When my wife and I decided to get divorced, I can remember one night that was extremely emotionally difficult and also liberating. In retrospect, I’m amazed that it really only took one night to dive in to the depths of what was happening and also emerge with a new outlook. I was the one who had suggested the divorce – she was the one that filed / sued for it (this explains that Matt Uhler has a record page that had turned up when googling myself).
Things had been dormant between us for a long time. It had been years since we had any sense of intimacy (no hugs, kisses, or holding hands). For much of that time, I had managed the house (got everyone up and out the door on time, did the cleaning, drove to softball, music lesson, and the orthodontist). To be fair, my wife worked full time, was getting her PhD, and had taken on a significant part of the finances – a pretty amazing and draining amount of responsibility. I had switched careers and taken about a 60% pay cut – she kept us afloat. She also did a lot of the cooking – but mostly because it was her release, and she didn’t always like what I cooked (the food was good, but not healthy enough).
Neither of us had been happy in the marriage. I don’t know if we were unhappy – we just were. We didn’t fight all that often, but probably because there wasn’t much to fight for. We cared about each other, but we weren’t loving towards each other. More often than not, I found myself feeling alone and isolated. She worked nonstop – both on her work and her PhD. When she wasn’t working, she’d hole herself up, or we’d watch TV – that was the only thing we did together. We each had our corner of the sofa. I should have done something about the isolation sooner. I could have focused on writing, or friends, or any number of things. For some reason, I always felt like I was in a holding pattern – waiting for something to change. I felt beholden to her schedule – there were times she blatantly told me her time was worth more than mine (financially) – and technically, it was. She also wasn’t comfortable with me hanging out with her friends without her, so that was, for the most part, off the table. None of this is an excuse for why I didn’t pursue my own interests. Eventually, I started going on hikes by myself. I played a lot of video games during this time, listened to a lot of music, drank a lot of beer. Change is hard, and it was easier to settle in to numbness and blame her (perhaps unfairly) for abandoning her family. There are a lot of things I could have done better – the marriage is probably worth several blog posts and a few therapy sessions. We were together 17 years. Sadly, because the end was such a long slide in to the nondescript, my memory of the marriage is somewhat nonexistent. A hallmark of healthy relationships is the retelling and sharing of memories – we didn’t do that, and so they weren’t being reinforced.
The night I originally started writing about was shortly after we had agreed to divorce. She was away on a business trip – I would be away the following week. We were going to talk things over when we were both back. I had just discovered this tiny desk concert by Gaelynn Lea and the first song blew me away.
I listened to it over and over (in the dark, drinking). I cried a lot that night. I tried to listen to it again just now – it brings up a whole new type of sadness. That night, listening to it over and over, I contemplated the lyrics. For me, they are full of emotionally charged images of togetherness. As I listened, I couldn’t get over how alone I felt. I focused on the loss, I focused on not having someone to face the night with and the fact that I had nobody to “hold my hand ’till the end.” Such a simple and beautiful image – so far out of reach for me. I had always thought my wife might come around, maybe grow closer, maybe start building those tender moments. I thought some day we might linger in the sun. I liked the prospect of working together, building something. As I listened, I started to think about the person I was losing.
My wife and I had done one thing well, and that was raise our daughter. Some days I wonder if we were all that good at that – sorry kiddo, we really tried. She’s turned out pretty amazing. But my wife and I never really worked together to build much of anything, to build an us, or a future. She had stopped holding my hand years before. She was never going to hold my hand until the end. We had grown so far apart that we were strangers living under the same roof. I have to assume at one point we had dreams together, but as I sat there listening, I realized my vision of the future was not our vision of the future. I wasn’t losing anything that hadn’t already been lost. I realized that it wasn’t even something I knew how to want anymore – neither did she. In that moment (or moments – this seldom happens like an epiphany) I realized I was mourning the vision, and not so much the person. Once I came to that conclusion, it was as if a weight had been lifted. I was losing someone I didn’t really know. Suddenly, it became a lot less about loss, and a lot more about growth. By getting divorced, I was going to create space for other things, other people, other possibilities.
I suppose one day, I may have a similar moment of awakening about my relationship with my ex-fiancee, B. I’m not there yet. It’s been a while and I think it will be a while longer. Our connection was different, and so the mourning is also so different. We were at the height of things. We were about to get married. It was sudden. I didn’t just lose the future we were planning (we talked about growing old together a lot), but I lost a person who had touched my soul. My wife and I had stopped noting each other, had stopped learning about each other. I didn’t notice how she moved through the world. At the time of our divorce, I couldn’t tell you how she did the dishes, or washed her hair, or fed the pets, or drank her coffee. With B I noticed everything. Watching her, the world had grace and beauty. There are days when I see her picture and still think she is the most beautiful woman in the world. There are days when I can still feel her by my side – her hand on my leg as I drive, or her and the dog snuggled next to me on the sofa. She got in to my bones, and I can’t remember ever feeling as alive inside as I did when we were together. Everybody saw it – we had an energy.
As winter approaches, and eventually the new year comes in to view, I have to think about how I want to grow. I’m thinking about whether or not I’m ready to cut out these feelings of loss in order to make space for new shoots in the spring. Some might say that holding on is holding me back. Maybe so. But I’m doing more writing and painting and reading than I’ve ever done. I’m growing in different ways. The memories of us carry a lot of sadness and hope with them. They still nourish my soul – they’re feeding other parts of me. I suppose when they’re all used up, I’ll be done with them – maybe that’s when I’ll move on. But for now, I’m going to hold on to this heart a little while longer. It’s still full, and it’s the thing I like best about myself.
B and I used to tell each other that we found our person. When you truly believe and feel that, as I did (and I think she did), you start to recognize that in some respects, they will always be your person. B is still the one I want to walk to the end of the pier with, the one I want by my side in the dark of night, the one whose hand fits so perfectly in mine, the one I want to pull weeds with, and the one I see next to me when we find time to linger in the sun.