Tag: divorce

solitude

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My social life has changed radically in the past seven years, and it’s hard to distinguish how much is due to Lyme, and how much is due to COVID. Now I’m trying to figure out why I like the quieter life so damn much.

“There is a difference between solitude and loneliness.”
― Maggie Smith

This is profoundly important to recognize. I am not lonely, nor am I pining away for FOMO (for those of you who’ve lived under a rock for too long, FOMO is “fear of missing out,” something most of outgrow sometime between middle school and the twenties). If I wanted to see people and be more social, I would.  But (she says in her best pouty voice) I don’t wanna.

Therefore, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to what this means to me. I was stumped. I am not someone who shies away from people. Some might call me an extrovert, but I’m an extroverted introvert, i.e., someone who can be outgoing and enjoy chit-chat, but absolutely need to be alone to recharge. It’s quite a fascinating subject to read about, and there are some fine books written on introversion. Which brings me to the obstacle I kept coming back to:

“Solitude is fine but you need someone to tell that solitude is fine.”
― Honoré de Balzac

Our society is adamantly focused on extroversion. Whether it’s a commercial showing shiny happy people getting together or a Hallmark movie highlighting the exhausting search for family and love, we are rarely shown people who are alone and content. This was getting under my skin and causing me to judge myself; to deem my desire to be alone as a negative, rather than a positive.

So of course I asked my therapist about this conundrum. He asked me how I felt when I was alone. It brings me back to the comfort and safety of childhood, those nights when I curled up wherever there was privacy in our home and read. I remember staying up late in our study, watching the little tv dad had in there for watching golf and tennis, and discovering the joy of watching a good movie (I vividly recall in particular Oklahoma and On the Town.)

I answered my own question and there was my “permission.” If solitude was what I wanted, then I should have it.

“If you’re lonely when you’re alone, you’re in bad company.”
― Jean-Paul Sartre

I have never loved my own company more than now. It’s a preference to be alone at this time. My craving solitude is more than a reallocation of my energy (still a necessary component of having Lyme).  It’s more than a safety precaution in COVID times. I’ve always been this way.

“The greatest thing in the world is to know how to belong to oneself.”
― Michel de Montaigne

Note that I say “at this time.” I don’t know if I’ll always prefer the level of solitude I have now.  But for the present, I not only prefer it, I demand it. I’m certain this all has to do with healing from the past decade.

A lot has happened between 2010 and now. Mom died. My marriage went downhill. My ex took a buyout and left his job. Katie came back home (that was a good thing, but still stressful). We decided to divorce. That’s when life went into overdrive.

Between December 10, the day we decided to divorce, and January 17, the day I went to Bennington, I packed the house and got it ready to sell, and found another house. I was still negotiating the contract on the bus from the Albany airport and Bennington. I moved four weeks after starting grad school. There was much solitude during those two years, but not the kind that recharges, as anyone who has gone to grad school can attest.

And then came the Lyme years, where solitude was a given, not a choice. Being sick is a special kind of solitude, and it required all of my energy.

“I enjoy convalescence. It is the part that makes the illness worth while.”
― George Bernard Shaw

Now that I am in remission for long stretches I have time to process this long stretch of change and begin to heal. Healing is a very subjunctive thing, much like grief, pain, sickness, and love. My process for healing is to immerse myself into things I want to do, including napping, walking, reading, cooking, swimming, cleaning, writing, studying, and yes, solitude.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with this, but I’ve grown positively crotchety about guarding my time zealously. I am enjoying the peaceful feeling of the freedom to do what nourishes you after a long illness.

“Loneliness is the poverty of self; solitude is richness of self.”
― May Sarton

This is the truth. I can’t be the only person I know who prefers solitude. I find my newfound solitude to be the the rewards of major lifestyle changes. I wanted this. I downsized my world to get this time, so my job is to honor what I have created.

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decompression

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I think I may be decompressing (or falling apart) after an incredibly busy and stressful summer. Now that I am healthy more than I am sick, I chose to cash in on my home and simplify my life. Sounds good, right? Well, I know moving. I have moved forty times in my life (this was my fortieth) and bought and sold seven houses. This was my eighth purchase, so I know the process. This was the most difficult move I have ever made, for several reasons. First, I radically downsized. Although I was more than ready to do so, it is a long, difficult process, even for someone who regularly goes through and gets rid of stuff, like me. Second, the market in Denver is absolutely off the hook. Selling a house is easy-peasy. Buying a house? Extremely difficult. Third, and the most challenging, this move represented moving on with life into the unknown.

Downsizing is an emotional journey whether you want to do it or not, especially after forty+ years of acquiring things. If I’ve done it right, I won’t miss anything that I let go. So far, so good. I do feel much lighter. The possessions were literal baggage; relics of a former life that is gone. What surprised me was how difficult getting rid of possessions are post-COVID. No one wants anything now. It took one estate sales, two donation pick-ups, and a listing for “free stuff” on NextDoor, and one junk pick-up to get rid of everything we wanted.

