Your narrative, comments, insights, make me (maybe others) wonder to what degree I can analyze and articulate my own thoughts about myself. About my thought process. Writing about things outside of oneself is easy. Writing about the internal process, whether "tortured" as your is now, or not particularly tortured in any given moment, is hard. You do it with far more vigor than you likely realize. If I had to guess, I would say that there will be a time in the not-exactly-near-but still-on-its-way future when you will be able to reread all of this (if you so choose) and see how the steps played out, how the tiniest incident led to another tiny incident that had its importance, to strings of incidents, to movement, etc. And making one's bed for oneself is not a small matter, btw All best thoughts for your days and nights right now.
You know, it's funny. I saw someone comment the other day about how "selfish" I am because my writing is all about me, not my wife or kids.
First of all - I have no business writing about what they're going through. Legally, personally, that's a minefield. Even the things I know about them aren't mine to put on display for the public. I'm the guinea pig here, not them.
Secondly, it's memoir-style writing. Of COURSE it's about me. But it's also written so (I hope) others can find pieces of themselves in it. Whenever I read good experiential writing, that's what I look for. Insights into myself through other people's eyes/thoughts/experiences.
Sorry, that was way more than you asked for, but I felt like I needed to get that off my chest!
Don't worry about comments like that. It's typical when people who write online get divorced because inevitably if they are going to write about the divorce at all, it won't be about the ex-spouse or the kids because doing so would be extraordinarily inappropriate, for the reasons you've stated. But it still sets people off, and if you are writing at all, they will take shots at you, even if they took two minutes to think about it they'd realize that the critique is senseless. It's the internet, and sadly as you well know the modus operandi on the internet is shoot first and often and dont ask questions at all, not even later.
--
On your reflections, one of the hardest things to accept in situations like yours is that your ability to influence the other spouse's actions and communications is very close to zero. It's very alienating and can make you feel powerless, but know that this is a common experience when you are divorcing, sadly. Closure, if it comes, generally won't come from the other spouse (at least not typically), and the two lives are already moving on quite different tracks in a way they haven't been in a long time. That's extraordinarily hard to accept, but you will, when you're ready to. And it will be a big part of the process of healing. It's to soon to expect anything like that now, but when you're ready you'll know.
Thanks. Unfortunately that comment was left on my wife's long substack post about living with a neurodivergent spouse, which just read like a loquacious apologia for abandoning a spouse who she admits intended no harm.
Of course there's nothing in it about her own contributions (she doesn't believe there are any).
I will leave it at that for the reasons we're already discussing.
Quote: "It was time to go to Michigan one last time and see Fr. Joe."
Wow, that hit me. It's like that's where it starts. The regeneration that is. The rebirth. The remolding. The rekindling. The letting go. Even of the things you never knew you were holding on to.
With people like Fr. Joe in your life, you were never left truly alone.
These essays--and the way your pour out your soul--continue to move me, brother. I've been where you are with divorce, and as recently as a few months ago, thought I was on the cusp of being there again (this time with children). I don't know what the future holds, but I choose to trust that God is working out his salvation for us both. I hope you have a blessed Friday.
I appreciate this homage to a city I love and live in. The area of town you're describing is very familiar. My Dad was a professor at UIC. I remember walking along Morgan Street to go sit in his office in the math building. The style of the buildings (brutal, 1970s) was depressing then as it is now. Still, my brother and I used to scribble in chalk on his blackboards, covered with arcane symbols and equations.
And then, a generation later, we'd come down again to grab Italian ice and walk along the streets of Little Italy. This time, it was my older daughter attending Women in Science camps, and even taking a class or two (she transferred to Columbia College a bit further east).
As per my old lady nightly routine, I sat down on my couch to read the continuing saga of your journey. I read it all and was thinking about what I would write in reply as I launched (truly a sight to behold) off the couch to do whatever it is I do in the evenings.
Once dog vomit was cleaned and dishes done (yes, I washed my hands), I fell back into my couch position and had every intention of reading through your words again when lo and behold, a box appeared, with a button to push and your voice began to narrate your story.
Never has this happened. I had no idea I could hear you, no doubt because I have no idea what I'm doing on a smart phone.
My point....I was so taken aback at the difference between my reading your words and you reading them outloud, I was almost ashamed. There is no way anyone can read of your journey and feel its impact. To hear you tell it moved me more than I can express.
Well, now I’m embarrassed. I just went back and re-listened to it because it’s been a couple days and I noticed that I uploaded the file without the edits.
So I apologize for the awkward pauses and the little coughs and the rephrasings.
Those are the things that make me spend extra time fixing it up for public consumption, which I did, but then absurdly published the wrong version.
