Different Trajectories

I was sun-kissed and exhausted from spending the afternoon on the water with my girlfriends, relieved to have been disconnected from my phone and all my responsibilities for a bit. It's a good thing, too, because when I waddled in the front door, dripping and slightly sunburned, I saw the text that I knew would come eventually.

"I'd really love to talk, if you'd be up for that," he wrote.

I felt this wave of rage fill my body-- rage that I didn't even know I was still carrying. He must be single and lonely, I thought. Or maybe he's broke? He is probably broke. I finally responded an hour later, wondering what the hell there was to talk about after all this time.

He proceeded to apologize for hurting me, and I skeptically listened while trying to nail down his motive. There's always a motive, I thought. He said he needed to clear his conscience, that he needed to right his wrongs.

"Do you feel better," I asked, "now that you've cleared your conscience?" 

"No," he confessed. "I don't."

I wanted to rip him to shreds. I could have denied him my forgiveness and kept my power in all this. And yet something in me kept my fingers from typing out the horrible things I was thinking about him and all the pain he'd caused me over the years. It has been almost five years since I left him, and the anger was still tied around my ankles in the way that toddlers grasp onto their parents' feet.

"I need to think for a second."

The rain was coming down now, hitting the canopy in the rhythmic and soothing way that rain falls. The tin roof rattled. The leaves rustled. There was all this peace surrounding me but it was just so loud in my head. I could not form words.

The hurricane moved a little closer to the shore, and I realized it was time to let it go. I did not want to carry this weight of hatred around anymore. It had been too long already.

In the last few months I've been working hard to rid my life of things or people that do not serve me. It was as if the universe had handed me this opportunity on a plate to put into practice the things I've been learning in this very big way-- a sort of midterm exam, if you will. I was reluctant, but also overjoyed, to have this moment of clarity come so unexpectedly.

"You will never be able to understand fully the long-lasting effects that your psychological warfare had on my life. There are no words for that. You can never fix the hurt inside me that you caused-- that's my job now," I said calmly. "So go and DO better. BE better. Be better for your daughter. I hope she changes the world. I hope you are good to her mother in a way that you couldn't be for me."

I hope one day twenty years from now, he and I will be able to sit down and have a cup of coffee and truly see how exactly right we were to go our separate ways. But for now it feels good not to hate him for the first time in five years. It felt good to speak great things into his daughter's life, though I never in a thousand years imagined he'd have a daughter with anyone but me. Hot, salty tears streamed down my face, dripping from my chin and the tip of my nose. I looked out over the lake water, thankful that somehow this moment had come in its own perfect timing. I could not have timed it better if I had planned this rendezvous myself.

They say no two loves are the same. Well, let's hope not anyway. For so long I've been saying goodbye to the malicious and manipulative person he had become. This weekend, I finally said goodbye to the man I had fallen in love with and the dreams we dreamed together. And I hope that, in doing so, I have opened myself up to a new realm of possibilities and somehow invited a new love to fill the places where all that rage was hiding.

I'm ready. I hope the universe or god or whoever is listening. I certainly am.

It got better

This was the first place I lived after my divorce that was totally mine. I had bounced from one parent's house to the other while I got my affairs in order and could finally put a deposit down on my own place.

The first week I was there, I went to the store to buy shower rings. There I was, standing in the aisle with a pack of brushed metal shower curtain hooks in one hand and clear plastic shower rings in the other... and I was sobbing. That crazy person in the home goods aisle at Walmart, balling her eyes out? Yeah, that was me.

I had shower rings. I even had an extra set. Why didn't I grab them when I left? WHY DIDN'T MY HUSBAND CARE ENOUGH TO FIX HIMSELF SO I WOULDN'T HAVE TO BUY NEW SHOWER RINGS? I dried that mess up, went home to my townhouse, hung my shower curtain, and went to bed alone. I adopted Tater the following week.

I wish I had known when I was crying in the aisle at Walmart that this would be my life now. Last night I was sitting in bed with fresh sheets out of the dryer, surrounded by my babies, drawing and writing in my sketchbook. I just happened to look up and take this photo-- this amazing photo-- of my life now.

I realized I'm totally content. I'm okay with where I am in life. I'm happy to be snuggled up next to my furry children, drawing in my sketchbook, sleeping alone. I want for nothing. My bills are paid. I'm so grateful that I had the support of my parents through those first six months, and that since then I've been surrounded by people who have propped me up when I was a mess and a half.

And I just wanted to write this post to let you all know: it got better.

It's loud in here.

I don't remember a time when I wasn't questioning things (I imagine my mother would agree.) I was a talkative child, always processing things I didn't understand out loud. We had long conversations in the car about complicated subjects like race and sexuality and faith on the way to elementary school. 