Buying a townhome was just as stressful as getting rid of things. We put bids on three properties before we found “the one.” After all the drama with selling and downsizing, once our bid was accepted, that part was surprisingly easy. They even moved up the move date by almost three weeks, a welcome event, because we were living in a stripped-down work site. Oh, did I mention I had to do a nearly $20k repair for the sale of the house? Well, I did, and that was a HUGE hassle. In the end, Katie and I purchased a townhome together. I’ll be there part-time, so it is definitely more “hers” than mine, despite the hefty down payment I made. She is extremely happy to have a mortgage and an asset. I’m extremely happy I don’t have to worry about a big house and yard when I am not there.  And yet, I am having trouble letting go of the fact that I am mistress of no home right now, but more of a guest, both in Dad’s house and now Katie’s. It’s a strange feeling, despite how generous they are. Neither mind letting me take over the kitchens while I’m there. I have my own spaces in both homes. And yet I struggle, even though it is what I wanted. 

The third point is the stickler right now. Wanting to be unencumbered and being unencumbered are two different states. Perhaps it is becauseI haven’t had enough time (really, since 2013) to work through all the major changes in my life. Divorce, graduate school, and Lyme, one after the other, in quick succession. Caveat: if you who think being sick is “downtime”, I know you’ve never been seriously ill for any length of time. As I’ve said before, being sick for long periods of time is a really shitty job. It’s hard, hard, work, and when you’re not sick, you’re frantically playing catch up. That was part of the reason I have voluntarily set myself adrift. The less I have on my plate means less catching up.

Without that ceaseless cycle to occupy me, I’m left to decompress. The first week back in Tucson was filled with getting Rocky and myself settled, and taking care of things around the house for Dad. The second week I got myself caught up with all the online minutiae of changing addresses, getting finances in order, and establishing a schedule. That only takes up so much time.

People, I’m here to tell you that decompressing and having the time to process huge life changes absolutely blows

Humans will do almost anything to avoid their own emotions of sorrow, rage, and regret and I am no exception. I don’t want to think about all the things I’ve dealt with. I find myself flitting from what I should be doing to mindless doom-scrolling and game-playing. At what point do I declare an end to decompressing and begin thriving again? I know what my therapist would say: there is no timeline for this journey. He would say I need to recognize that I have been through over six long years of being more sick than well. He would tell me I need to be kind to myself and relearn how to manage my energy and my life.

But for now, it means flitting from task to task, never quite able to fully concentrate on anything. It means struggling to give myself permission to do things just for me that aren’t related to getting better or surviving. I have to figure out where the line between self-indulgence and self-care is.

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mess

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I was once a hot mess. I know this because I’ve asked old friends what they thought of me back then. There was no rhyme or reason for my behavior in my teens and early twenties. I was completely unaware that I was, in my own way, desperately trying to work through my damage. Sometimes it is easier to admit to sexual abuse than to discuss the fallout. What we hide in our teens and twenties, and sometimes, our lifetimes, and how we present ourselves are often at odds. I’m willing to bet not one of my peers in high school had any inkling that I was sexually and physically abused by my brother, just as I had no inkling of their troubles.

Let’s go back even further, before any of that happened. My dad says he knew I was going to be a handful at an early age. What he meant by that is I am a natural flirt. Does this go hand in hand with someone who is a sexual being? I don’t know, all I know is I enjoyed the game. Of course, the game was interrupted and quashed at an early age, through no fault of my own. This had a tremendous effect on my budding sexuality. I’m sure I gave off mixed signals, especially in high school. I was desperate to be wanted, yet terrified that anyone would want me. I wanted to be physical and experiment, yet some part of my brain would not allow that.

I feel certain my therapist would tell me this is common behavior in sexual abuse victims. The next phase is definitely common behavior in sexual abuse victims: promiscuity. I am neither proud nor ashamed of that phase in my life. The mid-70s were a heady time for sex. Pre-AIDS, post-birth control, and post-women’s liberation, the act of taking control of your sex life was, for women my age, almost a political statement. I was in Austin, Texas at the time, and the city was teeming with liberated women. I had fun. I had some fabulous encounters and some scary ones and many that simply were. The key thing was that I was in control of my sex life, and who I had sex with. Mind you, my taste was all over the place. My standards were capricious and ill-thought-out. I was at peak hot mess-ness during this period. It’s a wonder I survived relatively unscathed.

Then I got married. Did I submerge my sexuality to make the marriage survive, or did the marriage submerge me? I’m not sure how it worked, only that after a few years and many, many missteps, I was no longer true to myself. I didn’t know how to ask for what I wanted, and I’m not sure he did either. No blame, ours would hardly be the first or last marriage where sex sputtered and died.

