After my Ingrid Michaelson song post, someone commented, "It's just a song people."

I loved the responses to that, but I especially loved this one:

"And a poem is just a poem? And a painting is just pigment on a canvas and (so the song goes) life is just to die? Sorry, I don't buy that. I think it's good, great, wonderful to look to art, music, architecture, nature — all these things — to try to find or understand our connections to one another and to find some meaning to go with our experiences."

I spend more time doing this these days — finding new meanings in pieces I've already known. Songs, especially — whether they're about splitting up, or, more recently, being in a relationship that makes me happy — songs I've known forever I hear again and suddenly understand, suddenly feel like they're connected to me.

Suddenly, there are songs that mean something. Books that suddenly make sense. Poems that make me feel like I know where I'm going.

Because I like that — that feeling of connection — and because I want to irritate the commenter who thinks songs mean nothing but a paycheck to the songwriter, I'd like to spend a little time this week on those connections.

That's the thing about major life shifts: There's new meaning to find, and there are others trying to find the same meanings. Sometimes they say it better than we do.

Money, the image that money brings, meant a lot to Jake. I couldn't get a bookshelf or a pair of shoes without checking in first - I would have gotten a look, a comment, a day of silence. A plane ticket to see a friend for the weekend, that was out of the question. We didn't have the money to spend it recklessly.

The thing was, we did have the money. And when Jake wanted something, he would get it. He was an impulse furniture buyer. He bought a $300 humidor on whim.

He thought that, because he made more than I did, financial decisions should be his. He was uncomfortable with feeling this way, he tried to pretend he didn't, but he did.

I have mixed feelings about money. If there's not a cushion in my bank account, I get nervous. My cat might need surgery again. My car might fall apart. I want to be prepared. And, for the most part, I don't spend a lot. I don't like shopping. I don't have expensive taste in anything.

But I want to see my friends, and I'm willing to throw down for a plane ticket to do so. If I have the freedom and ability to travel, I want to do so — I might not be able to later. If that means carrying some debt around for a couple of months, so be it. I don't want to be irresponsible, but I also don't want to give everything up. So I try to balance.

I definitely have less money now that I'm divorcing. I have to watch things, especially since I have to guard against the day my settlement payments stop. But I love that I can take a class if I want to and not have to justify it to anyone. I can go on vacation. I can get a bookshelf.

I used to wonder about couples that had been together for years but still kept separate bank accounts. Now, I see the appeal. I don't know how willing I'd be to get back into shared finances. This way, I know exactly where everything is, and my choices about what to do with what I have are mine alone.

Getting a settlement is handy. Since Jake owns a company, since the company is lucrative, since we were married for 10 years, and since he's not an asshole, mine is a decent one. More than decent, really. Because giving me what we determined is "my share" all at once would effectively close his company down, our arrangement is spread over the next five years.

This means that I can afford to stay in San Francisco. This means that I have some money to invest against the day the payments stop. This means I don't have to panic about money for the next little bit.

This also means that he and I are tied for the next five years.

I didn't want any money from him when we split. It felt wrong, somehow. It felt icky. I didn't want the tie. I'm rational enough to take it, but we're still in a relationship this way. This necessitates communication. There's a monthly reminder. It's a connection I don't like having.

Sometimes I wonder if the complete and absolute freedom would be worth it. But this money means that I am having a far, far, far easier time of it than other women in the same situation. With all I have to worry about, paying my bills is not, for the moment, one of them. So I feel enormously guilty for the bad feelings I have.

How do I not feel guilty for resenting this? How do I accept this help while hating the ties it makes and keeps?

I've been listening to Ingrid Michaelson all week. One particular CD — it's like she's crawled into my head and is digging about it in, only in a catchy/lovely/song lyrical kind of way. My past two years are there in their entirety, neatly, in 10 tracks or so.

This one song — "Corner of Your Heart" — I can't stop listening to it. I can't stop because it upsets me so much, like a bruise you can't stop pressing. It's beautiful and haunting and infinitely disturbing. I can't turn it off.

"There's a corner of your heart just for me," it goes. "I will pack my bags just to stay in the corner of your heart. Just to sleep underneath your bed. Just to occupy one minute of your day."