Something about hearing the words was affirming to me, as if I were making progress simply by asking the questions. Solid answers were never necessary.

This has followed me into my writing. It's a tragic flaw-- a gift, because there's always more to understand, but a curse, because I'm exhausting company. 

All that to say I'm finally doing the work. Not in a "yeah girl, do work!" kind of way, but in the way that involves a lot of heart and a lot of tears and a lot of standing up to big things and screaming at them until they back down.

Now, more than ever, I'm craving answers. WHY did these things happen to me? WHERE does this all fit in my story? WHO will I ever love as much as I loved my ex-husband? HOW will I even bring myself to date again? WHEN will I get to the other side of this? WHO will be left when I do?

A Christmas card for my former fertility doc

The letter I wrote to my former reproductive endocrinologist, accompanied with my Christmas card:

Dr. Best*,

I hope this letter finds you well! I wanted to send you a little note to let you know how things were. I'm sure you get Christmas cards all the time of babies you helped create, but I wanted to send you my own version of a happy Christmas card. I'll explain.

I'm sure it's interesting as a medical professional for you to hear from your patients after they've left your practice. Our story ended in March when I finally legally divorced [ex-husband]*. Our separation lasted almost two years! I have never felt this free, despite the fact that he still asks me occasionally to "come home" (where is that?) His girlfriend is due any minute with a baby girl. Upon learning this I stayed in bed for two days and ate an entire box of doughnuts, but then got on with my life. Grief sneaks up on you sometimes.

I am living a life I'm proud of now-- without [ex-husband]. It's a life I couldn't have lived with him. I know now that my miscarriages happened for a reason, as hard as they were. I'm seeing an amazing guy who treats me so well. It's not something I'm used to for sure.

Tater and I are living in Charlotte. I still work in marketing and do freelance graphic design. I play roller derby now-- proving to myself that I'm not fragile or broken (that seems to be the siren song of infertility and loss.)

All this to say that my Christmas card doesn't have a baby on it, and that's okay. I will have a family one day, and you will get that Christmas card, too. You advocated for me so perfectly in a time when I had totally given up. I can't thank you enough for that.

I hope your holidays with your family are wonderful and that you know how grateful I am that you were the pour soul assigned to my case. :)

All the best from your favorite subfertile,

Audrey

*Names have been changed for obvious reasons

The Girl under the Pew

I was raised under a steeple with the light from my church's stained glass windows spreading their colors across my skin. As the congregation's god-daughter, I spent much of my time at potlucks and revivals. I memorized verses and doctrine. I was told I should be a Republican (because that's what Jesus would want.) I attended-- and even participated in-- an anti-abortion protest before I knew where babies came from. My first memories of creating any kind of art happened underneath those pews. I'd draw in the blank spaces on church bulletins with broken crayons, my favorite doll next to me.

I was commanded to remain pure until marriage, as not to become "damaged goods" for the man I would one day call my husband. I was told that shot glasses were called "medicine glasses" because they held just enough water to wash down two aspirin! Every advent, every camp meeting, every dinner party, every Easter gathering. I was there.

I was raised to be madly in love with-- and also terribly afraid of-- God. I was told I was a dirty, no good sinner over and over and over. I was told to "come as I was" but also that I would never be enough. How lucky I was that God would love me even though I'm a piece of crap!! But in order for him to love me, I had to acknowledge my nothingness.

So many mixed signals. So many scary nights. So much worrying about my eternal damnation and how hot the fires of hell would feel on my skin should I deviate from the righteous path.

Years later, I'm still a recovering Pentecostal-- a recovering Christian.

The pattern of I love you and I'm scared of you and I don't deserve you has replicated itself in my relationships with men. The patriarchal command of "submitting to my husband"-- while many people take this out of context-- was the reason I stayed in my abusive, unhealthy marriage as long as I did. When the fights got so severe, I was pretty sure it was my fault and began reading books about how marriage is meant to make you holy, not happy, because Jesus loves us and wants us to be like him and if that means being married to someone who harms you emotionally, so be it.

Enter God as the playground bully who hazes you and then congratulates you on your unwavering devotion having endured such a test, stage right.

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My Pentecostal roots run so deeply that in times of trouble I still have the knee-jerk reaction of whispering prayers into the void in the same way that an alcoholic unscrews the cap off a whiskey bottle. I am proud of having come from that broken, misled denomination, because it's my story, and it has shaped me. And while the girl under the pew is still a part of me, I have outgrown her.

One year at church camp, there was this skit that the youth put on about abstinence. There was a teenage girl holding a heart cut out of construction paper, and every time a new boy walked past her, she would tear him off a piece and hand it to him, until eventually she had nothing left to give her husband. "Girls, let this remind you," the pastor said, "that God wants you to remain whole for the man he has chosen for you." The boys were not addressed.

