The Land That Time Forgot

I often take walks in Brookwood Hills-technically, my own neighborhood (at least for another few days), though I live on the wrong side of the tracks (seriously-the Amtrak station is a block away!). What amazes me about this little enclave is that it literally sits in the shadow of Midtown--of office buildings that are home to Wachovia (wait, Citibank--no Wells Fargo), AIG and other financial institutions at the center of the largest economic crisis this country has experienced in nearly a century.

And yet, in Brookwood Hills--at least to an outsider looking in--everything looks normal. Families dwell in million dollar homes, drive their luxury cars and SUV's, watch their kids play in the uniforms required by their $20,000/year private schools, walk their dogs in the shadow of signs for presidential candidates--with no evidence that their lives are or will be affected by the world outside their little enclave.

Ironically, amidst the doomsday speak, my life is so far unaffected, much like the residents of that idyllic place. Sure, I still live paycheck to paycheck, I should have more savings, and I really need to start saving for retirement, but other than a family loan and good old Uncle Sam, I am relatively debt free. I learned that lesson a long time ago, and I'm starting to downsize my dreams so that they are not only more in line with not only my budget, but my reality. Because I'm starting to think that even if I had the money, I wouldn't spend it on a million dollar home, a $50,000 car or exclusive private school. I've learned the hard way that life is about experiences, not possessions. And I believe that I am building a life that emphasizes those things which are ultimately worthy of my time and energy. And if I need to escape--there's always Brookwood Hills.

The Starter Life

Sometimes being a divorcee seems so cliche. I remember when the book The Starter Marriage came out. I scoffed at the phenomenon, feeling superior to all those women who bailed on their marriages. I would never make the wrong choice. I would never leave a marriage. Marriage is forever--ironically, something I believe even more today than then day of my first marriage, when I walked down the aisle fulling knowing that it was the wrong thing to do. A $70,000 mistake that horrifies me and haunts me to this day (though at the time, I felt perfectly justified in spending it and pretty much refused to calculate that total). Of course, my parents--like all parents in this situation--offered me $30,000 to elope (as you can tell my that sum, I've never been very good at budgeting). Which I would gladly do if given the option today. But instead, I spent lavishly, trying to please others, to fulfill society's expectations, to do anything I could to mask my hesitation and unhappiness.

I honestly think a marriage's success is the exact inverse of the money spent on it. Give me a cute new dress, a couple of flowers and a judge--I don't need those trappings of success or wealth to have a blissful wedding day or successful marriage. My mistake was an expensive one, and a lesson in learning what is of true and ultimate worth--faith, family, integrity, honesty, openness, love and humility.

A Long Time Ago, We Used to be Friends

While I have finally conquered my insomnia, I haven't conquered my dreams, which are variations of a similar theme--my former life. During the daylight, I can nimbly push thoughts of my former self away, particularly as I have so much to be thankful for and about in the present. But as soon as I drift to sleep, the dreams are anything but sweet. Bob, the house on Jefferson Avenue, my dogs and generally some random person narrating, telling me that I'm crazy for leaving it all behind, that I'm not strong enough to survive on my own, that I'm stupid for clinging to my dreams of a successful business, a writing career, a nourishing relationship and motherhood.

Last night, Bob was my friend. I was able to talk to him about the past, about what went wrong, about my new life, about the happiness I've found--and he was happy for me. And he had found happiness himself.

The most difficult thing about divorce is that all of a sudden, this person who was your best friend, your companion and support for years--however dysfunctionally--suddenly disappears. There is no "being friends." Which makes my heart ache. No matter how wrong he was for me, no matter how unsalvageable our relationship had become, I still love him and wish him nothing but happiness and success. But I can't even tell him that. I can't even see him. A big piece of my heart, of my life, has simply vanished, leaving nothing but emptiness, guilt and profound sadness in its wake. Juxtaposed with the extreme happiness and contentedness I feel with the rest of my life.

And so, I plod along, trying to forget, pretending to forget, until my subconsciousness reminds me that the past is very much present.

Depression Hurts

In the ubiquitous Cymbalta (not my drug of choice) commericals, the narrator asks "where does depression hurt?" And when I saw those ads for the first time, I knew the answer--"everywhere."

As if life isn't hard enough, as if the economy isn't coming crashing down around us, as I juggle ten clients and volunteer responsibilities and try to forge ahead into a new life, depression likes to smack me around every few weeks, rendering me nearly incapacitated, unable to focus, unable to breathe, unable to get out of bed. Which of course, results in more self-loathing and more listlessness, all while the emails and phone calls and papers pile on top of me, into I collapse into a heap of helplessness.

Thankfully, this doesn't happy every day or even every week. But it's so frustrating to want to accomplish so much, to do most of the right things, to wake up in the morning excited about life, only to be sidelined--yet again--by whatever wicked combination of chemicals have decided to wreak havoc in my brain. And while I know these moments don't last forever, that I am blessed with supportive friends and family, good medication, a great therapist and the ability--on most days--to cope with this illness, on my bad days, all of these good things vanish into nothingness, leaving only sadness and hopelessness in their stead.