separation

I didn’t want to write this.
I sat on my hands, I bit my tongue.
I minded my own business.

Like I said on my Facebook page, I don’t usually editorialize other people’s break-ups.
But the force was strong with this one. It chewed at my insides.

And eventually…it wrote itself…in about seven minutes.
Then I hit publish.
On the Huffington Post.

It’s about love and fame and stories and potential happy endings.
It’s about a complete stranger who, through no fault of her own, feels like a friend.

Curious to see if you agree.

Carry on,
xox

I was saddened to read of the ending of Elizabeth Gilbert’s marriage on Friday.

Liz is the author of several best-selling books, the most well-known being EAT PRAY LOVE, which chronicled her global spiritual quest and search for happiness after a painful divorce. At the end of her soulful journey, almost unexpectedly, she finds love. And a happy ending.

I rooted for her, as I’m sure many of you did, which breeds familiarity and makes her feel like a friend.

She made the announcement of her separation on her Facebook page, which much to her credit is a place you can find her almost every day in the guise of a gorgeously written, unerringly kind and unflinchingly authentic essay. The line that struck me the most amid her request for privacy and gratitude for her reader’s continued kindness, was this:

“This is a story I am living — not a story that I am telling.”

Which leads me to the first reason we should care.

This is a woman who started her career as a writer. A writer is someone who sits in a chair for hours a day — alone — and writes. She could have never in her wildest dreams have known the universal appeal her story would have and the fame and fortune it would bring her. I’ve heard her say as much in interviews.

She never asked to be famous.

She never wanted to be a celebrity.

As a writer, I have watched the trajectory of her career and I’m always in awe of how generously she shares the details of her life, which is why she said she felt compelled to announce the separation.

I also suspect she wanted to “get ahead” of the story.

To break the news before anyone else had a chance to put their spin on it. Every media outlet covered her announcement, from CNN and People Magazine to the Hollywood Reporter.

She needed to remind us of the distinction between living — and telling.

That breaks my heart.

She shouldn’t have to do that. The end of a relationship is painful enough.

Fame…

The second reason we should care is that we need a reminder. And the reminder is this: What happens to other people is NOT ALL ABOUT YOU.

Most responses to her news were filled with love and respect, but as you can imagine some were more like this, how could you do this to ME? I believed in you, in love, in happy endings. How dare you! One woman from the UK was beside herself. “Not this week! How could you do this on the same week as Brexit? I can’t take it!”

We all know that ridiculously self-involved person who makes everyone’s story about himself or herself. Let’s all try really hard not be that person.

The third and final reason and the one that matters the most to me is this:
In her Instagram bio Elizabeth_Gilbert_writer, she describes herself as an Olympic-level long-distance optimist which can only mean one thing. That she will be sad for a time. And she will mourn her loss. And eventually, the optimist part of her will kick in because she’s been down this road before and she knows — she will not die.

And she will write and write and write some more.
Some really great stuff.
Because that is who she is.

Perhaps she’ll even be able to write about another happy ending — how to salvage the love inside of an amicable split.

Because THAT is something we should care about.

Here’s the HuffPo article.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/elizabeth-gilberts-marria_b_10788398.html

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

“Grief, covers you with the weight of a wet blanket, smothers all other emotions, most especially joy”

~J. Bertolus

Here I sit, internally pummeled by the ebb and flow of grief.

It was just a dog, I tell myself, as the terribly underutilized rational part of my brain gets its chance to craft a reason and attempt to soothe me.

Doesn’t matter, moans my heart.

I loved her with all I had. I loved her without boundaries, deeper and wider and bigger than I could have ever thought possible.
She was my baby –– That thought just makes me cry longer and louder.

The rational brain, not used to seeing me like this, ups it’s game, taking a different tack:
You knew how this story would end, it reasons. Everybody dies, that’s the exit strategy we all agreed upon.

You’re right, I answer begrudgingly.

She was old and sick and you could sense the end was near… That’s funny, my rational brain doesn’t usually acknowledge intuition. It was clearly pulling out all the stops.

So why the sadness and the tears? It continued. The question actually had an air of sincerity –– my brain searching, seeking a viable answer.

Love…its about love. When you love someone or something with ALL your heart and soul…well, the pain of  its loss is equal in measure.

I could feel it contemplating, reasoning –– love sounded dangerous.

Then why love at all? When you know it will end this way, with so much pain –– why risk it?

How do I explain?  Deep breath.

Because without that love, without opening your heart that much, each time more, then more, then more again –– life is colorless, black and white, and in my opinion not worth living. The reward is worth the risk.

So…I’ll cry and I’ll feel bad for a while and time will carry me through this; and when I’m on the other side of grief I won’t forget her, I could never do that. It will just start to hurt a little less each day until her memory makes me…smile.

Then I will have forgotten the pain enough to love without borders, ignoring all reason.

All the while knowing how this ends…

xox

* dearest loves, I want to extend my heartfelt thanks for all the outpouring of love and condolences, the emails, notes and flowers. It just affirms how extraordinary she was (is).

