My First Love

Dinner finished and both my sons decided to return to their uncompleted homework. As I cleared the dishes from the table, my mind prepared the agenda for the evening: clean the kitchen, put out the garbage, take the dog for a walk, and fit in a moment to relax on the couch before bed. But, as all mothers and wives learn over time, agendas need to remain flexible in order to inject the unexpected, and tonight would present the epitome of the unexpected.

My husband and I proceeded with our rehearsed dance of post-dinner clean up. I put the dishes on the counter while he proceeded to move them to the dishwasher. And then, out of nowhere, he said, "I can't do this anymore." I responded with my usual acceptance of his lack of interest in the dish dance and told him to go do whatever else it was that he needed to do and I would finish on my own. He said more emphatically, "No, I can't do this anymore." He gestured his arms repeatedly in an outward motion from his body, pointing his fingers toward me and then back at himself. Mindlessly, I continued to place dishes in the dishwasher and began to run the water in the sink for the pots and pans.

"Deb?"

"Yes?"

"I said that I can't do this anymore. You and me."

Numb. His words felt like a semi slamming into my chest at 100 miles an hour. Paralyzed. I couldn't speak.

Later, the wisdom of others told me that I must have known, or at least seen the truck coming at me from a distance. But, on this night, at this time and in this place, I had no idea that my husband, my first love, was asking me for a divorce.

In the span of the next five month period, I attended my sister's wedding, bought a home, signed a separation agreement, hosted my son's French exchange student, celebrated my son's sixteenth birthday, changed titles on deeds, got a mortgage, lost twenty pounds, refinanced a car, maintained a façade of "everything's okay" and, finally, moved from the marital home.

Four months later, my son left to go to France for his portion of the exchange and I was able to breathe--into a paper bag. I was hyperventilating. I cried for three days straight. I tried to make sense of the whole mess. But, nothing would make sense. And I came to realize that it really doesn't need to make sense.

Love is a funny character in a book that is written by an often pathetic author, who is idealistic instead of realistic, and enjoys the melee of passion and apathy and the thrill of an unfulfilled destination called fate. The book has been written hundreds of times with ample editing, subject change and plot alterations, but there appears to be no prediction about the ending--except that the heroine in this particular story could learn how to chart the course of this tale toward a horizon worthy of the triumphant spirit of her new found depiction of love.

Years of caring for others had caused me to ignore my own needs. Oddly enough, I came to the realization that I did in fact have needs. I needed to feel warmth and love. I needed to feel accepted and that I somehow belonged. I needed to feel respected and honored. I needed to feel happy and content. But, most of all I needed to feel that the one person in the whole world who should love me the most would love me the most, regardless of the mistakes that I've made. Someone who could accept my faults and praise my strengths and make me feel everyday that I was the best that I could be.

My search began with the typical path chosen by those leaving a significant relationship: dating. Your social circle shifts and your married friends are happy that they now have a new "single" friend to introduce to their newly divorced friends. The thought of having a new relationship was enticing. And the thought of starting the relationship process all over again from the beginning did seem exciting. Everything is new again; the first date, the first kiss, the flowers and the dinners in romantic venues. Holding hands with someone new seemed more exciting than the last three years of my marital bedroom practice.

However, there was usually something missing from these short term affairs. My love life was becoming a Seinfeld episode of "man hands," "close talkers," and "low talkers," notwithstanding the occasional episode of Sex in the City's bad kissers, adulterers, and noncommittal types. Some were funny, others were smart, some philosophical with upscale taste, and some just basically gorgeous and wonderful to hold. But, ultimately none gave me the satisfaction that my heart was craving. None could make me happy or give me fulfillment. I decided maybe I was better off alone.

And alone I was. No invites to dinner or social events included that proverbially announced and "guest." My cats became my confidants and heard about my day's events and the hardships of being a single woman in today's world. I became engrossed in the art of "puttering," cleaning drawers that didn't need to be cleaned and reorganizing cupboard after cupboard. I took tennis and horseback riding lessons and learned to speak French. I started to read more and speak less. I discovered meditation and learned quickly that I really wasn't that good at it. Nonetheless, I still tried.

And then one day I was standing in front of my dresser mirror and caught my reflection. The soft light of the bedroom gave my skin a warm glow. I cast a flirty smile to the mirror. My image returned with an alluring grin. The reflection was far from perfect but, it was me. And what I had come to learn of myself was wonderfully endearing.

I was socialized to consider the needs of others as paramount to my own. Not the best approach when ultimately I am responsible for my own happiness and fulfillment. Some lessons take time to learn. And although I don't think that I will ever come to the point of forgiving my ex-husband for the disruption that he created in my life, divorce and time have given me the ability to forgive myself for not choosing to be my own first love.