In retrospect, I can't even begin to tell you how damaging this message is for a girl to hear. It wasn't until I was much older that I realized how ingrained this "womanly shelf life" was hammered through my skull.

It taught me I was an object.

It taught me that I was finite and easily damaged.

It taught me that I could not have sex with more than one person without being considered broken and unworthy of love.

It taught me that others determined my value, and that I had no say in that at all except to keep my legs closed and pray for God to forgive me for being human and experiencing typical human emotions, like lust and loneliness and heartache.

And why did I experience those emotions? Because I was a meager young woman who needed Jesus. Jesus could fix me, if only I'd submit to Jesus in the same way I'd eventually submit to my husband! The message was crystal clear.

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To this day I struggle with my self-worth and identity outside of my faith. I feel judged and mishandled by the community that was supposed to have my best interests at heart. I feel misled by the people who were placed above me to lead and guide me through this world. I feel like I can finally openly experience this life fully, loving who I love without the fear of eternal damnation.

I feel challenged to raise my daughters and sons-- should I ever have living ones-- to treat themselves and others gently and with the utmost respect. I am still trying to learn this skill, because it's hard. It's hard to affirm others when we are still so rough with ourselves. I would want them to know that who they are is enough for this world, and that their worth is not defined by others, nor by a book, nor by their sexuality. I do not want to create another generation that grows up feeling inadequate, broken, worthless, and controlled.

They are enough.
I am enough.
You are enough.

If I were to die tomorrow, I hope that my legacy would be just that.

On worth, identity, and where I've been

I am hesitant to write this post, but it needs to be written.

I have been described as both introspective and extroverted, which is quite the volatile concoction. I dream new dreams before completing old ones, and I share my excitement about them openly, even when everyone around me knows I will never complete them before a new one hangs its curtains in my heart. In times of uncertainty, I fall into a sort of puddle form at the feet of anyone I perceive to own a mop. In moments of sorrow, I find arms that will wrap around me, even when I know I should not allow arms that snuggle up to another woman at night to hold me together by day.

It goes without saying that the last few years have been trying. My identity has waxed and waned like the phases of the moon-- bright and bold, barely there, totally absent. I have seen ultimate highs and solemn lows. I went through a stage where I could not be hugged without bursting into tears. This was followed by the stage where the lack of human touch in any form made me feel worthless and unloved.

My roller derby team took me under their wing at a time when I felt broken and proved to me that I was not fragile at all. I quickly became part of this new family, laughing louder than I ever have before and really meaning it. Since the fall things have taken a sharp turn south. My laughter is louder than my sobs, sure, but my sobs surely are still there. The bandage couldn't hold back the flood waters forever. I've stopped going to practice, to parties, to away bouts. I've tucked myself so deeply back in my shell where I can't hear anything, not even the ocean.

Last night I was driving home from Savannah, singing at the top of my lungs to keep my head from spinning. It hit my like a ton of bricks:

My worth is not found in his hands on my hips, my cheek, my thighs. It's not measured by how well I skate or how cute my butt looks in a pair of booty shorts. It's not equivalent to the amount of calories I eat in one day or how much sweat pours out of me at the gym. It's not a number on a scale. It's not the number of people I've loved. It's not the husband who abused me. It's not the divorce that has defined me or the babies I couldn't carry. It's not the photos in my Instagram feed. It's not the art I make. It's not the length of my hair or the job that I do or the place that I live. It's not my volunteer work. My worth is packaged in my ability to experience all of these things and love myself because of my story and not in spite of it.

I'll admit, I'm still working on that while the world spins madly on.

Poison and Wine and What I Remember

I still remember. There were days when we didn't get out of bed, because we didn't have to. We'd order a pizza and eat it in the bedroom while we watched specials on the History channel. We would walk to the sushi place across the street after work and talk about the news and about how tired we were while "Patrick" made us a Mt. Fuji roll. 

There were days when we didn't get out of bed, because there was literally no point. It was just too much to leave the apartment, so we didn't. We didn't talk about it. We didn't encourage each other. We just hid.

I remember planning our wedding. I changed our colors at the last minute because his mom couldn't seem to wrap her brain around the color yellow (gold? neon? NO, YELLOW.) I remember how he shaved his beard the way I liked it as a surprise. I remember seeing him the second I walked into the chapel and the way his mouth hung open and how I totally forgot that there were two hundred other people in the room with us.

I remember feeling hideous in everything I wore, and being told that I was being "too provocative" when I put on a black sweater-dress. I remember losing weight and how he hated it, because I finally was starting to feel like I was worthy of being seen.

I remember making plans. We were young, but we thought we knew what we were doing. We held hands and dreamed of rocking chairs on porches and kids in the yard and a little piece of land that we could call ours. We split up future chores. I'll garden if you'll mow the grass. We had a plan.

