One Fine Day

I will go back to Paris with the man I love.
And he will want to go to Paris whether or not he likes Paris.
He will want to go because I love Paris and because he loves me.

The Quiet City: Winter in Paris

(Photos taken during my last trip in 2007. I shall return.)

"Each divorce is the death of a civilization."

http://mightygirl.com/2012/06/26/divorce-and-grief/

I was a wife, and now I’m not.

The product is so much cleaner than the process. And in the beginning, this is how I thought of divorce. Discrete, an event. So I waited for it to be over.

There were mundane moments of suffering — my thumb would feel for my missing wedding band, I’d overfill the teakettle, or be half-asleep and bewildered to find only a single toothbrush near the sink. Every time, the surprise of it was clarifying, a series of breathtaking realizations. I moved the tissue box from room to room.

Beyond these details there was a progression of endings — moving out, quitting therapy, getting a lawyer, signing papers — all of it mounted toward the final goal. But each milestone passed without much change in my feelings. The finish line I imagined was in motion. Slowly I came to understand that divorce wasn’t so much an event as a death.

The distinction is crucial, for two reasons. First, because we have fewer expectations of when we’ll recover after a death. We understand that feeling normal again is more a function of time than effort. Second, because we have better tools for coping with mourning than with divorce. There’s a protocol of care, we forgive outbursts, moments of insanity. And if we’ve lost someone, perhaps we go easier on ourselves.

I did not go easy on myself. The grief eclipsed me, and embarrassed me. And thinking of it as an event only increased my suffering. When each phase found me still mourning, I worried that I would never be myself again.

Pain and confusion aside, just the paperwork seemed insurmountable. It was easy for me to get caught up in logistics and mistake them for the journey. Once you’ve taken actions A-Z, you are no longer married, and you get your life back.

Except, as with a death, once everything normalizes it doesn’t resemble your life anymore. The plans you’d made, the things you’d thought settled, are blown apart.

Now I’m no longer a wife, but the afterimage of that identity remains. Sometimes my habits still bend to accommodate the preferences of a person who isn’t there. I don’t know how long it will last, only that I don’t need a finite date anymore.

Divorce has changed me, matured me, perhaps more than marriage did. Now I know that our loneliest moments are some of the most universal.

If you’re going through a divorce, try not to worry so much about when everything will end, just know that it will. You’ll get through it, and there’s so much possibility waiting on the other side.

For those of you who have gone through it, when did you start feeling better? Did your thinking about the divorce process change over time? Advice appreciated in comments.

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A reader's comment:

I got married 8 years ago today, and divorced 6.5 years ago. I sobbed my way through yoga last night because sometimes, it still hurts so acutely.

I think that one thing that was difficult for me, as a generally Successful Person, was that it felt like a failure. I felt like I’d failed someone else, and I felt like I failed myself. Being a divorcee didn’t jive with the notion I had of who I was.

And you’re right on that it’s like a death. It’s the death of the life you shared, but it’s also the death of the hopes, dreams and plans you’d made as a couple or family. I remember thinking that I’d never do some of the things we’d planned (travel, have a baby in a certain year, etc.) and some of that was hard, but once I felt a little better, I was able to make some of those dreams happen for myself, albeit differently.

I remember that about three months after we’d split (and my ex has chosen to never speak to me again, btw) I came out of the gym, and picked up my phone to call him and tell him what I wanted on my salad for dinner that night, as was our Wednesday night custom. The forgetting and simultaneous remembering hurt so badly, and I remember sobbing to a friend that “there would never be someone who’d go get my salad and know what I didn’t want on it again.” And sometimes, it felt like no one would ever know me that intimately again.

At first, I set tiny goals for myself each day: wash sheets, make cookies, don’t lay around and cry. And after a few months, that became unnecessary. There is no deadline of when you will feel better, and sometimes, even years later, the pain does kind of take you by surprise. But you WILL feel better. You will adjust to a new normal, you will learn surprising things about yourself and your strength and you will recover. Divorce made me more sensitive to myself and to others.

If I can offer one piece of advice, it’s don’t punish yourself. I’ve spent far too long punishing myself for what I could or could not have done, not just in my mind but in the way I’ve treated myself. I regret that time period, because the truth is, I don’t know if anything I did or said could’ve saved the marriage. I am still learning to be nice to myself.

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An article that tore into me.

The greatest fury comes from the wound where love once issued forth. 

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No, we weren't married. But in my heart we sorta kinda were. After fifteen years (longer than some marriages) it sure felt like it. So much so that I was getting seriously nutty. Crazy-person-on-Facebook-crazy.  And then I remembered this place. Where I can write and the wind can catch it. Or let it go.

Dylan is saving me. Joni is saving me. Tori has always been with me. It's this ebb and flow of grief, of doubt, that kills me. My poor kitchen sink, witness to so many breakdowns. My orange rubber shoes and my blue yoga mat, a place for peace and endorphins. 

Making the bed without anyone on the other side to tug at the covers. 

Feeling for a ring on my left ring finger. (Why oh why did I get used to putting that there?)

Wondering what I'm supposed to do with all these men's clothes and shoes and socks and jewelry and TVs and all this shared property.

It's only been a month and three days, I tell myself. That's why you're climbing the walls and crawling into wine bottles. 

One day there will be peace. One way or the other. 

Sometimes you have to forget what you feel and remember what you deserve. - Unknown

Food for thought.

