Everything happened a bit too son: a baby, a house, but then a subsequent separation in my late 30s and all the loss that came with it. It was a massive upset, probably the second biggest one after the one of immigrating here as a teenager and losing other nice things such as language or culture, friends and family. I’ve often felt overwhelmed when trying to explain what happened and why my family was no longer a unit that it used to be . But I’ve felt even more overwhelmed by trying to explain why even years later I still felt grief and regret and anger and a plethora of all kinds of other feelings that come with a separation/ divorce. Why I didn’t bounce back, didn’t adapt better, didn’t come to useful conclusions that would allow me to not only learn from my mistakes but also thrive and triumph?
There is this bizarre pressure to always move on in some magnificent way, to conquer all the adversities, to have a nice happy ending. People feel reassured when things work out—when things work out for others, that’s sort of a proof right there that they will work out for you as well, someone who’s stalling with progress or who doesn’t have a preferred trajectory is not only disappointing; they are a threat to that little fantasy. “Gosh, if this happened to her, maybe it will happen to me?” (Naturally, when anyone thinks of me, specifically, they can always reassure themselves that this happened to me because of my addiction issues, which is not true, I promise you. So the bad news is, yes, you too—sober or drunk, or recovered—are in danger. Life is random. Tragedy is mundane. Tragedy is random.)
I’ve felt ashamed by not moving on swiftly enough, by not being resourceful enough or strong enough to rebuild my life, maybe even start a new family, live in a new house with a new man and a garden and an office and a soaking tub. The truth is, I crumbled after my separation and seven years later, I am still not fully recovered and I still go through waves of grief and regret and anger and a plethora of all kinds of other feelings. I still have a lot of shame. I wish I had a cool story to tell, maybe even a new memoir to write where I talk about how I’ve overcame that last mishap, and inspire others to take control of their lives. But I’m tired and I’ve ran out of ideas and, in fact, for a long time, I had no ideas as to how to fix this one—plus I’m not sure if I need to fix everything. Because, ultimately, things are fine. I’ve lots of love in my life, I have rebuilt my life to some extent and maybe I don’t have all the things or a particularly cool story to tell about the past seven years, but I wake up content most of the time. I won’t list all the things that I do have because this is not about that; I don’t want this to be seen as my trying to prove after all that I did bounce back. I didn’t. Not in the way most people (and my mother) would like.
As for the shame it is still there—yes, the feeling of being inadequate and disappointing but also the feeling of being overwhelmed because I can’t quite explain what happened to me since nobody died, there was no fire that destroyed that house I miss and I’ve had plenty of time to become a millionaire or a trophy wife. I am sorry not sorry.
Recently, I read Leah McLaren’s poignant post about being stuck in a limbo of a separation and the anguish that comes with it—anguish that also stems from our inability to help and sympathize properly with someone who’s not going through a regular tragedy that we have rules for in place—like death of a spouse. She talked about the shame of that kind of situation: “But when you find yourself in a situation that is both agonising and complicated, for which there are no rituals or rote words, you will soon understand what people mean when they talk about ‘carrying stigma.’ Stigma is a whole other kind of cultural shorthand, one that gives people license to do and say what they want without the need to appear good. When you heap stigma on top of your tragedy — be it addiction or suicide, or a crisis of mental, emotional or sexual health —you quickly find out what people around you are made of. While much of it is good, there are lessons to be learned. Some so harsh they will rip your milk teeth right out.”
So true. There’s a mythology about being stronger or better after adversity. It’s not always true