It wasn’t working. I knew it, and though he wouldn’t admit it at the time, he knew it too. We were young, rebellious teenagers, determined to prove to our parents that we were the adults we had so convinced ourselves that we were.
But, as the song goes, “the heart won’t lie.”
Going our separate ways probably saved both of us. I know it saved our daughter. Had we stayed together, she would have grown up in a volatile, miserable existence, with two people that were still growing up themselves.
That was the hardest decision I ever made, divorcing my first love. It hurt like hell to break his heart. But I knew it was the only way all of us would even have a shot at happiness.
Fast forward 11 years. Here I am. Different life. A real adult now. But still in a state of semi-happiness most days. But this time, it’s because of me. The things I’ve partnered with have not brought me to where I want to be. Yet. There are parts of me I must divorce. End. Release.
I am divorcing my fear of failure.
So what if that particular dream failed. There are plenty where it came from. The world is bigger than one failure. Or two. Or three. Or a hundred. Every failure is a lesson. And lessons can be used in the pursuit of the next dream.
I am divorcing my need for control.
This one will require therapy and a lot of effort. But I will do it. Because it’s hurting me. It’s squelching my happiness. I will learn contentment and how to work with life, not against it.
I am divorcing my past.
I’ve already made good headway with this in recent years. But every now and then, parts of it stare me in the face and won’t be ignored. I am beyond ready to sign the dotted line on this page, ending it’s significance as anything more than what it is: the past.
Divorce itself is not a magic spell that changes everything. But it signifies that something is no longer tied to you. It means a second chance to get it right. It means that happily-ever-after is still out there. Waiting.