Your narrative, comments, insights, make me (maybe others) wonder to what degree I can analyze and articulate my own thoughts about myself. About my thought process. Writing about things outside of oneself is easy. Writing about the internal process, whether "tortured" as your is now, or not particularly tortured in any given moment, is hard. You do it with far more vigor than you likely realize. If I had to guess, I would say that there will be a time in the not-exactly-near-but still-on-its-way future when you will be able to reread all of this (if you so choose) and see how the steps played out, how the tiniest incident led to another tiny incident that had its importance, to strings of incidents, to movement, etc. And making one's bed for oneself is not a small matter, btw All best thoughts for your days and nights right now.
Thanks, Carol.
You know, it's funny. I saw someone comment the other day about how "selfish" I am because my writing is all about me, not my wife or kids.
First of all - I have no business writing about what they're going through. Legally, personally, that's a minefield. Even the things I know about them aren't mine to put on display for the public. I'm the guinea pig here, not them.
Secondly, it's memoir-style writing. Of COURSE it's about me. But it's also written so (I hope) others can find pieces of themselves in it. Whenever I read good experiential writing, that's what I look for. Insights into myself through other people's eyes/thoughts/experiences.
Sorry, that was way more than you asked for, but I felt like I needed to get that off my chest!
Don't worry about comments like that. It's typical when people who write online get divorced because inevitably if they are going to write about the divorce at all, it won't be about the ex-spouse or the kids because doing so would be extraordinarily inappropriate, for the reasons you've stated. But it still sets people off, and if you are writing at all, they will take shots at you, even if they took two minutes to think about it they'd realize that the critique is senseless. It's the internet, and sadly as you well know the modus operandi on the internet is shoot first and often and dont ask questions at all, not even later.
--
On your reflections, one of the hardest things to accept in situations like yours is that your ability to influence the other spouse's actions and communications is very close to zero. It's very alienating and can make you feel powerless, but know that this is a common experience when you are divorcing, sadly. Closure, if it comes, generally won't come from the other spouse (at least not typically), and the two lives are already moving on quite different tracks in a way they haven't been in a long time. That's extraordinarily hard to accept, but you will, when you're ready to. And it will be a big part of the process of healing. It's to soon to expect anything like that now, but when you're ready you'll know.
Thanks. Unfortunately that comment was left on my wife's long substack post about living with a neurodivergent spouse, which just read like a loquacious apologia for abandoning a spouse who she admits intended no harm.
Of course there's nothing in it about her own contributions (she doesn't believe there are any).
I will leave it at that for the reasons we're already discussing.
Quote: "It was time to go to Michigan one last time and see Fr. Joe."
Wow, that hit me. It's like that's where it starts. The regeneration that is. The rebirth. The remolding. The rekindling. The letting go. Even of the things you never knew you were holding on to.
With people like Fr. Joe in your life, you were never left truly alone.
These essays--and the way your pour out your soul--continue to move me, brother. I've been where you are with divorce, and as recently as a few months ago, thought I was on the cusp of being there again (this time with children). I don't know what the future holds, but I choose to trust that God is working out his salvation for us both. I hope you have a blessed Friday.
I appreciate this homage to a city I love and live in. The area of town you're describing is very familiar. My Dad was a professor at UIC. I remember walking along Morgan Street to go sit in his office in the math building. The style of the buildings (brutal, 1970s) was depressing then as it is now. Still, my brother and I used to scribble in chalk on his blackboards, covered with arcane symbols and equations.
And then, a generation later, we'd come down again to grab Italian ice and walk along the streets of Little Italy. This time, it was my older daughter attending Women in Science camps, and even taking a class or two (she transferred to Columbia College a bit further east).
As per my old lady nightly routine, I sat down on my couch to read the continuing saga of your journey. I read it all and was thinking about what I would write in reply as I launched (truly a sight to behold) off the couch to do whatever it is I do in the evenings.
Once dog vomit was cleaned and dishes done (yes, I washed my hands), I fell back into my couch position and had every intention of reading through your words again when lo and behold, a box appeared, with a button to push and your voice began to narrate your story.
Never has this happened. I had no idea I could hear you, no doubt because I have no idea what I'm doing on a smart phone.
My point....I was so taken aback at the difference between my reading your words and you reading them outloud, I was almost ashamed. There is no way anyone can read of your journey and feel its impact. To hear you tell it moved me more than I can express.
Thank you, Debby. I don’t usually narrate these, because I’m a perfectionist and it takes a bunch of extra time.
But I had the time the other day, and a new mic I thought I would be using on the trip that was still in the box. I decided to give it a shot.
Glad you liked it!
Well, now I’m embarrassed. I just went back and re-listened to it because it’s been a couple days and I noticed that I uploaded the file without the edits.
So I apologize for the awkward pauses and the little coughs and the rephrasings.
Those are the things that make me spend extra time fixing it up for public consumption, which I did, but then absurdly published the wrong version.
[facepalm]
Steve,
I'm so glad you uploaded the file without the edits. No apologies for letting me hear you without perfection.
"You can't buy happiness, but you can always buy an Al's Italian beef!"