It isn’t easy to admit when a marriage is over. Especially if you’re the one who thought things were fine.
I’m finding embracing Kubler-Ross’ Five Stages of Grief theory prevents me from consuming a gallon of vanilla ice cream coupled with a few glasses (okay, seven) of rum and cokes. It’s healthier and I won’t have to work it off at the gym.
Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance – these chicks are not invited to very many parties and certainly not asked to dance; they arrive en masse and demand to be let inside, like a caravan of self-entitled, high fiving Kardashians. They bang at the front door of our psyche and won’t leave until the karaoke machine is busted. When there’s no more music, it’s time to go. But, their presence is necessary in order to have a great party.
Each of us builds our identity through the roles in our life. We each have several through-out our lifetime which bear varying degrees of importance to us, and aides in the formation of who we become. Some roles become comfortable and we spend more time in them than perhaps in others that may be more rewarding or revealing. You may look better in high heels, but the flats are more comfortable. Knowing when to change shoes is crucial.
Since I’m the one who always looks for the easy way, the short cut and what costs the cheapest, I breezed right past sniveling Denial, although I don’t think there’s any evidence supporting they be experienced in any particular order. I don’t think I will be facing her pathetic sister Bargaining either, because I don’t want things to go back to the way they were. I have moved on, and I think it’s because I finally experienced, in a big way, the loud mouthed bitch known as Anger.
I don’t get angry often. I have a long fuse and I don’t take a lot of things personally. I pride myself on being calm and comforting, but when the waves of becoming pissed off start to rise, watch out. It’s a tsunami in the making.
My anger takes different forms for different situations – lashing out, ridiculing, name calling and sobbing. The last one is particularly nasty, since I am an ugly crier. I don’t know how they do it on tv, the wronged heroine with a gentle tear sliding slowly down a
well powdered cheek. My eyes get red and swollen, my lips puffy and grotesque, and I make sickening sucking sounds, like a high school graduate at the ER having their stomach suctioned out after the party. My face is soaked and so is the front of my blouse, or it may be the wine, it all depends. In any event, it ain’t pretty.
When the storm passes, there is a short period of wallowing with long distance cousin self-pity, but she never stays for more than a few hours, rarely for a full day. It’s just how I’m made, which is in the image of a little Marine, according to my father.
All in all, the party is nearly over. I am ready to pack up and perhaps seek out another who needs a shoulder or a hand to hold, or even someone to pick a song. I may experience some time doing shots with annoyingDepression, but will be looking over my shoulder for the smiling, grown up sister Acceptance. She’s bringing the cake.
© 2012 Eileen Loveman - 4/17/12
