Bat Shit Crazy

(We have a home! Move-in date, July 16, 2014)

Last week, I wrote about my friendship with Amy, with a mention of having been bat shit crazy during the first year following my divorce. I have since been asked: What does that mean?

There’s no simple answer, I’m afraid. Being temporarily crazy was the result of numerous emotions and predicaments. But here’s my definition, for what it’s worth.

Sliding Scale

I complained a lot during that first year. I even got tired of hearing myself whine. One friend sat me down to tell me, “Compared to my other friends, your divorce is a breeze.” It didn’t feel that way at the time. I don’t like conflict. So every argument or disagreement seemed monumental. Then I would ruminate. Lose sleep. And…..get crazier.

Sleepless in Boise

I didn’t sleep for six months. I’d go to bed, wake up at 2, thoughts streaming round and round in my head, unable to fall back asleep. So I begged my doctor for an Ambien prescription. I still woke up at 2, like clockwork. Only the next morning when I dragged myself out of bed for work, I felt like I was horribly hangover. Slow reaction times, mental fog. Just like menopause. Oh yeah, did I mention I was entering menopause at the same time?

I threw the Ambien away after two weeks.

Displacement

After moving out of our home on Skylark, I rented a house (from friends who were out of town). In other words, for six months, I lived in a house that wasn’t mine. It had a great kitchen with a long island; I was extremely grateful for that feature. But the couch wasn’t mine. The bed wasn’t mine. The paintings on the walls weren’t mine. I craved a life that felt like me.

When I bought a tiny but warm home in the North End, I moved. Again.

The Other Woman

My ex immediately started dating another woman after I moved out, and they seemed perfect for each other. Not exactly cause for celebration. But I was consumed with worries over this lady trying to be a mom to my child. I created scenarios in my head of what she said and did with him. Especially when he got sick on a ski outing one day. I cringed when she showed up to his baseball game.

In fairness, she was pretty cool about it, but I worried anyway. Relentlessly.

Dating Game

Why do divorced people have to be in such a hurry to date again? Is it a physical or emotional need? I, too, was guilty of jumping into the dating game about four months after the move-out. My son never even met him. My therapist had told me: “Never introduce a new partner unless you’re 95% sure he’s a keeper. It’s too hard on the child.” I listened.

I was no more ready for a new man than a hole in my head. After about four months, despite how great he was, I realized it wasn’t fair to him. I needed some time to find myself again. All by my lonesome.

Good Grief

Not at first, but a few months into the divorce, I cried a lot over the actual collapse of my marriage. I didn’t say “I do” to call it off twelve years later. I vowed to stand by my man and didn’t. It felt icky. And disappointing—so much for all those childhood fantasies.

Remorse

Initially, there was jubilation. Then there was grief. Then I went through a phase of “Why did I marry him in the first place?” I’m sure we all go through this phase, my ex included. Then, I reminded myself of how good it was at the start—the glorious bike rides in Anacortes, trips to Whistler, best damn engagement ever. And the biggie: I wouldn’t have my son without him. And my child is more like my ex than me. So there’s that.

Half-Time

What ached the most during that first year was moving from full to partial custody of my child. I missed him dearly when he was away. I had no control over what he was doing, saying, or learning when he was at his dad’s. I couldn’t kiss him good-night. Or wish him a happy day at school. I used to scream with tears when I was alone. Hopefully, the neighbors didn’t hear me.

It sucked. Well beyond that first year.

Survival

As much as Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat Pray Love helped me through some rough patches, my friends were the heroes who helped me regain my sanity. The gang who came over for dinner to celebrate when I got settled in my temporary home. Friends like Eva, who helped me move, hanging up my endless supply of running jackets. My bike rides with Robin. My newfound friendship with Amy. A fun-loving group who spent the better part of their weekend helping me paint my new, permanent house. Stacy’s endless support and advice, as she was my only divorced friend at the time. Lisa and her kids, dancing with me and Luke to Pharrell Williams’ “Happy.”

I pretended I was. Till I didn’t have to pretend anymore.