But we never had rocking chairs, not a single one. We never had a front porch or a little piece of land. We had kids-- dead ones-- over and over, and we were in too much debt to ever own anything. Our dreams didn't come true, and we turned on each other because there was nothing left to do. There was nothing left at all. I counted my losses and I ran.

I remember the day we finally saw those two pink lines for the first time and I prayed that this baby would make us feel more complete, or at least distract us enough so that we didn't realize how broken we really were. We had our names picked out, one for a girl and one for a boy. We were decorating the nursery in our heads.

I remember how we felt like we'd never get pregnant. Between the doctors' visits and lab results, we felt like obedient robots, not lovers, and the magic between us quickly evaporated. I remember the intense fear that came when I started to bleed eight weeks later, and the excruciating pain that came with each contraction, and the relief of the morphine when I didn't have to feel anything for a few hours. I remember I forced him to pray for me before surgery and how he protested despite my tears, and how he walked next to me all the way to the double doors as they wheeled me into the operating room where they'd cut our dead firstborn out of me. This was the first of the three dead children I'd come to know. We named him Evan. I have a memory chest in my room that holds the shoes he never grew into and the blanket my mother knitted that we never got to wrap him in. 

It's so easy to remember the good, and even easier to convince you that the hardest moments were trivial, like bickering over who got to watch their favorite show first. It wasn't that. It was quiet. It was oppressive. It was at times terrifying to love him. It was easier to compromise who I was and fold into him. It was excruciating to fake a smile at social gatherings, until I finally started telling the truth when friends asked about married life.

"It's terrible," I'd say. "I wouldn't wish this on anyone."

He almost died.

There is no handbook for how one should feel when they see their soon-to-be-ex-husband on a gurney in the Cardiac ICU with multiple tubes hanging out of him. And the beeping-- THE BEEPING-- it is both nerve-wracking and mind-numbing. Sometimes it stops and you panic, and sometimes it gets louder, and you still panic.

My chest physically ached when I saw him, and I knew in that moment that no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much he had failed me, I couldn't un-love him. I wish I could.

He almost died.

Many difficult conversations happened after that. We had the end-of-life discussion just in case. We met with nutritionists and occupational therapists and home health nurses and respiratory therapists and case workers and and and... 

Yesterday was our fourth anniversary. I've spent the last fourteen months grieving him in terms of our marriage. The idea that he could have died without me by his side hit me hard, and that makes no sense. I know. I will spend the rest of the week trying to wrap my head around this.

When I get home tonight my guest room will be empty.

My husband will lay his head down in another town 

in another quiet house next to another German Shepherd

with all of his medicine bottles set up on another nightstand.

I will be another woman entirely in a quiet house all on my own.

All the feels on a Tuesday

It's 7:20 on a Tuesday.

Yesterday I ate some peanut butter crackers.

Today I contemplated taking up drinking but thought better of it.

Maybe not today. Maybe not.

My soon-to-be-ex-husband is sitting in a hospital bed, hooked up to every beeping and whirring and pumping contraption known to man. He's been stuck about thirty times, and he has at least eight healing incisions. Chest tubes. Feeding tubes. Tube tubes.

Today I am being a grown-up. Today I am making hard decisions and answering hard questions and dealing with my in-laws and trying to figure out what this means for the divorce, for my future, and for my present-tense life that I've created.

Right now I have all the feels. All of them.

Reclaiming my Story

Hours spent in exam room 7.

Bruises on my stomach from injections.

Vials and vials and vials of blood.

Ginger ale in post-op.

Medical bills in a pile on the counter.
Test results. Explaining them to friends.

Babies in urns.

Time spent at yoga retreats feeling frustrated that I wasn't "over it" yet.

Paperwork and arguments.
Spending time together and feeling totally alone.

Packing and unpacking my belongings.

Bill collectors and angry phone calls.
Having my life threatened multiple times.

Talking to lawyers.
Escaping my marriage.

This has been my story.

Yesterday I stepped into that elevator and I took this picture:

Redemption.

I happily went to see my doctor all alone. I told him about the day I left my husband, the last nine months that I spent starting over. Nine months-- enough time to create a new life. I told him how free I felt now that I wasn't trying to conceive or carry or grieve. I told him I haven't been this happy in years.

And it was all true.

It is all over and it is all beginning.

Doc encouraged my med school dreams like he always has. "Now you can do it on your own terms! Now you're unstoppable. If anyone can do this, you can." He smiled from across his desk. "Don't change your mind. Just do it."

And just like that, a new chapter is beginning.

It's not our story anymore, It's mine.

It's destined to be a good one.

This post was inspired by my friend and yoga teacher's recent post on Story.