Cutting the invisible string

      4 Comments on Cutting the invisible string

Remember a couple weeks ago, when life was really kicking me in the proverbial dick? You all know I lost a chance to buy my dream house. What you didn’t know is that the next day, due to miscommunication, I was basically uninvited to an event I had been looking forward to for months. AND I was also dealing with the WORST case of constipation I’ve ever had. My stomach hurt, my heart hurt, and my butt hurt, it sucked. But, as I was wallowing my constdepression, I decided that things were going to get better. I took a minute on Sunday to pull my head out of my sads, and made a deal with the interwebs to stay positive:

But the poop storm wasn’t over, because then our marriage shat the bed.

Come Monday I was looking forward to couples therapy. As I mentioned before, we started it up again, and I was stoked. Since finding my new personal therapist, I’ve done so much good work on myself, that I feel like a TOTALLY DIFFERENT person in a relationship. I feel more able to be honest, open, and express those pesky feels. Which meant, there was no way that couples therapy wasn’t going to be helpful. There was no way, as long as we put in the effort, that we wouldn’t grow together and form a deeper bond and more kick-ass partnership. You know, skills that we could bring with us into our future together.

That Monday, still struggling with constipation, I stormed into the waiting room and began regaling Aaron with the sordid details (as married people do). When he didn’t respond with humor, or sympathy, or much of anything, I knew something was up. When he started almost crying, I knew that he was done.

At one point our therapist launched into the spiel about how much hard work this would be, we’ll hurt each other and ourselves, but we really have to dig in and do the hard work to make it. I responded that I’m totally down to do that — no doubt and without hesitation, I’m ready for that. BUT I didn’t think Aaron felt the same way. When our therapist asked him if that was true, he nodded, his face contorting in pain, and tears threatening their way out his eyes.

I won’t go into detail, but from how well I know Aaron, from what followed in that session, I knew that it was over for him.

I got ANGRY. I tried not to, but I couldn’t help it — the feeling overtook me. I didn’t talk to him from the moment we left the therapists office until some time the next day. When the wave of shock and anger subsided, I texted him that I needed him to be honest with me and himself, and decide, once and for all, if he was in or out. To which he responded that it was only fair.

So that night we had THE TALK.

I was really proud of the way I handled myself though. I didn’t let my surging emotions overtake me. I actively tried to sit in a position that communicated openness, instead of curling into the ball I wanted to (and normally do) curl into. Then, after the conversation was over, coming to the inevitable conclusion of the end of our marriage, I lost it. I went into the bedroom, and cried and cried and cried, until I was too exhausted to stay awake.

I woke up a little when he came into grab a couple pillows and the extra blanket from the bed. I felt the heavy knitted blanket slip away from my hands, body, and then feet. And, even though it was extra, and I didn’t really need it to sleep, without it’s presence the covers and coverlette felt suddenly too light and cold.

In the morning, he was gone.

The worst part of this is the invisible string being severed. If I’m scared, or overwhelmed, or sad, I reach out to feel that connection to Aaron. I don’t need to actually reach out to him physically, he’s already a part of me, I know him so well that I can feel his presence within me. I can feel that invisible string connecting us no matter where I am or what I’m doing, and it grounds me. I can’t tell you how many times a day I reach out to just feel that it’s there — it’s like the habit I have of rubbing the base of the rings on my wedding ring finger with the pad of my thumb. It’s a reassuring gesture — a quick way to reassure myself “you are not alone, Megan.” I reach out to that invisible string to get what I need in that moment too.

But now it’s gone. I reach out, and it’s not there, and it may never be again, and I feel like I’m falling out of orbit with my own life.

I know I’ll be okay… eventually. I know this. My friend Ken has already told me the best thing anyone could have said to me in this moment, “we’ll get you through this.” WE. And in my head I wasn’t just imagining Ken, but there was also Jessica, Erik and Kimmy, Ariel and the Empire girls, Drew, my parents, and my therapist, and so many others that form my personal community.

I’m lucky to have a lot of friends and great support systems. In the two weeks since this happened, not a day goes by where I don’t get a text, phone call, or email from someone just checking in on me to see how I’m doing, or just giving me loving messages of support. My heart is broken, and continues to fracture in new and painful ways, but it’s slowly getting spackled and stitched back together by my wonderful friends and family.

Whatever happens, we’ll all get me through this.

4 thoughts on “Cutting the invisible string

  1. dootsiebug

    Fuck. Sending you buckets of positive energy and love.
    It’s so wonderful to hear that you’ve got people who are there for you. And it sounds like you’re letting them be there for you. GOOD. Keep letting people hold the umbrella through the poop showers.

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