After my surgery I asked the nurse if I'd ever get married.
(This from the girl who has sworn off that and all other sacraments. And Catholicism.).
They say medication makes you say things you wouldn't otherwise say, that surgery makes you face your mortality in fun and exciting ways, and that jello makes you curious.
(I may have made the last one up).
I can (and will) assert my 5th amendment privilege here, despite it's irrelevance. It's basically none of your business.
Oh, right. Who am I kidding? I have literally no idea why I would have asked that. Or even if I asked that. Maybe he's pulling my chain because he knows how sore I am on the topic of marriage these days. Maybe that's the scopolamine talking.
I'm in the gooey center right now, between friends who are newly (and probably - possibly) happily married and those who are recently or soon to be divorced. It's an awkward place to be - a place I had never considered - based on my marital privilege. I just figured you met someone who could tolerate your midnight tongue-clicking, your occasional bursts of ineptitude, your bizarre fear of slipping on the stairs and not being discovered for days and you tied the knot. Put a ring on it while THE END scrolled down the movie screen of your mind.
There is more to the story.
And this part is uncharted. I don't have a template, because Disney ends before the s#it gets real, because my parents (and their parents) stayed married forever, and because my crystal ball is still in the shop and my magic 8 ball keeps saying "ask again later."
My perfect marriage ended perfectly, but just as I can feel the scopolamine and the versed and the god-knows-what-else still coursing through my veins, I can still feel the venom that lead to separation, divorce. I skipped out on the wedding of the century this weekend because I still need to lie down without warning. Many friends told me to be "gentle with myself" post surgery, because recovery can be sneaky - episodic - on again, off again. And I ignored those warnings several times, with nearly disastrous results.
The same is true, I fear, in recovery from divorce.
Surgery changes you. They cut you open and take out something that you grew - something that was you - that is you. Divorce is similar. It cuts you, leaving you vulnerable to overheating and over-sharing in the worst of possible situations. And if you deny the pain and push forward, put on a show and let everyone believe that you're alright, you do a disservice to yourself and to anyone who looks to you as an example. You neglect the healing - the grace - the gentleness that is required to become comfortable as a new whole.
Nothing will replace what was removed. Nothing will repair what was once there - once part of you - but I think (I hope) that with grace and gentleness (and a few tantrums and unscheduled breaks along the trail), that the new whole will someday feel like home.