Lyme struck just as I was ready to fully reclaim ownership of my own sexuality. Divorce, telling my dad (finally!) of my brother’s abuse, and therapy had combined, along with being single, to get to a place that was healthy. Not that I was unhealthy,  just fucked up enough to have to work through all that crap to get to a place that felt healthy. What Lyme gave me was the gift of contemplation times ten. I worked through everything else until there was nothing else but this, the most personal of issues. I almost feel ashamed discussing sexuality in my blog, but isn’t that part of the problem? Why should I feel that way? Why should any of us feel that way? It’s not like I’m confessing to dressing up like a chipmunk for my sweet bear (not that there’s anything wrong with that…). I’m admitting I’m a sexual being. It almost feels frivolous, and, in the grand scale of things, it is. After humans have fulfilled their biological functions, sex really serves no use but for pleasure.

There is a scale of human sexuality, all the way from asexual to sex addict. I fall well within the norm, thankfully. In this day and age to be outside the norm is becoming a subversive act. Why people feel the need to quash others sexual orientations and sexual proclivities is beyond me. Unless someone is underage or hasn’t consented, I don’t care what other people do or who they love. I’m proud that I am no longer a hot mess. I’m happy that I know what I want, what I like and that I feel unashamed. Humans are, by nature, hardwired to want and enjoy sex. My wiring got a little crossed at an early age. Fifty-eight is not too late to rewire find a new spark.

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presentation

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I have started dating. No reason, whatever was holding me back isn’t anymore. For me, decisions like this one are generally stewed over for a while and then, poof! the switch is thrown. Once thrown, it’s full steam ahead. Dating at 58 is no different than 18, emotionally. By 58, though, you have to worry about presentation. Presumably, you’ve acquired some wisdom and baggage by now, and daters want to know more concrete things about you (unlike young dating, where loving the same band might be the basis of a relationship). Also, it helps to know what you want and what you need. Oh, and who you are. Easy-peasy. And there’s the whole Lyme thing to explain: “Yeah the last year I’ve spent being sick. With Lyme. Uh, nothing else, just being sick.” I’ve met a few guys for coffee and here is what I’ve discovered: I’m an intellectually complex person with pretty simple wants. I’m not ambitious, career-wise. I want to write and have people read what I write, but there is no ego involved with what I do to make money. I lifeguard, right now. It’s what I can do. Am I anti-feminist if what I want is to take care of those close to me at the expense of a job? Am I regressive if I am happier and more comfortable being the woman behind the man? What value do we really place on that person who provides a warm place to land at the end of each day?

I’m financially stable, so I don’t want to depend on a man, but how do I convey this part of myself without sounding like a Stepford wife? All of this is complicated by my family history. Both my birth mom and mom were driven, accomplished women at a time when having a real career was unusual. Does my simpler needs dishonor the obstacles they faced in earlier times? My choices in my marriage come to the forefront. I have to own those, and realize that the ridiculously old-fashioned role of ‘housewife’ suits me. Actually, I prefer the older term ‘chatelaine’ which means mistress of the house. Done properly, there is always toilet paper, food, and other necessities. The sheets are always clean, the house well-ordered and fresh-smelling. There are no take-out menus or frozen dinners. Paper plates are not used except at cookouts. Sure, you can pay someone else to do all of these things or not be bothered by not doing them, but there’s a reason this role is both revered and reviled in our society.

As in all things, it all depends on your perspective. If you feel honored, valued and respected, almost anything is satisfying. One thing I’ve learned through getting older and having lots of time to think (Thanks, Lyme!) is I can embrace my nature. This is who I am. I believe there are men out there who would like to match wits with one of the world’s more complicated housewives. At least I hope so. When you’re sick for a long time you lose all sense of self, and a good deal of self-confidence. Presentation becomes a minefield of being totally honest and not scaring someone off immediately. Oddly enough, I don’t care a thing about age. As in, I am 58. Deal with it. I do care that I look healthy, happy and like I take pride in my appearance, but a girl like me will only do so much. I will not do plastic surgery, botox, anything artificial, or hair color (but I have so little gray that it’s weird!). I will do makeup, perfume and excellent foundation garments. A good bra is worth every penny. Sooner or later, if I meet someone, they will see the real me. I’d rather it be sooner.

I have dealbreakers. Don’t we all? I don’t like mean people. I like someone who’s comfortable in their own skin. Cars and stuff don’t impress me at all. Brains do. What you read and the music you like matter, to a certain extent. If you love motorcycles, skiing and football, we’re probably not going to be soulmates. And then there is chemistry. That’s…like lightning in a bottle? I’ve only experienced that rush once in my life, that instant connection. I’d like to have it again, but am I willing to wait as long as that takes? I guess we’ll see. At my age, and especially after Lyme, I want that, dare I say I deserve it? Yes. I dare.

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