Diary of a Divorcee

Life's a journey.

It has its ups. Its downs. Its sharp turns. Its sudden screeching halts.

Okay, from the sounds of it, maybe life is more like a roller coaster...

One of those big, rickety, wooden ones.

The ones that are simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating and leave you with a slight nauseating headache and a giant grin on your face.

The ones where you're not sure if you loved it or hated it, but either way you need to find a place to sit down for a second, sip some lemonade, and reassess what the hell you were thinking getting in that line in the first place.

That description is pretty apropos for me lately.

While 2014 was a tough one, 2015 was one for the books... Probably the only book I'd support burning to ash.

2015 was the year my marriage crumbled into ruin.

I'm not going to go into the 'hows' and 'whys' and all the nitty gritty details, so go ahead and put away the popcorn. None of that matters, in the end. Mine is a story that has been played out by millions of people before me, and will be muddled through by millions in the years to come. It's nothing anomalous or noteworthy, with the exception of where it has brought me to within myself.

And that's what this post is about.

Everyone who has gone through a divorce has experienced this highly strange dichotomy: your experiences are both singular and universal, unique and commonplace. And it is in that swirling, consuming polarity that one finds their true self.

I've blogged before about living your truth, being your authentic self, and enjoying the journey. And I will admit that this past year, I've struggled hard core with taking my own advice. It became far too easy to get caught up in the daily grind, in the hustle and bustle of this new version of normal, in just trying to keep the ship afloat.

For months following the split, my sole focus was on survival. Just trying to get through each day. Keep my chin up, tick off the boxes on my mental To Do list, and keep my wits about me.

And I'll admit. It was hard as hell.

Some days I rocked it.

Others... well, I got rocked. Badly.

I lost a few friends. Gained a few more.

I thought I had it all figured out, and then found myself literally and metaphorically collapsed on the floor, utterly walloped by the latest curveball.

I felt strong. I felt broken. I was vulnerable, yet completely closed off.

I laughed until I cried. I cried myself to sleep.

I screamed into my pillow, wondering how the hell I wound up in this place, and questioning whether or not I'd ever feel okay again.

And slowly-- painfully slowly-- I started putting myself back together.

I have historically always been a guarded person. I have never trusted easily, so when I do finally let that wall down, I'm even more vulnerable because of it. I have been called Stoic Sarah more times than I can count, and it used to be something I wore with pride; a badge of honor, if you will.

After all, if you keep people away, they can't hurt you. That means you're strong, right?

I am a rock. I am an island.

Or so I thought.

But I am not a Simon & Garfunkel song (despite my adoration of their music!).

I am a human being. And contrary to my public persona, I am an emotional, vulnerable, breakable one at that. I put on a facade of strength. I smile despite hurting. I laugh even though I'm crying inside. I flip sarcasm and jaunty wit constantly, creating an airy, easygoing image. People assume I don't care, or that nothing fazes me, but my reality couldn't be farther from that. Especially this past year.

And therein lay my struggle.

How do I convey to those around me my personal truth? How do I let my wall down, knowing how badly I've been hurt and wanting more than anything to avoid ever feeling that way again? How can I be strong if I let myself show weakness? How can I let those around me know the turmoil swirling beneath the surface, behind my bright smile and sparkling eyes?

I didn't think I could. I didn't know how to balance that need for connection and emotional support with the compulsion for self-defense. I've never been good at letting people in. Those closest to me can attest to that. My emotional wall is arguably my biggest flaw.

But here's something I learned along the way...

You can be broken and whole. You can be strong and vulnerable. You can let your walls down while still feeling guarded and afraid. You can be brave in your fear. And you can let people in without it destroying you.

I've been blessed to welcome some incredible people into my life this year. People whose love, support, humor, and wisdom have helped me not only find my strength, but have helped me heal along the way.

There is no light without darkness. There are no rainbows without storms. And there is no roller coaster without the stomach-churning twists, drops, and halts.

I've struggled. I've hurt. I've been broken. But I still find myself thankful. Because I've learned. I've grown. And I'm stronger for it.

I'm excited to see what this next year holds, and I welcome it with a trepidatious but open heart.

So bring it on, 2016. And you better play nice!

Annus Horribilis

Latin for "horrible year".

Also, the title of a speech given by Queen Elizabeth in 1992. 

And while it's safe to say that Liz's year at that time was arguably far worse than mine has been of late, I'm still commandeering the phrase for my own purposes. So there.

