you do when you’re restless,” my sister cautions. “You can start to
think the wrong things. Unimportant things. He’s too this, he’s too
that, I’ve suffered enough. You end up missing the same things that
drove you crazy.”
It’s like she has read my mind, the little edge of doubt, the
concession that maybe divorce isn’t fixing what I thought was broken.
One night a woman calls my house. She is looking for Béla. Do I
know where he might be? It’s his girlfriend, I realize. She’s calling my
house as though I keep tabs on my ex-husband, as though I owe her
information, as though I am his secretary. “Don’t ever call me again!” I
shout. Aer I hang up, I am agitated, I can’t sleep. I try to have a
Ęying dream, a lucid dream, but I can’t take Ęight, I keep falling,
waking. It is a terrible night. And a useful one. Audrey’s sleeping over
at a friend’s house, Johnny is already in bed. ere is nowhere to go to
escape from my discomfort; I just have to feel it. I cry, I feel sorry for
myself, I am furious. I feel every wave of jealousy, of bitterness, of
loneliness, of indignation, of self-pity, and on and on. And in the
morning, although I haven’t slept, I feel better. Calmer. Nothing has
changed. I still feel abandoned, however illogically, by the husband I
chose to leave. But my storminess and agitation have run their course.
ey aren’t permanent features. ey move, they change. I feel more
at peace.
I will have many more nights and days like this one. Times when I
am alone, when I begin to practice the work of not pushing my
feelings away, no matter how painful. at is the gi of my divorce:
the recognition that I have to face up to what’s inside me. If I am really
going to improve my life, it isn’t Béla or our relationship that has to
change. It’s me.
* * *I see the need for change, but I don’t know what kind of change will