I don’t know why.
At night, after my girls drift off to sleep, I slide out from between their two warm bodies, slip out of my bedroom, and find a bit of space to sort through my thoughts about Matt leaving. I’ve been numb for months. But now that I’m starting to get a handle on my single-mom life, the parts of myself I’d shut off to survive are waking up, full of pain. And I’m tired. Of everything.
So many of us heartbroken people are restless, lost, and desperate. We want to feel something, anything besides the ache of being adrift. I don’t want to be an asteroid, hobbling through space, looking for a planet that needs a moon, or burning up in the orbit of another. I want my own fate. I want to own my fate. The weight of my pain should transform me into something new.
But how do I get there?
Often, I end up outside. I sit in the cold, on a plastic Adirondack chair, and look up, through the shadowed leaves of the apple tree into the night sky.
The stars are so far away, both in time and space. Each twinkle we see has traveled from a distant past, from where a star once was but has long since expired. Died. So many of those stars have long since burned up. We gaze on a graveyard of dead stars and the light they left behind.
So many of the ornaments we hang our imaginations on don’t even exist anymore. But they did. They shone while it was their time. And now we cherish them. They guide us.
I want to know how to turn my dead marriage into something beautiful. How do I show love in the midst of so much sorrow? How do I help my girls feel safe? How do I allow this heartache to set me on fire? How do I get to a place where I can feel all the depth of this pain without destroying myself? I’m not sure what my life will look like five years from now–much less five months–but all I can do is be true to who I am, and accept the truth that is in front of me.
I don’t know why. Not about any of it. But I hope that, someday, any light that comes out of this transformation might be a guidepost to others.