after divorce

Last week I was approached by an editor at The Huffington Post asking me to write a piece for them. An essay on divorce.

Wait I sec, this must be a mistake, I thought to myself as I scanned the email on my phone.
I had already done that—I had written that piece for them about being a divorced twenty-six year old Unicorn.
Surely this was some glitch in the system.
Unicorns—Divorce—What more could possibly be said?

Then my eyes landed on this sentence:
“I know you submitted on the subject recently—but we’d love to include something else from you specifically for this series.”

Really?
I felt honored and puzzled all in the same moment.

The deeper meaning behind this sequence of events was not lost on me. Why was I revisiting a divorce that happened over thirty years ago NOW?
I had faced the facts, I had cried the tears, made the gut-wrenching decision to leave and moved on.
Or had I?
According to the Universe—apparently not.

They needed the essay in five days.
Okay…that’s doable, I thought, I’ll just use the over 500 words that I cut from the Unicorn piece to fashion something fresh.

But the voice in my head, the sassy, bossy one, she had other plans: Write a love letter to your divorce. she barked, suggested.

You see, after a shit sandwich (Thanks Liz), has had the time and distance to fully digest, I’ve taken to writing love letters to my adversities and I had just published one in the HuffPo: My Love Letter to Failure, about the loss of my business.

But it had never occurred to me to write one to my divorce.
Why you ask? Because I’m tellin’ ya, I thought that was water under the bridge, a horse that had been beaten to death—in other words: ancient history. Then it occurred to me why I hadn’t, my divorce had taken great care NOT to become an adversity.

So as I sat down to start the piece, the words just poured out. Heartfelt sentiment infused with gratitude as I realized gift after gift it had given me.

Still, she was right, that bossy bitch that resides inside my head, it was the perfect time to craft a love letter to my divorce!

It was as if it had been fully written somewhere in forgiveness-land and was just waiting for the exact right time to be pulled down to earth. It took me less than an hour to write, (which is by no means a testament to my writing prowess), it just shows how ready this baby was to be born.

My wish is that it will be able to sooth a young soul, and assure them that although it may feel as if your life is ending—it is truly just beginning.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/a-love-letter-to-my-divorce_b_8223504.html

A Love Letter To My Divorce

Dearest, darling Divorce,

Man O man, you saved my life!

I had no business getting married at twenty.
That’s a decision that is layered with complexities and as science has shown, I had four or five more years of brain development ahead of me to get that one right.

Besides, I agree with you, no one should be able to sign a marriage license before they can legally buy beer.

I stayed for six years but I could feel you, there on the sidelines right around year three, and here’s the irony: I was terrified of you. I had you pegged as my adversary when in actuality you were to become my greatest ally.

What did I know? I was wearing Daisy Dukes and living on Doritos and Dr. Pepper.

You were right Divorce, (and you of all people know how hard it is for me to utter those words), when you kept reminding me that you were NOT Failure.

That was a tough lesson for me to learn, what with all the snarky remarks from the peanut gallery and the years of confused men and a seriously empty bed.

Still, I love you deeply, I do!

They say you know it is love when you become your best self inside of the relationship. That was the clincher for me. I was never better than those eighteen years we spent together. I guess you could say we grew up together you and I—and you taught me so much.

You taught me the courage to make the tough, unpopular decisions. To never settle, to run from mediocrity and forge my own path, and to be my own person outside of a couple.

You taught me to be discerning. To call bullshit, and not to fall for the fast lines and the cheap wine.

You taught me to slow down already! Life is not a race to the finish line.

“Savor it. Take your time”, you said—and I did.

You taught me that although I was still young, once might be enough. That I may never get another walk down the aisle—and that would be okay. If I got panicky you reminded me that I had been there and done that.

You taught me to hold my head high. That even though I had already been married—no one had to know unless I told them. There was no banner across my chest, no giant D written in red lipstick on my forehead.

You taught me that I could use the accumulated relationship experience those six years had provided to do good in the world. I had insights that could help other girls.

You showed me that adversity builds character and I was a girl who was in serious need of some character building.

You taught me tolerance. The fact that even when people start out with the best of intentions—promises gets broken.

You taught me compassion. Leaving someone is hard enough. You don’t have to emotionally eviscerate them and kill every ounce of love on your way out.

And you were right again when you cautioned me not to stay too long in the marriage or this was bound to happen.

You taught me to listen to my gut. That it is the real brains behind the operation. Not my head and most certainly nothing that resides below my waist.

You cautioned me against closing up my heart. That I needed to keep it open and supple—resilient and willing to try again. A dried up raisin of a heart has a hard time holding love.

