Despite the fact that my failed marriage is a chapter of my life I'm thankful to have behind me, this anniversary isn't one I'm ready to celebrate. I didn't get married planning to get divorced, and getting divorced wasn't something I wanted to do. It took me seven long years to realize I didn't have a marriage. That the relationship that I was fighting so hard for didn't exist. That the man I promised to love, honor and cherish had never been and never would be.
I continue to be surprised at how hard it is to say good-bye to the dreams I had for my life, to the illusions that kept me bound to someone with whom I could never have a real marriage. There are definitely days when I just want to pull the blankets over my head and let the world whirl along its merry little way while I sit this one out, thank you.
But I'm not. That's not the person I am, or the person I remember myself to be. The dreamer who didn't just dream, but also did. The crafter who finished her projects more often than not. The dancer who didn't care if my arms were flying all over the place because I was having fun, and who cared if I looked silly? The singer. The doodler. The writer for fun, not just money. The many things that I lost through the years because hopes and dreams and fun bleed away against relentless disappointment, frustration, resentment, and the realization that you, the person you are, can never, never, never be enough to make this person happy or satisfied or content.
So I'm starting over. Reconnecting with the person I used to be. Choosing to focus on the blessings that I gained from my marriage. Learning to live with the scars I got there, too, and not shrinking away from their tenderness. Showing up. Pressing that publish button, even when it feels entirely too intimate to put these words out there. Healing my heart. Believing in the blessings of today and the promises of tomorrow. Here's to tomorrow.
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