(That might get me stoned to death by the angry mob.)

http://pisceschick.wordpress.com/2011/05/29/single-vs-married-women/

My one beach trip for the summer

We were already in Tagaytay when a tree branch fell on and CRACKED the car windshield. What are the odds of that happening? So we drove back to Ortigas to change cars. I drove up to Tagaytay (Me! Driving!). Burgy drove up to Nasugbu in the dark with me navigating (Me! Navigating!). Aprille kept us smiling. 

We got to Fuego past 10pm. Accuweather said it would rain Saturday. Lola and friends said no, let the child turn brown. So we had one whole day of sun and sand. I swam laps in the sea. I sat on the shore. I stared at where sea met sky, where the sun played with the leaves. I watched a kid play in the sand. I think one should visit the sea regularly to feel awe, to feel small, to feel strong. 

Thank you, Universe, for letting me see the beach before the rains come back. I am so very grateful.

Seize the Scissors

(This is a very long tale about my mane. Beware.)

People called me a bunch of names growing up: Annie, Curly Sue, Curlilocks, Santo Nino. 

If this look were to have a name (like Blue Steel and Le Tigre) it would be...The Burot.

When I was younger it was a love-hate thing...especially since most of my friends had stick-straight hair you could run your hands through without breaking your joints or losing a finger.

When I got older and got over the standard parlor line ("Ma'am, ayaw niyo magpa-unat?") that morphed into the standard salon line ("Ma'am, ayaw niyo magpa-rebond?"), I started liking my hair. It didn't hurt that digiperms and them Korean girls got popular; some salon people even started complimenting my hair ("Ma'am, natural curls yan?"). 

But curly hair can get big, can get hot, and can get itchy. So I've spent the past few years pulling her into a bun or a ponytail. And then I saw this picture of me with my niece and freaked out:

The picture that made me realize my hair was seriously thinning.
Which is my karma, because I've always wished for thinner hair.
The gods are funny that way.

Naloka ako sa kanipisan ng buhok ko sa tuktok ng ulo ko. This picture sent me running to an organics store and buying all sorts of oils and hair masks and conditioners--the combination of which freaked my scalp out. (Note: I am super-pro organic stuff. I'm just saying my crazy combination freaked my scalp out. Because I was freaking out. Now that I don't use all of them at the same time they're nicer to me.)

I turned to my ever-wise sister and she said, "Do a vinegar rinse." It saved her from decapitating herself when being pregnant gave her crazy-itchy skin and scalp.

This is what my hair looked like after:

Pinaka-winner compliment from an artistic dude who paints:
"This would make an excellent painting." *blushes*

It was like setting her free. Be curly, dear curls. This is who you really are. I wore her down, and I wore her loose, but curly hair can get big, and hot, and itchy, especially during a crazy-hot tropical summer. 

So I made two PowerPoint presentations with hair options and made an appointment with a stylist who cut my hair once before, in a way that I loved so much that she exclaimed, "Camille, stop looking at yourself in the mirror!" 

Distracting myself with Time Magazine.

Three people said three different things to me that made me seize the scissors:

1. My Kulafu, after I protested that I can't have short hair (which he loves) because my face is round: "Your face will always be round. So?"
2. My Dear Sister, right after Drea the Super Stylist said she'd give me time to think about it: "Think of it as a reboot for your scalp."
3. Drea the Super Stylist, when I gave her the green light to chop it off: "We shouldn't be imprisoned by our hair."

A whole lotta hair.

It's been two days since I seized the scissors. The last time my hair was this short I was  around eight years old--which probably explains why my reflection and my shadow made me jump when I walked home from the salon. 

Short hair is definitely more fun to wash (I keep grabbing the back, like a phantom mane) but harder to style, and I'm getting to know her all over again. I've semi-retired my hair elastics and dusted off my bobby pins. I've realized that putting my sunglasses on top of my head (which I normally do) helps me "set" my hair but isn't so nice when the sun hurts my eyes. (And can make me look really stupid when I'm walking home at night.)

I'm on the hunt for a blow dryer with a diffuser attachment, but most stores sell them hair iron thingies (Camille, this is the Philippines! What did you expect? They want everybody to have straight hair!) I'm still on the hunt for products that will keep my hair curly but don't contain all those nasty chemicals that made my hair so dry in the first place.

Yesterday my hair made me feel like Julia Ormond; this afternoon it felt closer to Wolverine. I guess my hair and I will be stuck with each other for at least a year...here's hoping we figure each other out!

A Julia Ormond/Felicity/20s Flapper moment from yesterday.
Not in picture: my current Wolverine/80s New Wave moment

This skinny thingie.

I think I'm starting to understand it. Abangan!

Hong Kong

Still a great place to visit, even the fourth time around.

I made a conscious effort not to bring the big camera around, so I could just soak things in (and only because it wasn't my first time there; the shutterbug in me would've freaked out otherwise). 

Thank heaven for phones with cameras.

Sunset at Victoria Peak, along a road that reminded me of Europe somehow.

Slowly becoming one of my favorite skylines.

A small alley off Granville Road that I turned into
while waiting for the veteran shoppers.

Ships and peaks and shimmering waters. Victoria Peak.

Homeless person. Pedder Street, Central.

I wasn't sure about that last picture. We passed her (him? I don't know) several times. And then on our way home, waiting to cross the street, I saw her again. There was nobody in front of us, there were no cars driving by; there was a young man under the HSBC sign, playing his violin for money...and in my head I thought, "I must remember this. In the midst of all this wealth I must remember this." So I took the picture.