Now, I don't know if this intended to be a love song. Maybe it is. Maybe to other people there is romance in it.

But to me, it's horrifying. It's everything that was wrong about my relationship: me just wanting something, something, anything that would tell me I was loved back. It's me being offered only a corner, being willing to take that. Being happy with that. Giving up so much in hopes of that one minute.

I can't stop listening to it because I want to know if that's what it's meant to mean. Because I recognize myself in it. And because I'm so far away from that place now and don't want to go anywhere near it again.

Also, it's a really pretty song.

Lindsay knows exactly what to do when a friend is getting divorced. She doesn't press. She doesn't pester with questions. She doesn't fill the space with reassurances or aspersions - she allows silence. She allows time. She knows that what's needed is normality.

At the same time, she'll let you that, anytime you need, it, you can call her and she'll drive out and spend the day with you, or the afternoon, or the hour. She'll take you to lunch, she'll go to a movie, she'll just sit with you so you're not alone.

When you move to a new place, she's the one that will spend the first night with you so you're not alone, making the weekend into a party instead of a chore, keeping any of it from being sad. She'll unpack boxes. She'll organize your closet and your kitchen.  

She is, in short, an invaluable friend. 

The other reason to look to Lindsay is that she has a marriage that makes me rethink my certainty that relationships can't last. Years in, she and her husband are still in love, still happy, still right for each other. They make room for each other's lives while still sharing them. They compromise. They talk. They are each other's best friends, and they still make out.  

There are people like this in the world. There are relationships like that out there. This is good to remember. 

Once, in college, my friend Danielle and I were having a bad couple of days, so we decided to count our blessings. We wrote down everything from "We have legs" to "We know how to say ‘Where is Stresa?' in Italian." It helped. I still have the list.

Getting divorced sucks all around. We all know this. But falling to the absolute bottom of the pit means that, as you climb out, you realize afresh just what you've got. As much time as I've spent over the last year and half curled up in a sad little ball on my couch, as lonely as I've gotten, as hard as it was, there's something to be said for getting that wake up call as to how lucky you are. It's easy to forget, after all.

I have colleagues who planned and organized a two-day birthday party for me, so I wouldn't be alone the weekend my husband moved out.

I have friends like Lindsay, who spent the first weekend in my new apartment with me, mixing drinks and organizing my closet.

I have a family who wants nothing more than to hear updates about how my new-apartment-traumatized cat is curled up in a tragic little ball in the bathtub.

In addition, I've learned that:

I have the ability to move in to a new apartment on a Friday and be completely unpacked by Monday. With some help, yes - but still impressive.

I am capable of negotiating public transportation in another country without getting lost.

I can be completely, unequivocally content in my own company.

My new plan: remember all these things, all the time, so the universe doesn't feel the need to snack me upside the head about it. 
 


While I like solitude, I have issues with silence. I like to have the TV on when I work. I play books on tape when I cook or clean or do dishes. I can do without, but there's an awful lot that goes on in my head and I prefer something else in the background.

In my marriage, silence meant a number of things. Early on, when things were good, silence was companionable — the quiet that came with being comfortable with each other. Later, silence meant we were running out of things to talk about. Eventually, silence meant that there was nothing left to say.

Jake was gone a lot, traveling, and he was gone for long, long periods of time. Silence during these absences came to mean a great deal. At first, we'd talk while he was away. Even if just a quick hello, or goodnight, we tried to connect, somehow, each day.

When we got to the point where days would go by without contact, that meant something. It meant we didn't want to talk. It meant it was better apart. It meant that, without proximity, we were rethinking.

The thing about having been married, you get into a lot of habits. And when that relationship is over, it's difficult not to make assumptions about a new relationship based on learned patterns. Thinking a few days of silence is a sign of trouble is a hard habit to break.

When your relationship is long distance, you don't have the daily check in of real life contact. And while I like the idea of being in a relationship that doesn't need daily assurance, that's secure with its reality, it's difficult not to second-guess when there's a several day stretch.

