Yesterday, I received an email from a man who’d read a bunch of my blogs (on here and elsewhere).  And though he was ultimately in praise of my work, my eyes kept returning to the word he used to describe my writing personality:  ABRASIVE.

When I first read that word, I panicked.  I had to fight the urge to immediately contact him and start explaining myself, if not apologizing…   (Read full article here)

Other Articles:   Survival Mode: Existing Post-Divorce & Infidelity,  True Love: What is it - REALLY?

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“Hang tough Delaine - things are going to better.   You really are better without him…”

Many, many times I heard these words from girlfriends when I found out my ex was cheating.  I knew they were right, that at some point things HAD to get better.  But while in the throes of my grief, those words felt empty - nothing but sterile, void sylables.  For I felt like a shell of a woman…numb and shattered on all levels of my being.

I’d been betrayed before by men - in high school and university.  But the pain of marital infidelity was beyond compare.  We’d built a life together, had children, and I’d trusted him with ever ounce of my heart and soul.  How COULD he?  How COULD he jeopardize all we’d created together, stuff that was so meaningful and important, just to get his rocks off?

I couldn’t comprehend it.  It was a full-blown mind-body-heart attack that bludgeoned and shocked me to the core.  In my mind’s eye I could actually see my heart in two pieces.  My chest ached, the rest of my body felt entirely numb, as if all blood flow had been cut off.    I looked at the world around me through the eyes of a lost soul within flesh, cut off from my body’s sensations, imprisoned by my skin.   I couldn’t eat, weight poured off me, and I couldn’t sleep.   God…nighttime, how I hated it.  No matter how exhausted I was, my brain would ruminate incessantly, trying to problem-solve, so anxious to help me find my True North.  I just wanted to turn it all off; to curl up in my darkness of Rock Bottom and disappear.

But I kept going - I existed, and ‘did time.’  At the back of my mind a little voice kept saying, “Just - keep - going.”  I had no idea where I was headed and quite frankly, I didn’t even care - all I felt was numbness.  In my mind’s eye, I could see myself trudging, chin down, through a dark, hostile Wilderness, arms dangling, with the burden of my sorrow on my back.  But strangely, sometimes, from above the treetops, I’d catch a glimpse of my Higher Self;  She was still with me, I hadn’t been abandoned, and it was She who was pushing me forward.  And I wondered: had some part of me CHOSEN to arrive in this  hellish Wilderness?    There HAD to be a bigger reason for it all, didn’t there?

I still don’t know the exact  nature of that reason.  In fact, I’m still not even sure where I’m going.  But I know that time continues to be a saving grace and reveal things to me when I’m ready.  And looking over my shoulder, I have a new yardstick as to far I’ve come and how strong a woman I really am.  And I wouldn’t have learned these things had my world not completely shattered and forced me to reconstruct from scratch.

So with my body as my guide, and a smile that I can now feel, I continue onwards.  Through the ups and downs.  Over the hurdles and unexpected obstacles. This year of my life has been like a school of hard knocks, one of tough self-love.  And the one thing I know for sure is that I’ll never settle for a life of mediocrity again.

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On our nights alone without kids, we have choices: what to do, who to talk to, and most importantly, how to feel.  I will be honest with you - for months after getting divorced, I spent many a night alone grieving. The stretches of time in front of me served as feeding time for my inner demons and the processing of my marriage’s death. But now, looking over my shoulder, mental snapshots of that Old Delaine only serve as reminders as to how far I’ve come, how strong a woman I am, and how I’m truly OK with being on my own.

Besides talking to few girlfriends on the phone tonight, I’ve been totally alone.  And I’ve felt good.  In part that was due to a couple of glasses of wine.  (And no - it’s not a habit) But tonight, since none of my friends were available to go out, I thought “Why not?”  I’ll have my own private party - just Me, Myself and I. 

So because this was a party and alcohol was involved, it had to include some dancing - done in my office, with a bunch of my favorites music videos cranked high.  If anyone was watching me they’d have thought I was a total butthead…but I didn’t care.  I sang along at the top of my lungs and shimmied like there was no tomorrow.  It just felt so good to move…and to be in my own skin.

But towards 3 a.m. tonight, I came across a sad music video that moved me a great deal.  It’s in Spanish (by Shakira) so I didn’t even know what she was singing. But something in her voice and her eyes, something in the melody of the song really resonated with me.  And I watched it about 20 times.  Seriously.  

And it was the strangest thing - cause I didn’t feel sad as I watched and listened to it; for I had no tears to cry.  And yet some soulful feeling kept tugging and pulling on me - there seemed  a sensuality to her pain, a movement in her sadness of heart, that to me felt tremendously empowering.

A woman’s ability to feel is her greatest gift - though at times it seems her greatest enemy.  All life, all movement and change, swirl around her and she blends with it, both breathing it in and feeding it.   And whether she is hurting, feeling dynamite, or anywhere in between, all is captured and reflected in her soul.  And I realize that the suffering I’ve endured these past two years hasn’t stolen from me, rather added to me, making me more of Delaine, more multi-dimensional, and more solidly the real Delaine. That alone is truly worth celebrating.

K, it’s now 5 a.m. and I can’t figure out how to embed this video - but here’s the link to Shakira’s song, “NO.”

Shakira, NO

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Out of the blue, my aunt emailed me this photo tonight.  I’m not posting it because I want you say I look cute.  I’m showing it because it made me burst out crying. 

Look at how innocent I was.  My God, the face of an angel with hair so white.  “What was I like back then?”  I ask myself.  I don’t remember.  I think I’m about four.  I think I was a good kid, always easy to get along with, always wanting to please everyone.  Yeah, mom always said I was a really good, easy child.

Look at my dress.  I don’t remember it either.  My mom used to make a lot of my clothes back then.  In that era there was a lot of wacky, tacky prints and frills.  But my mom dressed with me love and in my heart I knew I had a loving family, a safe unbroken home; that I was wanted and protected and taken care of.  Through the window in the background I think I see my mom, her younger self.  God, she must be younger than I am now.  What was she busy doing?  What never-ending line-up of motherly chores was she tending to?  She had a family of four kids.

In my mind’s eye, I age me and I see me at 8, 10, doing cartwheels around this 4-year-old me, so happy, so playful, so free to live each day unencumbered.  But I bring myself back to this 4-year-old me and ask myself again, “What were you like?  You were newly here from the Other Side, a soul of pure light, your conscious mind untainted yet by life.  What was your soul like?”

Still, I don’t remember.  I sit and I wait for the feeling of her in my skin.  And I can’t feel her.  All I feel is a pain in my chest and tears in my eyes.  How did I go from there…. her…

…to here?

My daughter is now four.  And I’m going to show her this photo.  She sometimes asks me if I was ever a baby or a little girl.  She comments on the lines on my face and asks me why they’re there.  “Because I’ve been here 38 years,”  I tell her.  “Everyone gets older.”  I know she doesn’t understand time and how much living was required for me to get here.  A part of me doesn’t want her to know, I want her to savor her ‘in-the-moment’ carefree happiness.  And yet another part of me wants to tell her about this earth school of hard-knocks, to prepare her for this journey of tough self-love.

So I’ve stared and wept at this photo for awhile tonight.  I feel the cargo I’ve added to my back over my lifetime, the heaviness that I am yet to amputate.  Yet this photo brings me pause.  It brings me back to the beginning, to my essence.  It takes my breath away.  And it makes me cry.  Cause I don’t remember.

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