As luck would have it I did find love again. But I never would have been able to recognize it or love him without your years of priceless observations.

Now go; visit yourself upon another young girl who is in over her head and is just looking for that chance to grow up.

And whisper that stuff about Failure to her. I loved when you did that for me.

Big Hug,

Xox Janet

I was married at twenty and divorced by twenty-six.

It was the eighties, the decade of Princess Diana and Madonna, and it seemed everyone was doing it—getting married young and divorcing.

Even my best friend at the time shocked me when she suddenly filed for divorce. When someone close to you calls it quits you take a magnifying glass to your relationship, searching for the cracks. No need to look very close, ours was shattered to bits; held together with spit and glue.

I have to admit; in the beginning her divorce left me appalled! But after a while, I saw how happy they both became and that’s when it finally dawned on me that deep down my husband was probably as miserable as I was, and so I decided that for the sake of the continued happiness of us both—we could not stay married for one. more. minute.

NOBODY LIKES A QUITTER

It was impossible to paint a picture of my ex as an insufferable troll.

People understand when you divorce a man who is a cheater, an addict, or someone who can’t hold a job. It wasn’t him it was me. That line is cliché I know, but some sayings become clichés because they’re so damn true!

My ex-husband was/is one of the nicest men on the planet and that sucks even more. I left an all around great guy because I yearned for something more.

“More than what?” my dad asked upon hearing that I wanted a divorce. “What more could you possibly want? It doesn’t seem like anyone can make you happy!” He was right about that. That was my job, only I didn’t know it at the time.

I only knew that something profoundly wonderful was missing. Something…untenable, indescribable and indefinable—and I wasn’t able or willing to settle.

That made me feel greedy. And wrong.

Other people settle. Why can’t I? It would be so much easier!

God, I had so much to learn! I had gone from living under my father’s roof to living under my husband’s. I identified as someone’s wife. Until I wasn’t.

HIDDEN BENEFITS

I would say the biggest benefit was becoming comfortable with my independence. I had been half of a couple, a team, and now every decision, every mistake, was mine alone. I needed to figure out who I was and what I wanted from life, and in the process I was forced to become comfortable living without a man.

When there was a creepy sound in the middle of the night who checked it out? Me and my trusty baseball bat.

I started taking some risks, teaching myself how to invest money. I bought stocks and bonds, which scared the shit out of my dad, but ended up rewarding my courage with great returns.

I also became skilled at all manner of apartment maintenance and eventually acquired a power drill and a small, red toolbox. Woof!

DATING

I had a hard time with the label divorcee. Every form I filled out asked me my marital status and checking the DIVORCED box reminded that I had failed at one of life’s most cherished milestones.
In my twenties.

Guys aren’t sure what to make of a twenty-six year old divorcee.

No wild-eyed desperation or ticking time clock here. Some of them acted relieved. Many seemed a bit bewildered. Truth be told, it scared the bejesus out of most of them.

I don’t know where all the other twenty-something divorcees went to date—but in my circle, I was as rare as a Unicorn.

A twenty-six year old divorced Unicorn.

TRANSITION IN MY THIRTIES

Once I realized, much to the amazement of my single girlfriends, this controversial fact: that most of the men out there really did want to get married and have babies; and that a divorcee was way too much of a wild card for them at that stage of the game—I was able to formulate a game plan.

I dyed my blonde hair red, which narrowed the field even further. Only serious, artsy guys need apply.

I decided that unless I met someone extraordinary, marriage and children would probably not be a reality for me; and except for about a month when I was thirty-three and everyone around me was having babies—I was more than okay with that.

I made a great life for myself. I had a career I loved; great friends, wonderful family and I made foreign travel my passion.

That all felt amazing. Until it didn’t.

EVEN UNICORNS GET A SECOND CHANCE

After I turned forty, stability became my middle name. I settled down, bought a house in the burbs, let my hair grow longer and went back to being a blonde.

I started dating. A lot. I told anyone who had a friend with a pulse that I was looking to settle down. I was finally ready to share my life.

Eighteen unmarried years had gone by and men my age and older couldn’t have cared less that I got divorced in my twenties. Seriously. Most of them were on their second or even third divorce.

I was no longer an anomaly, an outsider.

I decided to go on a blind dating binge and that’s how I met the extraordinary man I married at forty-three—he was definitely worth the wait.

At last I found that indescribable, indefinable something I’d spent nearly two decades searching for—and he found me.

Isn’t timing everything? Ain’t love grand? Maybe it was greed. I don’t know; I think it was all just dumb luck.

We all know how lucky Unicorns can be.

photo credit: http://therealbenhopper.com/index.php?/projects/naked-girls-with-masks/