As you can tell through a simple comparison of dates, it's been almost a full year since I've blogged. My personal life took a fairly distinct sideways turn. 

Or several, as it were. 

(I'll address those in further detail in subsequent posts.)

As I bobbed and weaved and tried to get my life back on track, I fell away from writing for awhile. Partially because I was so busy. Partially because I didn't have the mental or emotional wherewithal to give it its due diligence. 

As time progressed, I eventually worked my way back toward writing. A bit of freelance here and there (time and exhaustion permitting). A bit of my personal WIP, more recently. But it wasn't until this past week that I felt ready to get back to blogging.

Probably sounds weird, right?

But writing is such a personal endeavor. It is something you pour your heart and soul (and a lot of caffeine) into. And with where I was at mentally and emotionally, I wasn't ready (or, honestly, willing) to open those gates again. First, because I didn't want my WIP to be associated with this tough time for me, risking tainting it with bad memories and negative emotions. And second, because blogging is so personal, and I needed to process my own crap before attempting to jauntily parlay that into a series of posts that didn't sound like they were written by a hyper-emotional Crazy Cat Lady with a twitchy eye.

So, eleven months later, here I am, bitches! Back and better than ever! Let's do this!

Anniversary

One year ago today, we arrived here in Wyoming.

We had left Washington on the evening of July 6, 2013, and pulled into Cheyenne in the wee hours of July 9th.

Those first few days- hell, the first few hours, even- were a major struggle for me, as from the start, things did not go as planned and expected. I had just left a house that I loved, a town that I loved, and my family and closest friends, and was instantly regretting all of it. It honestly took me several weeks before I began reestablishing my grasp on why we had moved, and that it was in fact a good thing.

Those four months we lived in the apartment, waiting for our house to be finished, were tough. I physically hated living there, and the commute for my husband and children was brutal. After the house was done and we finally, officially moved up to Cheyenne, things began looking up.

The fluffy clouds of the High Plains

I loved our house, and the feeling of finally getting to be settled. I loved that the kids' school and Husband's work were now only minutes away instead of an hour. I loved that our lives were finally able to simplify, and we could begin establishing ourselves here.

Storm rolling in over the kids' school

There have been some hiccups, and some obstacles, and some what-the-hell-are-you-kidding-me moments. But overall, I can honestly say that I like living here (minus the wind, which is soul sucking).

But here's the thing.

Something that, despite my many attempts, I have been unable to successfully explain to many others in our lives.

On the one hand, I like it here. On the other hand, I would move back to Seattle tomorrow.

And yes, those two feelings can coexist.

While it was an emotional struggle for me at first, I fully understand why we moved here, and the benefits of doing so. I have adapted (mostly) to high plains living, and while there are some aspects of it I may not particularly care for, overall it's nice here.

Normal sunset views from my house!

I like exploring the area and seeing new things. The sunsets and sky-scapes are absolutely stunning. The slower pace of life and small-town feel is perfectly pleasant to me (except trying to get anywhere on Lincolnway anytime before 10 am, when the Blue Hair Brigade is out in force and going 20 mph below the speed limit!)

But here's the thing that people are having a hard time wrapping their heads around: I like it here, but I miss Seattle like crazy. It's not like living in Cheyenne is terrible, and I'm miserable and want out rightthissecond. I do, genuinely, like it here. But I don't love it here.

And that's the key.

Hello, gorgeous!

My heart and soul is in Seattle. In the trees and the mountains and the rivers and the ocean.

Mt. Pilchuck, my former backyard

Is anything better than a bonfire on the beach?!?

So beautiful, and so very missed

I don't know what the future holds. I don't know if we will stay in Cheyenne for five more months or five more years. But I do know that our time here is not permanent. Western Washington is a very special place, rich in a natural beauty that can't be matched. My soul is fed up there, and because of that, we will move back eventually.

It is possible to like where you are, but know you belong somewhere else. To be happy, but not fulfilled. That's where I'm at. And our calamity of a trip last week reaffirmed that to me. Driving across Snoqualmie Pass made my heart sing. And leaving made it sink.

I don't hate living in Wyoming, and I certainly don't regret moving here.

But home is where the heart is. And my heart is in Seattle

Happy Monday

Thought I'd share this little gem. The Husband sent it to me in response to the crap I've had to deal with this past week. If only I could make stickers out of this and stick them to the foreheads of everyone who needs them! Talk about cathartic...