I had a strange dream last night, a dream about Mark. I’ve had many dreams about my husband both while in the relationship and during our separation, but this dream was very different from all the other dreams I’ve had. In my other dreams, I’ve always felt the overwhelming sense of anxiety and unease I constantly felt while in his real-life presence, even before I was aware of his sex addiction. But in the dream I had last night, I felt a deep sense of serenity.
It wasn’t that he was recovering in my dream. In fact, he was still doing and saying things that were hallmarks of his active addiction. But, for some reason, I was able to sort of consciously let them go and just focus on the things I liked about him and about the day and about our surroundings. We were laughing a lot and being affectionate in non-sexual ways--I felt an affinity and a friendship for him that also might be described as forgiveness. And I woke up feeling a very simple sort of joy with nothing nagging underneath.
A few folks compared divorce to death in the comments on my last post, and I’ve been really seeing lately just how similar the two are, in terms of grieving. When dealing with a death, most people will go through periods of anger and blame—blaming the person who died (“If he had just taken better care of himself”), hating the doctors (“If they had just tried that new treatment”), being angry at themselves (“I shouldn’t have let her get in the car”) and shaking their fists at God ("Why didn't you save him?") in much the same way that I’ve blamed my husband for not recovering, hated the therapists who didn’t do enough to fix us, and been angry with myself and God over not having had the power (or in God's case, not using the power) to somehow force an outcome different than the death of our marriage.
But just like many bereaved eventually come to accept that it was simply their loved one’s time to die (no matter how trite that may sound at so many points throughout the process) and there was nothing anyone could have done differently to change that, I feel like I’m coming to accept that it’s simply time for Mark and I to part ways. And just like death doesn’t negate a life, our divorce doesn’t mean there wasn’t a purpose to our being together for the short time that we were, or that we didn’t love each other, or that we weren't both good people with good intentions, despite the unfortunate outcome.
I’m running out of anger and blame and even, slowly, that aching sadness that seemed like it had taken up permanent residence right behind my heart. I’m happy that I’m beginning to really see the good things about our relationship without the thick, scratchy veil of grief (and its inherent resentment). I regret that I wasn’t able to see them this clearly until the relationship ended, or that the relationship ending allowed me to see them much more clearly. But that remaining ember of sadness is worth the peace of gradually moving into acceptance.
*Above painting "Crea" by Jennifer S. Lange.
It wasn’t that he was recovering in my dream. In fact, he was still doing and saying things that were hallmarks of his active addiction. But, for some reason, I was able to sort of consciously let them go and just focus on the things I liked about him and about the day and about our surroundings. We were laughing a lot and being affectionate in non-sexual ways--I felt an affinity and a friendship for him that also might be described as forgiveness. And I woke up feeling a very simple sort of joy with nothing nagging underneath.
A few folks compared divorce to death in the comments on my last post, and I’ve been really seeing lately just how similar the two are, in terms of grieving. When dealing with a death, most people will go through periods of anger and blame—blaming the person who died (“If he had just taken better care of himself”), hating the doctors (“If they had just tried that new treatment”), being angry at themselves (“I shouldn’t have let her get in the car”) and shaking their fists at God ("Why didn't you save him?") in much the same way that I’ve blamed my husband for not recovering, hated the therapists who didn’t do enough to fix us, and been angry with myself and God over not having had the power (or in God's case, not using the power) to somehow force an outcome different than the death of our marriage.
But just like many bereaved eventually come to accept that it was simply their loved one’s time to die (no matter how trite that may sound at so many points throughout the process) and there was nothing anyone could have done differently to change that, I feel like I’m coming to accept that it’s simply time for Mark and I to part ways. And just like death doesn’t negate a life, our divorce doesn’t mean there wasn’t a purpose to our being together for the short time that we were, or that we didn’t love each other, or that we weren't both good people with good intentions, despite the unfortunate outcome.
I’m running out of anger and blame and even, slowly, that aching sadness that seemed like it had taken up permanent residence right behind my heart. I’m happy that I’m beginning to really see the good things about our relationship without the thick, scratchy veil of grief (and its inherent resentment). I regret that I wasn’t able to see them this clearly until the relationship ended, or that the relationship ending allowed me to see them much more clearly. But that remaining ember of sadness is worth the peace of gradually moving into acceptance.
*Above painting "Crea" by Jennifer S. Lange.
7 comments:
When I was able to see past my hurt and acknowledge (remember?) that Colin's death didn't have to overshadow his life... that's when I think I started to feel whole again. It didn't happen right away, and I'm sure that is also true for you, but that was a pivotal point in my healing process. The pain just wasn't as big after that, not constantly; and sometimes I found myself right back in the middle of that old wound but I found my way around it much easier than before.
Big pain feels like a burden and a curse, but it also means simply that we've experienced big joy. I pretend that I can't have one without the other, and that helps. :)
this was very powerful, Margaux. I'm so glad for you that you can move into that space, if only for a time. really beautifully written.
Jade--That makes a lot of sense. I always love hearing your insights based on your experience grieving Colin's death. And I think what you described is what I'm going through--it's so hard to describe feelings and where I am in my process sometimes, but it's kind of like I experience these really big chunks of serenity, mixed in with being back in the middle of the pain. But it's been weird just how long the serenity lasts--this is the first time I've experienced this sort of thing in my grief.
Bernadine--Thanks!
Acceptance is a good place to be. Once I got there, all the sadness and self-pity eased up. I still can take my will back at times but know to get right back into acceptance in order to regain serenity and peace.
Syd--Yeah, it is getting easier to find my way back. I think that was what I was talking about when I mentioned the "mini breaks." It's getting easier to feel the pain, but then sort of know how to detach.
I am so glad you had that dream. So restorative, that kind of dream can be. Like all the struggle and strife and chaos and weeping and frayed nerves just gather themselves in sleep into a small ball and roll softly away. I *love* waking up after such a one. Numinous forgiveness. Yes. Jung would say also, you are forgiving your inner negative masculine. A dream of great liberation and freedom--brava!
Unreliable Narrator--I like that--"forgiving my inner negative masculine." Jung was such a smart dude, and I agree that that quote probably applies.
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