I'm not broken

Divorce is an ugly word. And it's hard to explain to people - new acquaintances, old friends who had fallen out of touch - that once I was married and now I'm not. But, for me, the worst part is how people react to the news.

While I'm certainly not happy that things ended the way they did - I didn't stand there in front of all my family and friends on my wedding day thinking that in less than two years we would have crashed and burned in a rather epic manner - I am happy with my life now. Thrilled in fact. And even on the lowest days - like living in a friend's basement with bronchitis and wondering what my life would look like on a day to day basis while fielding many tearful phone calls from family and friends - things still felt better and more hopeful than they did when I was still muddling along, feeling numb in my relationship.

As a result, I've developed a bit of a chip on my shoulder about people's reactions to my news. Whether it's a tearful, "Oh I'm so sorry" (to which, I must admit, I normally rather callously reply, "Don't be. I'm not.") or a comment on how some day I'll find a man who can stick around (Why do they always assume that I was left?), these answers bother me. I know that people don't know what to say or how to react. I know it's awkward. But I just want people to take it as a fact - it's something that happened, it's part of my story, and now it is over, and I'm a better, stronger person because of it - because I don't expect anyone to understand what happened, nor do I want to get into the gory details with most people.

In fact, very few people know all the details of my marriage meltdown - basically three people, apart from myself and my ex - and the long, tearful path that got us there. You don't just wake up one day and say, "I don't want to be married anymore." It takes month after month after month of problems, conflicts of core values and a general misery and sense of dread when you contemplate facing another day. So, at least for me, by the time it was out in public, I was at peace with it and, even, relieved.

But, while I know all this, it doesn't stop people from treating me like I'm somewhat broken. I break the news and I wait for that very sad apology. That moment of pity. That rapid evaluation that I must have been young and stupid and made a mistake - something that I have been told on more than one occasion. I have been asked whether I have commitment issues. Friends ask me if I'm jaded (I may be sarcastic, but generally, I'm still a hopeless romantic). Others keep their distance. And I hate how that feels, as though I've been irreparably damaged now and will go through the rest of my life tainted by this one event.

In fact, one gentleman, who I was seeing at the time, said that I had the equivalent of red flashing warning lights around me.

Yes, I've got some battle scars. At this point in time, I'm still building up my single support structure, but things are pretty good. If I do start going down the path to another relationship, I'm sure it will involve long talks, a lot of explanations, and some seriously slow momentum.

And, as a result of my past, I am forever looking out for certain red flags, warning signs, that would send me running faster than you can say, "It was nice to meet you."

But I think that's true for almost everyone who's ever been in love and been hurt. We've all got our baggage. And, while I may be a little bruised, I certainly don't feel like I'm broken beyond repair.