of me, alternately wishing to hug me and push me away, was horrible.  I didn’t know how to help him.  I only knew that this was the path I had chosen and I was resolute in my decision.  That first week was incredibly painful for both of us – sleepless nights, tearful talks.  I cried so hard that I thought I might puke, and I knew I was crying for the loss; it felt like grief, the sudden first stage when all you feel is heartache and sorrow, and all you can do is stand in the grocery store wondering what the fuck you went down this aisle for.

We both started seeing a counselor separately (ironically, and I think now, universally intentionally, the same one) during the second week.

My resoluteness remained.  I had clarity and peace of mind, and I attended the first two sessions with a sense of “I know what I’m doing, so why am I here?”

Then something happened to him that I was not prepared for; he discarded the shroud. After the initial flood of emotion had subsided, he saw clearly, and for the first time how he had been living his life.  And, how it had affected me and our marriage.  He talked, he wrote, he opened his heart and his eyes.  Within these three weeks, he has almost made a 360 within himself.

At first, I was glad for him.  After all, I had tried many, many times to remove that fucking shroud myself.  I had suggested, cajoled, tried to help find ways for him to be who he really was meant to be.  But my efforts had been fruitless, and I knew that only he could do it for himself.  So, yes, I was happy to see this man emerge, become brighter, happier – in just three weeks.

Yes, as he grew, I felt myself deflate.

I went away by myself for a weekend in the mountains to hike, and to contemplate…things.  But it didn’t go as planned.  On the Saturday, I got sick and ended up unable to move from the bed or the couch.  I was quiet all day.  I stared out of the window at distant bare branches and trees writhing in the wind; it was a gloomy day, reflective of my mood, and I thought nothing at all.  I missed my family, I knew that.  Not necessarily him, but my kids definitely.

The next day, I came home and felt no leap for him when I saw him in the driveway.  And, it wasn’t until we were alone that I felt absolute sadness again.  I cried and cried, thinking I was grieving still, but the words that came to mind were filled with the disbelief that we’d gotten things wrong for so long.  How could I have spent the last fifteen years like this?  How could we?

Since coming home this Sunday, I have been skating a well of tears.  Every act of kindness he shows me, every thing he says, everything that proves he had discovered his truth, pushes me over the edge and I couldn’t figure out why.  Until today.

My session began before she even opened the door because I sat in the waiting room in tears.  Here he is, my husband, becoming the man I’ve always wished him to be, and I am angry.  I am so angry that this didn’t happen sooner.  That he didn’t hear me all these years.  That he didn’t have the strength to do this before I let my love for him go.

I know quite firmly that this could not have happened any sooner; I wasn’t prepared to make the choice, and he wouldn’t have been prepared to deal with the fallout.  It would have been contentious and ugly.

So, what do I do with this anger?  I have to let it go, too.

I don’t know how yet.  And I don’t need to know yet.

What will become of our marriage now that the old way no longer works?

I don’t know yet.  And I don’t need to know yet.

My heart is sore.  My eyes prickle with tears a lot.

I have set my boat afloat.  It was a bit rocky at first whilst it found stability, but now I’m on open water.  I need to learn how to sail by myself, and how to judge my environment before I plot a course.

Where will I go?  I don’t know.  And I don’t need to know yet.

 

 

On Anger.

I guess I have a lot bubbling up this week.  See what happens when my back is turned?  The scab is peeled away, leaving the wound open for me to inspect.  For once I welcome it. After too long a time of pushing down the ugliness that struggled to see the light, I am conscious of an opening up to everything that I have refused to acknowledge.

Anger.  And lots of it.  Hatred, too.  And resentment.  Boiling and roiling and really pissed off on its own that I’ve allowed it to fester; covered up with ineffectual platitudes and verbiage of love and forgiveness and kindness in the hopes that it would seep away in its own time.

In my practice of mindfulness, I led myself to believe that these emotions and thoughts were ‘bad’.  Even though truly I knew that they are part and parcel of the spirit, they are not who I AM, who I really AM.  But I was scared of them.  Frightened by the ferocity, by the lack of grace they represented that I was trying so hard to maintain.

Now I crack open my heart and let the grungy, brown toilet water pour forth.  Let it all out.  Feel it all.  Know it’s okay to feel angry.  Know that it’s okay to think  “I really fucking hate you,” because in so saying and in so admitting, I am freeing myself of these things that have held me down for so long.

It must be said also that even though I do what is needed, none of it is destined to remain.  On the contrary, they are thought and said and released.  Gone, like tainted butterflies crumbling into wispy bits out in the Universe.

No fear now for the words or the emotions.  New space is being created;  an empty mass vacated by truth; replaced with love and light.  This was a task no affirmation nor positive quote could accomplish.  Only until I quit with the sidelong glances and stares away to find the strength to turn inside and face it fully, could I feel this freedom and move closer to my truth.

A New and Deeper Truth
by Kaveri Patel

broken-heart-quotes

the old truth made you
run a thousand miles
inside an arid desert
desperate for an oasis

sit and close your eyes
inhale the breeze of kindness
exhale the toxic judgments
dehydrating you like a prune

feel the pain of old patterns
trapped in tense muscles
it’s ok to cry, to taste
the salt of possibility

just be, just breathe
let waves break against
the silence, returning you
to a new and deeper truth

*******

Riding With The Dog

During the recent spell of distraction, I failed to notice the dog named Ego covertly slip a collar around my neck and take me off for a little trip down memory lane, up angry road, through the woods of confusion and on across the meadow sea of resentment.

Old patterns restitched themselves into familiar places and I bounced around in their quilty arms, thinking thoughts which fed the feelings which led to tears.  And on and on.  And all the while, Ego panted happily beside my floppy, unseeing Self.

I began yoga a week or so ago.  I never thought I could be that kind of person; I’ve tried classes and apps and DVD’s over the years but it felt too strenuous; not enough movement for my restless spirit.  I used to find solace on the crossramp with my legs going a million miles an hour to thumping club music.  These days I have found a peace in running too which admittedly is more like Phoebe-running.  Although I do not enjoy getting out of bed at the obscene hour that I do (thanks to husband for that), I do love the misty morning feel, the dark, the cool, the solitude.  No music.  Just me, just my feet, just breathing.  On the days I don’t run, I do yoga.

During my session this morning, I came into an awareness that I had been dragged along of late.  I had been preoccupied with the film I was helping with and instead of living with my heart open and being conscious of thought and of love and space, I had retreated to my old ways.  Certain situations that I know will take years to sit comfortably with, rose up and roared.   I did not fight them, I didn’t observe and let them be.  I ignored them.  And in that rejection, they bred.

Ego yelped when I opened my eyes this morning and stopped; he was still galloping with destinations dark and thorny for me but I took off the collar, wagged my finger at him and turned away.

Ego, exasperated, would say, “how many times do I have to do this?  This back and forth with awareness?” and the answer, with an equal amount of displeasure, would be “who the hell knows?” but that would get me nowhere.

I understand fully that this is what the journey is about.

It’s about the opening and closing of the heart, the learning and learning, the turning away and being sucked into old mental pathways followed by the returning to the self.  The loving openness of each return which holds no judgement or harsh feelings.  And, of being able to sit with whatever is going on, be it joyful or painful.

Tara Brach has said that there is beauty in a heart that is ready for everything.