The Unexpected Gifts of Infidelity and Divorce Pt 3

Mary Oliver was right

Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift. ~ Mary Oliver

A box of darkness is a gift? That sounds so much better than someone gifting me with a shit sandwich. At first glance, a box of darkness may hold some intrigue. Shit sandwich, not so much.

These past few years have helped me deepen my understanding of Oliver’s sage words. What felt like a shit sandwich, served between two moldy slices of infidelity, has morphed into the gift of a box full of darkness.

The journey to get there hasn’t been easy. Especially since I was diagnosed with breast cancer five weeks after the divorce. This past year, I have been able to focus on the emotional healing after my divorce, though I know the emotional scars have marked my soul as much as the mastectomy scars that stretch across my ironing board chest. I am reminded of them every day. Framing that awareness as a representation of my resilience is the first gift.

The Gift of Resilience My scars testify to this. I am a human kintsugi. Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with a lacquer that contains the dust from a precious metal like gold or silver. This echoes the philosophy of wabi-sabi: imperfections or flaws are a thing of beauty.

Discovering breast cancer wasn’t my first glimpse into the brevity of life. My first scars came compliments of a near-fatal car accident when I was 17. I used to curse the scar, which stretched on the side of my ribs to my chest. It hurt. And it kept growing. If you’re a keloid former, you know what I’m talking about.

Getting a double boobectomy, gifted me with the supreme mutha of scars. Yay, me. Thankfully, the skilled surgeon she did a fabulous job. But it doesn’t change the reality that my scar resembles a North Dakota highway- ram-rod straight and flat as a crepe.

I have reflected on the amount of bitching I’ve done through the years over that first scar. And as I continue to learn about the Mind-Body connection, I know that my body is taking in every thought I think. Every time I shit talk my body for aches and pains or any physical attributes I learned to dislike, send messages to the magnificent housing granted me for this brief time on earth.

Before surgery, I decided I needed to flip the script and treat my scars with love and appreciation. With practice, I have learned to be grateful for my scars. I celebrate the mindboggling ability for my body to withstand injury and recover. And guess what? I physically feel the difference resulting from shifting my focus.

Having obstinance toward your body causes tension. Practicing self-love and compassion releases tensions and helps facilitate healing. Through this lens, I see my scars as a sign of resilience. Of bad assery. Of survivorship. I am Theresa, hear me roar! (Well, after coffee and some ibu.)

Seeing this lesson writ large on my flesh, I understand the emotional scars given by my former spouse. Every time I think of them, I can choose to stir up anger all over again or I can give praise, knowing I am not defined by his hurtful actions. I had no control over his decision to have an affair, but I CAN control how I respond to it. My heart was shattered but through my Higher Power, it continues to mend and heal by the kintsugi of grace.

The Gift of Acceptance Years ago, I heard of “conscience uncoupling.” It’s an approach popularized by Gwyneth Paltrow in 2014 when she announced her divorce. Read: an amicable divorce with the mutual understanding the relationship has ended.

I even saw a video of a couple who had been married many years, having an “uncoupling” ceremony. I felt incredibly sad to see that.

I felt judgmental too. Don’t these people understand the meaning of the word COMMITMENT?! And what the hell is up with trying to guild divorce papers? Stoopid bullshit pop psychology from celebrities. Hard pass, thanks much and don’t let the door hit you in the butt on the way out.

Now I am forced to face reality. He was done, done, DONE. I think on some level, he pursued the affair to show just how done he was. But I was still hanging on by the fingernails. I was terrified of the bleak economic future staring at me as well.

It was incredibly difficult to accept that all my pleadings and desire for reconciliation were not shared.

A wise friend suggested that maybe, just maybe, the relationship had run its course. No shame. No finger pointing. Just a realization that our relationship had morphed into something that neither one of us found fulfilling anymore.

I’ll be honest. This can still challenge me. “Run its course?!” Are you fucking kidding me? Do you sever relationship with your kids because the relationship has run its course? But I had growing unhappiness too, but didn’t know what to do with it. Through therapy and marriage therapy, I faced the painful truth that it was done and dusted. He was unhappy and wanted out. I spent way too much energy trying to understand what he was going through, or worse, tolerating to the increasing contempt I felt in the name of “giving him space.”

I was trying to control him and trying to force the outcome I wanted. Talk about rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.

The only thing left for me to do was: Accept that the marriage was over. This meant acceptance of the many ramifications divorce would bring.

