Heartburn
“And then the dreams break into a million tiny pieces. The dream dies. Which leaves you with a choice: you can settle for reality, or you can go off, like a fool, and dream another dream.”
― Nora Ephron (rest in peace)
For the first time in years, I didn’t write last week. I was in bed, sick, and crying my eyes out. It didn’t stop, as if my body had been growing tears for ages, and they were all ripe at once and harvesting themselves out of my face and onto the fronts of my tee shirts. For a few minutes here and there I’d get a grip, and then in line for coffee or while brushing my teeth, they’d start up again unexpectedly.
I hit a really low low a few weeks ago when the “this is absolutely over and I would like a divorce, please.” conversation happened, but, surprisingly, I started to buck up quickly. Then things changed. I was blindsided. It left me with a low-grade fever and two nights of vomiting, plus all the snot-crying, for days on end.
I’ve been twisting about writing anything about this because obviously there is another person involved, and I’m still a lady. However, I’ve learned two things in eight years of blogging the highly personal: One, sharing has always made me feel less alone, and that’s what I need now, and two: rarely do any of us have totally unique stories of pain anyway. (Even my one-in-a-million quirky miscarriage turned almost-not-diagnosed ectopic pregnancy story made one reader write me a few months later saying, “What happened to you happened to me. I spoke up, and it saved my life.”)
I’ve always been, at the very worst, in the “Oh, things are a little rough, but I’ll pull through alright, thank you for asking.” camp (we with the silly stiff upper lips). It turns out that doesn’t always work, and you wind up walking through an airport crying anyway. Where people can see you.
The worst is feeling unlike my joyful, peaceful self. My peace and joy has been zapped out of me, and meeting new people right now feels like meeting them sporting a purple mohawk or something – SO very not me.
It’s literally embarrassing, although in the middle of finally editing this post, Maggie posted this, stating how divorce is a death, not an event to be “gotten over”, and that made me feel so much better. I don’t have to have expectations for a timeline of feeling better. (Incidentally, I’m guessing it will take about as long as that purple mowhawk would to grow out.) Thanks, Maggie.
So this is just The Way It Is right now, and it sucks so hard.
Still, for days now, the ghost of Amber, age 14, has been leaning on the edge of my bed, peering into my face accusingly, wondering what the hell happened. I look up from my box of tissues and don’t know what to tell her, except, “Baby, I am so, so sorry.”
Leann
3 Jul 12 at 8:38 am
i’ve never commented before but felt the need to say i’m so, so sorry you are struggling right now. i find you to be one of the most genuine voices in the blog world and appreciate your ability to be real and share yourself with strangers. please know this stranger is rooting for you as you make your way through this difficult time.
Kizz
3 Jul 12 at 10:25 am
Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow because the best thing I have to say is a hug.
Amber
3 Jul 12 at 3:01 pm
Your sudden silence was concerning to me and there have been many times over the past week when I almost sent you an email… but I stopped myself because I didn’t want to make assumptions or be nosy or whatever… know that you’ve been on my mind. You will totally make it through this because you’re unstoppable. Sending hugs and love and cupcakes and beer and whatever else will cheer you up.
Abby
3 Jul 12 at 6:15 pm
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuug I’m afraid that some of that airport crying may have been connected to me. We were so thrilled to have you there tears or no.
And I just met you recently and think you’re lovely–I can see peace and joy in there, and
Last, because the world is small and good people find one another, one of Kizz’s people is also a friend of mine-you took pictures of her a week ago as she finished up my hair.
Tell tiny Amber that you’re doing the best you can, tears and all. Hugs…
Small world! I love that!
All of the airport crying was me trying to get to you! But it was good timing; I can’t tell you have stunningly life affirming it was to be at your wedding taking photos. People keep asking me if it’s hard to do what I do while I’m going through this, and it’s not, it’s the total opposite. Weddings make me hopeful.
Megan
4 Jul 12 at 3:13 pm
Once upon a time, you sold make-up, and I came to Connecticut and I wanted to buy brown eye liner because my mom told me I should never wear black eye liner, and you told me that I have beautiful eyes and I should wear black eye liner. So I got black eye liner, and then all of a sudden, I saw what you saw and my eyes WERE beautiful, and since then, I’ve only worn black eye liner.
I know that’s kind of a silly story, but my point is this: I think you’re one of those rare people that have a gift of seeing the best parts of other people. Whether it’s through blogging, or photography, or telling a an almost-stranger they need to wear black eye liner, you make other people better by knowing you. Please tell that to 14 year old Amber.
Sending thoughts and hugs from NJ.
Cindy
4 Jul 12 at 7:28 pm
I’m reading this now. Today was super important to me for many reasons, but one was just a chance to see your face. That crying out of no where thing? I wish I could figure that out too. I keep thinking time. You are brave and beautiful and strong. You will survive it. It’s just going to suck for a while and then it will get better.
HG
5 Jul 12 at 1:13 pm
Sweetie – I’m saying this as someone who HATES to cry: Crying is OK. It totally is OK. Thinking of you and sending silly virtual hugs.
jerilyn
5 Jul 12 at 1:51 pm
sending thought-wave bear hugs to you, big long bear hug.
Allison
5 Jul 12 at 4:38 pm
Tell 14 year old Amber that she became the type of person that when she hurts, other people cry, too. That means she’s doing a lot of things right.
tameka
10 Jul 12 at 11:26 am
Oh Amber, I usually lurk, but I was moved to type out a hug, and a gentle nod/half-smile of assurance that everything you are feeling is OK. Please be well.
Sophia
11 Jul 12 at 12:49 pm
Much love.
Sherry
12 Jul 12 at 12:29 pm
I can’t imagine what it feels like. Hugs, and let me buy you a drink or two — or a bar — soon.
Mary
16 Jul 12 at 11:05 am
I equated my divorce with death as well. He had changed so drastically during the whole ordeal (I wasn’t the only one to notice) that I KNEW I had not married /that/ man. He was, at best, a relative of the deceased. At worst, an angry antagonistic relative who I did not want in my house going through his stuff. It was hard. But, to borrow a phrase, it does get better.
Thanks, Nora
17 Jul 12 at 7:59 pm
[...] In my travels– which ironically started with my favorite wedding blog, and ended at a fresh divorce post, I stumbled across this quote from the dearly departed, no-stranger-to-heartache, Nora [...]