This is a recent revelation. One of those moments that makes me realize how very far I still have to go before I feel like I'm capable of having a relationship free of neuroses. At the same time, knowing what's behind that second-guessing makes quite a difference.

This time, this relationship, silence gets to mean something different. 
 


Counting "divorced" as one of my personal adjectives is a bizarre thing. Like it or not, this is now a huge part of who I am. I don't like this as an identifier, but there's no getting around how much this has shaped me. You don't spend 15 years with someone and lose them without it becoming a part of you. But still — I'm tall. I'm a teacher. I'm divorced. This is a descriptor. This is uncomfortable.

I was about to meet Mike's parents, and realized this was how they know me — I'm someone from college. I'm someone from California. I'm someone who's divorced. Worse, actually, I'm someone who is getting divorced.

I had no idea how to bring this up when I started dating. When do you tell someone? You bring it up too early, it's, "Whoah, hey, that's a lot of information for someone I just met." Too late, "How could you not tell me this earlier?" The problem is, of course, compounded by the fact that the thing isn't final. I tried casually slipping it into conversation: "We used to do so and so — oh that was back when I was married," but was never able to pull it off successfully.

What was nice about Mike was that he has known me since college, so there was no news to break. There was, though, that horrible moment way at the beginning, when he said, "So, when did your divorce become final?" And having to answer, "Well, it's not."

Eventually, this will be so far in the past that it will cease to be a top-three descriptor. Eventually, everything will have been finalized for so long that I won't have thought about it in ages. Eventually, I'll stop worrying about what parents and new friends and colleagues think. This day, honestly, can't come soon enough.

I just had a very odd moment.

Sometimes I get lonely. I'm never quite sure what it is what I want when this happens, I just get knocked a little flat by the reality of my solo flight.

I'm up too late. When I finally tear myself away from the computer, flip off the reality TV I watch when I'm grading papers, start to straighten up for the night, I'm hit with a wave of lonely.

Normally, when this happens, I curl up in my comfiest chair and just sit in the feeling for a while. So I figured, okay, well, I'll do this for a bit. I'll have a contemplative little 15 minutes.

But then — and this is the odd bit — it just went away. I looked around my living room, the apartment that's just mine. It's neat, because no one else is here to mess it up. There's a cookie left on a plate on the coffee table, and it's still going to be there tomorrow, because no one will sneakily eat it when I'm not looking. There is nothing in this place that is ugly, that I don't want, that I keep around because I have to.

Tomorrow I'm going to a job that I choose to have. I will be wrestling, all day, with what I'm going to do with my life next, but that choice, when I make it, will be mine, too.

I was all set to have my little moment in my comfy chair, feeling sad and alone and such, and I just can't do it. I don't want anyone else here. I miss the boy, it's getting harder to say goodbye to him each time I do, but — I am loving having my own life. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


There's a lot to be said for lust.

Jake and I were never that sexual a couple. Sex was good, sometimes great. There's definitely something to be said about having one long-term partner, everything being the first for both of you. Learning about sex was never uncomfortable or awkward, there were no early experiences that would need hashing out in therapy later. But we never really had a can't-keep-my-hands-off-you stage.

I thought that this was because we knew each other so well. I thought it was because we had been together so long, that we had just shifted into that comfy, everyday kind of relationship. I thought maybe I just wasn't that interested in sex in general.

Hindsight, of course, says a lot. Ultimately, I just don't think we were that attracted to each other. But we fell in love way, way too young to know that.

Even when our marriage was pretty solid, there was a part of me that would see movies, read books, see other people, and feel cheated. I'd console myself with the things I did have — I had trust, and friendship, and humor, and safety. Surely one can't expect it all, I thought.

Well, why not?

There's a lot to be said for passion. There's a lot to be said for being thrown against a wall, for barely being able to make it through the apartment door, for leaving a party early. It's kind of terrifying that I could very well have lived out my adult life without having experienced that.

It's hard to imagine this stage can possibly last, but then I look at Lindsay and Jesse, who have been married four years and still feel that way. I think back to just a year ago, when I thought the love bit and the lust bit were mutually exclusive. I've been wrong before. And am determined to figure out a way to keep this part.