I felt like a little kid when they get one of those damn helium balloons that look so cheery but then leaves the kid in tears because it popped or floated away. Only I had a fist full of balloons. And one by one, they wafted up to the heavens.

Growing old together. Buh-bye.

My identity as a wife and mother. Sayonara.

Modeling a healthy marriage to our kids. Hasta la vista, baby.

Economic security in the “golden years.” *starts laughing maniacally*

My marriage. The biggest balloon of them all.

After all the turmoil and pain, I released it. Good bye, man that I loved for most of my life.

Acceptance means no more fighting. Hello, peace. I recognize that the only thing I can every control is myself. I gain clarity in understanding there is only one life I can save, and that is my own.

Acceptance means releasing him to pursue his own life. Hopefully, he will find the happiness he desires. And it grants me the same freedom and to rediscover myself and to revisit my unlived dreams.

I spent far too much energy worried he was going to cheat again. His lifestyle choices were incongruent with the values we had once shared. (Snip! There goes that balloon too. Some things are easier to let go of than others.)

I am free. Acceptance is a beautiful thing.

The Gift of Self-Reliance One thing I appreciated about my wasband was his handyman skills. He knew how to fix just about anything. And if he didn’t know, he would figure it out. But I also knew toward the end of our relationship, he grew increasingly irritated with any requests for help. Eventually, I learned to shut my mouth and figure it out on my own. (While harboring resentment.)

Those were good training wheels for living on my own. I spent most of my adult life with him and had little experience living alone. I was terrified.

I was terrified of an axe murderer breaking into my home at night. The frustrations of trying to figure out some piddly household maintenance task was, at times, enraging. I was struck with the reality that every single fucking task now fell to me. Hauling groceries. Get the oil change in the car. Figuring out why my Prius suddenly sounds like the engine room of an ore freighter. (A thieving bastard stole the catalytic convertor.) And then, oh my god. No, you are not dreaming of a springtime rain… the roof is leaking. Right next to my bed.

Of all the gifts, this is one of the greatest. You know why? Because I figured this shit out. Or I knew who to call for help.

When I separated from my former spouse, I lived in a double-wide trailer we had purchased. (And to his credit, I kept it after the divorce.) I set about doing what I’ve done with every residence we’ve lived in. I gave it a facelift and increased its value.

I peeled wallpaper, scraped and painted walls, replaced cabinet hardware (with not a small amount of f bombs) and ripped out dated elements. I found free (or nearly free) paint that would easily run $75/can. Regular visits to the ReStore allowed me to find needed items at a fraction of the cost of new.

Then I set about furnishing the home since I moved in empty-handed. I called upon my years of ninja Craigslisting skills. I found a gorgeous dining room set. I found a high-quality sofa and hauled it into the house by myself. A room sized wool rug, anyone? (That was more of a bitch to haul inside than the sofa but by golly, I did it.) Two recliners. I found them all on Craigslist. FOR FREE.

Providence seemed to favor me as I acted quickly on opportunities that appeared. Like a nearly new smart TV complete with stand. (Net cost was about $20 if I remember correctly.) A solid wood bedroom set… $45.

Some dear friends sent me money to help me with other items. Piece by piece, I built a home.

And then I surprised myself again. I decided to sell the place for a few different reasons. Number one, the mobile home park was closing and I knew the closer it came to closing, the less money I could sell it for. I didn’t want to “fire sale” it.

The other huge reason was the breast cancer diagnosis. I knew I could not maintain the expenses of keeping it since treatment kept me from working. Talk about terrible timing. Doing chemo while packing up a house is not fun. But it was what I needed to do to survive.

When I talked to my mobile home broker, she gave me a price she thought would make for a quick sale. After researching the market, I decided to sell it on my own. I knew I could make more than her suggestion and hung up a “For Sale By Owner” sign.

I was correct. A family drove through the park the following week, saw my sign, and fell in love with the place. I figured negotiating room into my price and ultimately, sold it for what I thought I could get.

This was no small thing because the proceeds would pay my bills for the next year. (In addition to a GoFundMe page. I was blown aways by the love and generosity poured out to me.)

I am still growing in this area as I still have plenty of panicked moments wondering how the hell things will work out. I recall these successes, take a deep breath, and remind myself of my resilience.

Still with me? And I’m just getting started on unpacking the gifts! Evidently, I had a few things to say.

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