I have a confession to make. I have a hard time letting go of the things I love. Not in a hoarding kind of way; I’ve come to discover it’s more of a tactile dysfunction.

Like a toddler and her woobie (torn and tattered blanket) there are certain things you will have to pry out of my hands while I’m asleep, for that is the only way I will be able to release my grip.

I had a small blanket as a child; it was a warm, buttery, yellowish cream color, with a satin trim. It felt delicious. I would carry it everywhere, folding the corner into a perfect point, and obsessively running my fingers over that satin triangle. It soothed my soul, making me feel secure; it was my tactile toddler Valium and it could only be mended and washed while I slept – otherwise there would be hell to pay. Even now, during my darkest hours, I pine for the calming effect that blanket had on that fast walking, fast talking toddler – me.

Here’s where the confession gets embarrassing. Like red-faced, hide under the couch embarrassing.
I have replaced that sainted blanket with an adult woobie – My $750 set of Italian sheets.

You scoff, well, let me take you back to that day I first fell in love, and I KNOW you’ll understand.

It was a perfect September afternoon, the year was 2002, and the city was Rome.

The big handsome and I were finally enjoying our postponed Italian honeymoon (detoured by the events of 9/11).
Imagine, if you will, the two of us gleefully descending the Spanish Steps, gelato in hand; careful to navigate ourselves around the cool kids passing a joint and the numerous couples that were practically having sex in broad daylight.

We were strolling into the Piazza di Spagna, enjoying the colorful characters that surround the Barcaccia Fountain (the people watching in that particular piazza is off-the-hook ridiculous), when it caught my eye. It is to the right of the steps, across from where we’re standing; the facade is a sun bleached salmon color, and the smell is intoxicating, even thirty feet away – old Italian cotton, class, and money. I try to look away but there are SALDI (SALE) signs in the windows, making its siren song that much sweeter and more seductive.

The Frette Store – in Rome – a veritable wonderland of linens, towels and all forms of hedonistic goodness.

“Oh, sale, let’s go in” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, pulling my poor, unsuspecting husband into the cool, dark, recesses of Italian Heaven.
I call it that because if you’ve ever had the good fortune to touch their sheets, the sensation, especially to this tactile whore, sends you straight into ecstasy.

It was unlike anything I’d ever encountered. Forget the thread count. These are woven from the soft, down, hair of a cherub; marshmallow, and cloud.

They would never have the bad taste to be stiff and starchy, they are impossibly soft and worn in from day one – and they just get BETTER and BETTER.

We had been talking about getting a King size bed, so we were brazen enough to purchase two sets of the Italian equivalent of California King sheets with pillow shams. They were to be shipped in four weeks, after the bottom sheet had been Americanized (elasticized). $750 was the sale price, half off, which is how I talked him into two sets. “Two for the price of one.”
It was easy since he still had on his rose-colored glasses where finances were concerned. He was on his honeymoon, in Italy, high on pasta, red wine and gelato; well before he started to “hemorrhage” money on the remodel to accommodate the King sized bed.

For two and a half years; the time it took us to build the room to fit the bed; I looked at those boxes covered in FRETTE tape high on the closet shelf everyday, imagining ripping them open to reveal their magical contents, and then enjoying our first night sleeping on cherub’s hair.

At last, in February 2005, it was time. I slowly opened the boxes, the smell of Rome filling the room. I was never so happy to make a bed in. my. life. and I can tell you emphatically, – they did not disappoint. Amazingly, through the years, they have gotten softer and cozier – more than you could ever imagine.

They are my wildly expensive Italian woobies, and I love them.

We are now almost ten years in, and even though they are in rotation with sadly inferior Pima cotton sheets, the last year and a half has been hard on them (me).

My beloved Frette sheets have become threadbare.

I’m ashamed to admit, I even called Frette to complain that they had started to tear and develop holes, “oh my, well, how long have you had them?” her thickly accented voice inquired, “um, ten years” I answered, hearing myself say it out loud for the first time… crickets. They sent me a catalogue out of pity.

We have become the Clampetts, those hillbillies that hit it rich and moved to Beverly – Hills that is. Because inside the facade of a life of put together beauty, lies my tattered, patched up, little secret.

My cleaning lady, carefully patches them when I’m not looking, bless her heart; just like my mom did with my wobbie.
Sadly, with one set, the patch to sheet ratio finally became unacceptable, forcing my husband into an intervention. That night I took the long walk of shame, head hanging, eyes tearing up, to the trash to throw them away. Then I fished them out. It took me three tries.
I still think about them, late at night, sleeping in a dump somewhere.
They deserved a better fate.

Last night I put my foot through a hole in the bottom sheet of the remaining set. They have become impossibly delicate, like some ancient parchment from the Vatican archives; I need to wear white gloves and socks in order not to snag them. These sheets are so heavily mended and patched I’m completely mortified even though I’m alone in the room making the bed.

The writing is on the wall – they’re about to join their compadre in the city dump – or I can cut them up and have $750 rags.

Time passes, things move on. They let go a looooong time ago. Every marshmallow thread, every fiber of cloud – and I just need to do the same.

Wish me luck.