We would have been married 21 years this year. It’s a number that blows my mind, but it’s also one that makes me sad. It’s been eight years since we separated, seven since the divorce was finalized. And I still feel a bit of grief over what might have been.
I don’t talk about my divorce in public much. In fact this is the first time I’ve written about it, here or anywhere else. And I don’t intend to go to into detail about what happened, partly because my memories of that time aren’t the sharpest. My mental health at the time was rapidly deteriorating, and so much of the last couple years of my marriage is swaddled in fog. I know I was dying, or at least was convinced I was, thanks to my crippling anxiety and depression, and most everything else that mattered to me faded into the background.
But I know I still grieve my marriage to some extent. I grieve that I wasn’t able to give my children a stable parenting unit to grow up with. I grieve that she and I grew apart, for reasons I won’t explain here. I grieve that we couldn’t make it work.
I don’t miss her so much now as I miss the idea of what might have been. We both changed so much in that year that we were separated, changes that were not at all complementary to one another. So, no, I don’t really miss her. But I do miss the idea of a marriage that lasted, that stood the test of time, that gave me a place to be vulnerable with my mental illnesses.
For a while after, I just didn’t want to be lonely anymore. And I had a couple of relationships in those first couple of years. But I’ve been alone now for going on six years, and I’ve made my peace with being a single father who co-parents with his ex. I’ve become accustomed to being by myself, and most of the time now I like things just fine that way. I’ve become a bit of a hermit, staying in my home unless it’s absolutely necessary to come out into the real world. Maybe that’s not the best coping mechanism in the world, but it’s how I’ve come to handle the daily loneliness that surrounds me when I’m not spending time with my children.
I’ve healed quite a lot over these past eight years. I’ve had to forge a new identity for myself, but I’ve come to quite like and respect who I am now. And I’m striving to be a good role model for my kids.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t still grieve a little for my failed marriage. Perhaps there’s still a little healing left to do.
