The month of April was a biggie. Signing my divorce papers. Craziness at work. The not-so-sudden but still surprising death of my grandmother. A month-long self-imposed hiatus from men. An overnight trip that turned into a week, facing my extended family and dodging questions about the location of my husband and my future as a crazy cat lady. I've never felt so alone.
But, I guess I should start at the beginning. Signing the papers felt anti-climatic, sad and triumphant at the same time. I was thrilled to finally put that messiness behind me, but at the same time, it was the ultimate acknowledgement of my total and complete failure with my ex. Because, as terrible as things ended, at one point, he was my everything, and, being young, I'd thought that that was all that mattered and all we needed. Realizing that crazy love isn't enough to get you through, well, I think that's a tough lesson for anyone, at any age.
But, I was doing OK. A little sensitive, sure, but fully aware of the fact that my life is now where I want it to be, and that we're both much better off without being part of each other's lives.
The day after signing, my parents called. My grandmother had a stroke. I was sad, but there was nothing I could do, and she'd likely hang in there for a little while, so I trudged along, tensing up with every ring of the telephone.
I decided to go ahead with a trip I'd booked to meet up with a high school friend, a 30-hour jaunt of shopping and girl talk, as a bit of a treat for myself. I missed her, and it had been years. Shared history is a powerful thing, and there's nothing more amazing that being able to still finish sentences and recount silly stories of when we accidentally dated the same boy or took out the rowboat to catch jellyfish. (Yes, I really did this.)
On the way to the airport, I got the call I'd been anxious about for the previous five days. My grandmother - a 91-year-old, fiercely independent, intelligent woman - had passed away. I went ahead with my trip, emailing work, changing flights, and taking care of the required business in such things in stolen moments in cars, malls and airport terminals.
Sitting on the tarmac, tears in my eyes but coping, I was suddenly totally preoccupied with one thought: Do I tell my ex? He'd known her, very well. He'd been part of my family. A year ago, he would have flown across the country with me to be there for my family, and himself been totally devastated by the news. And, while I didn't want his hand-holding (though I certainly reached out to some friends for the support I craved), I debated whether I should tell him. Would he want to know?
I thought about how I'd feel if it was the other way around. I suspect I have less anger about our un-marriage than he does, and more guilt, but I figured I'd want to know. So I sent him a text and put it out of my mind. No further contact, but duty done.
My trip to Montreal, while I felt slightly off kilter, was lovely. But by Monday night at 11 p.m., in the Halifax airport in my third province in two days, I'm sure I seemed an absolute fright when my little brother picked me up at the gate. I wanted to collapse in his arms and sob. But we're not that kind of family. And there were many things to do. I still hadn't had time to mourn.
I slept for several hours the next day, then had to prepare for my impromptu "vacation." I took care of necessary tasks - ensuring I had clothes for the week, buying my moisturizer and face wash - and the day disappeared. Next thing I knew, I was surrounded by grieving family, most of whom I hadn't seen in years.
As the next few days passed like a blur - funeral homes, cup after cup of tea, pockets stuffed with candy, trying to keep my calm, cool and collected facade up. Crying in front of my family is not something that happens. In fact, while I freely admit both to friends and online to crying, there are actually very few people who have actually even seen me do it.
My parents, of course, were very busy. My brother was taking care of his girlfriend, who really is part of our family. Which left me, solo, answering the regular reel of semi-interested questions from strangers, "Oh, I'm in Toronto now."
"I'm going back this weekend."
"Yes, I like it there. No, I don't think I'll be moving back any time soon, but I do try to come home when I can."
And, surprisingly for such a gossipy small town, "My husband? Oh. He's not here."
Which is true. Of course, I no longer have a husband, but how does one answer these questions when emotions are so raw? I told one person, "Well, actually, we're no longer together." The answer was sympathy for how hard that, especially when combined with my grandmother's death, was on my family. Gee, thanks. I'm pretty sure my family, even my mother, is OK with it now. Maybe even grateful that it's done and settled and my life has continued on in what I believe to be a pretty spectacular fashion.
So I muddled through. Alone. Fending off the questions of how lonely I must be in this big city all by myself. How it's OK that I never want to have kids -- an assumption that I'll never be given the chance again. Even smiling as family members encouraged me to marry a friend in a few years, so I don't die alone and get eaten by dogs. (OK, it was more along the lines of be lonely, lose my mind and become a cat lady. Small comfort).
All this was also during a time that I'd semi-successfully sworn off men. Not because I'd had a bad experience. Not because I don't adore them - I most certainly do. Not even because I was dissatisfied with the current state of things. But because I'd let someone I'd seen for a little while make me feel guilty about my rather casual, friendly approach to dating, when they'd wanted more. I didn't want to break hearts, so I made a clean break of my gentlemen friends, and removed myself from the scene, to give myself breathing space, processing time and also out of respect for this sweet guy who just happened to want way more of me than I was willing, or able, to give.
The combination of death, being suddenly out-of-province and home, but not ensconced in the typical routines of Nova Scotia family life, the sleep deprivation, and all this other stuff meant there were a lot of raw emotions during this week. It was unbelievably hard.
I came back, finally, to Toronto, feeling like a failure. A spinster who was going to be eaten by dogs. Thoroughly sick of all the sideways sympathetic glances and off-hand comments about how it must be nice to buy shoes to fill the void in my life. (Actually, I just really like shoes. Happy, sad, I'll take any excuse.)
And so I wallowed for a few days. I finally mourned my grandmother. Shook off the trappings of the Nova Scotia life that I'd never wanted and moved away from eight years ago when I started university. Appreciated the joys of my own bed, my friends, my job and my life here -- which is perfect just the way it is, without a pet to keep me company or a (ugh) baby on the way. There will always be people who don't understand my life or my choices, but it's got to be better to please myself than allow myself to be miserable because I'm not living up to their expectations.
So, finally, I'm on the mend. And, instead of feeling so sad sitting alone eating cereal in front of my computer -- as is, apparently, the life rural Nova Scotians imagine for me -- I cherish my evenings alone as much as I do the ones when I'm out. I cherish my good friends, my gentlemen friends, my coworkers and the cute barista downstairs. The misery of a few weeks ago is thankfully, mercifully, almost a distant memory. And, with the election, royal wedding and all that jazz finally done, this post that I've wanted to write for two weeks has finally been finished.
I'm back.
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