In a singular attempt at some sort of “therapy” in this whole warped, weird process (I refused anything formal, and I’m pretty sure I’m turning out ok), I went to one session of a support group for people who are in a similar situation as me. I was honestly looking forward to telling my story, hearing theirs, and the knowing nods laced with some good humor and a bit of sympathy. What I didn’t anticipate was to walk away feeling like I didn’t even belong. I didn’t belong among the small, insular group that is women (and one man) who have also had this strange circumstance end their marriages.
On paper, I belonged. In my heart, I felt very foreign.
How is that possible?
I’ll be the first person to say that while I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy, I’ve been incredibly fortunate every single step of the way. Like, mine is a toe stub compared to their train wrecks. And it made me feel like my being there was only going to make them feel worse about their own situations. That I was healing so well, so fast; that I was focused on forgiveness, not hate; that I rejected the urge to trash talk and conspire, instead defending him; that I don’t have children to complicate things—it was odd and enlightening all at once.
I felt my stomach turn at the sad stories, the betrayals, the disturbing details, the decades-old grudges. I want no part of that. I just want to move on.
This isn’t a judgment, just a decision to keep myself separate from an all-too-easy mentality. Wasn’t productive for me.
“Screws fall out all the time; the world is an imperfect place.” – John Bender, The Breakfast Club
It’s odd to feel fortunate in the face of what just happened to me, but I do. Lucky as hell.
-C.
[Deets for the cheap seats: Free People dress + Rails plaid shirt + Chan Luu rosary + Joie Ajax boots + All Saints leather.]
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