By personal recommendation of a friend, I started to read,
“Eat, Pray, Love.” She told me it would change my life. The author had me
emotionally from the top of the book, but not in a way that I expected. She
starts her story with her on her bathroom floor, in the middle of the night,
weeping and sobbing uncontrollably. And in this demolished state, she was
wresting with the single thought: “I don’t want to be married anymore.”
The next day I found myself inexplicably anxious. And it
wasn’t until that that evening, when I went back to the book, that I realized
why. She had me captivated because that miserable moment resonated with me. I recognized it. I remembered it. Me, choking back sobs and trying to breathe as I lay my head on the cold
bathroom floor. The hysteria, panic and fear while repeating a single thought
to myself over and over again were all too familiar. My single thought,
however, had been very different that hers: “I don’t want a divorce.”
That night in the bathroom, I was alone in my apartment. My
husband, who had been living with his grandfather, had served me divorce
papers. We had been living separately for almost 9 months, but dating the
entire time. Working on the relationship. Things had been very positive.
Recently, we had discussed giving up my apartment and moving into a whole new
place together, closer to his work.
His grandfather, who was also the single most influential
and important figure in his life, had encouraged our reunion. Grandpa Young was
one of the most remarkable and wise men I had ever known. It was easy to see
why Dan idolized him. When I came
over, Grandpa would always wink at me and let me know that I didn’t need to
worry; Dan wasn’t leaving me forever.
One day, when I stopped by, Grandpa Young happily told me to
go quickly and “look on the counter, and read the love note Dan wrote for you.”
It had been a budget sheet, with both our incomes listed, and accounting for
the apartment we would share. Even though I didn’t physically take it, I
cherished that “love note,” and the twinkle in Grandpa’s eye that told me that
Dan was coming around at last. Dan wasn’t going to give up on our marriage. And
I believed it.
That had only been a month ago.
The last time I saw Grandpa, he, Dan and I were playing a game
together. Dan had left the table briefly to go do something. Grandpa Young
reached over and took my hand, and then looked into my eyes with earnest.
“Don’t give up on him,” he said, “he will come around. Just don’t give up on
him.”
I fought back tears, so moved that this man, who Dan had
confessed my every flaw and failing to, still believed in our marriage. He still
believed I was still good enough for his beloved grandson. He was still
fighting for us. “I won’t give up on him, Grandpa,” I whispered. “I promise.”
When Grandpa was on his deathbed, Dan held the phone up to
his ear so I could say something to him before he passed. “He won’t be able to
respond,” Dan had said, “and might not be able to hear you. But at least you
can say goodbye.” Once I knew the phone was by Grandpa’s ear, I told him I
loved him dearly. I thanked him for believing in me. And I said with tears
running down my face, “I won’t give up on him, Grandpa. I promise.”
At the funeral, the majority of my in-laws seemed taken back
when they saw me there. I was confused by their surprise. Things with my
husband had been improving, and I assumed they knew that as well. When my name
was not listed on the program as a family member, like the other
daughter-in-law’s had, I felt my heart stop. Whoever made up that program had
somehow got the impression that I was no longer part of the family. I ached,
knowing that Grandpa Young was the closest thing to a grandfather I’d had since
I was twelve. This (seemed) oversight was stabbing.
Of course, with the delivery of the divorce papers, I could
now understand why the family had been so shocked. They had already known. Dan
had announced that he was filing for divorce shortly after Grandpa’s death, and
everyone there knew it. Except for me.
I peeled myself off the floor and fought to stop the crying.
“I don’t want a divorce,” I
screamed inwardly, “I won’t!” I could feel myself start to hyperventilate, and
crawled into a warm bath in the hopes I would be able to calm down. But the
tight grip in my chest seemed to only get tighter, and I remember wondering if
I was going to die. In a moment of panic, I did the only thing I could think of
to make myself breathe; I ducked my head under the warm water.
I don’t know how long I stayed there; while it was probably
a minute at best, it felt much longer. I knew I had to stay under the water
until I was forced to breathe. Finally, with a huge gasp, I wrenched my head
out of the water. As I panted, I realized it was working. I was breathing. I
threw myself beneath the surface again and waited, listening to the running
water and the pounding of my heart. When I emerged again, my body was desperate
for air, and I gulped it in as my breathing slowed. The knot in my chest had
loosened. And I knew; this was not going to kill me.
I quickly decided I didn’t like "Eat, Pray, Love." At least, not right now. And I’ve put it away until I’m ready to forgive her for doing to her husband what mine did to me. Leaving because they were unhappy. Because they wanted more. Because the responsibility was too much. And worst of all, because it was simply, “Too hard."
I quickly decided I didn’t like "Eat, Pray, Love." At least, not right now. And I’ve put it away until I’m ready to forgive her for doing to her husband what mine did to me. Leaving because they were unhappy. Because they wanted more. Because the responsibility was too much. And worst of all, because it was simply, “Too hard."
