I Realized I Was Moving On

 

I’m not sure why I took several weeks off of Medium, because I really enjoy it. It doesn’t matter if I’m writing or not, I enjoy reading the thoughts and experiences of fellow writers.

It wasn’t one particular reason, although one situation preoccupied my thoughts and caused me considerable stress until I removed it to a closet, literally.

Of all the items my husband and I had acquired together over more than 40 years, the only thing I left at the house we had shared were family photos. I had intentionally left them telling my husband we needed to sort through and divide the pictures together.

He nodded in agreement and didn’t seem to mind waiting until I was ready to go through them. I think most people would take this as a signal meaning that’s fine, we’ll do this together later. Except, I had this nagging feeling I couldn’t dismiss. What if I arrange a date and time to begin looking through the pictures and he starts loading them into my car the minute I drive up? And wouldn’t you know? That’s exactly what happened.

My husband disappointed me repeatedly throughout our marriage, and now, more than a year after our divorce was finalized he’s still doing it. The only thing that has changed is that I’m no longer surprised when he does. Depending on how painful or unpleasant what needs to be addressed is, I can almost guess what he might do because he’s done it so many times before.

He has this very bad habit of refusing to acknowledge or address anything difficult. It happened every time I convinced him to go to marriage counseling. He would go once and refuse to return, saying he didn’t need it. Working on correcting problems in a broken relationship is hard. If only one person is willing to do it, relationships won’t change and problems won’t improve.

That’s but one example. Shutting me down whenever I asked about possibly moving would be another. Leaving to run errands and returning with a new car never asking what I might like, etc. just one more. How could I be surprised? Looking through family pictures was going to be painful. We were happy for a few years when our children were small, before his controlling personality and inability to allow me even meager purchases began to erode the loving feelings I had once had for him.

It’s not only my opinion, our younger daughter refers to her father as a control freak, an appropriate description of his personality. His general demeanor was and is that of unhappiness, a brooding personality type. He was always expecting someone to try and pull something on him, anticipating rain when there were no clouds in the sky. The atmosphere in our home was tense and dark, it was a place inhabited by unhappiness.

So when I brought thousands of pictures to my house and began trying to sort and divide them, I became overwhelmed.

Some of the pictures were in albums in neat, chronological order, but most were not. As you can see from the above picture it was a large project. One of the main obstacles I encountered was the fact that EVERY photo I looked at gave me pause to stop. Generally, I remembered the pictures when I saw them, where I was and what we were doing at the time. Talk about wreaking havoc with your emotions, what an understatement. It was my life after all.

There are many subsections to my life, and there are two main categories. Before I left my marriage and my older daughter removed her children from my life, and after. All of these pictures were from the before part. So it was hard, and I made little progress. I felt as though I was swimming in circles because the pictures were scattered and in no order. Every system I tried implementing to organize them inevitably failed. That is until I began categorizing the photos by size. At least, this allowed me a semblance of control. But even this took hours out of most days.

These were hours I didn’t have to spend on Medium. Looking through the pictures was sad and depressing. After a few hours every day, I would almost feel as though I had been beaten up. I had nothing left for Medium. And each time I walked into my bedroom a feeling of gloom enveloped me. What a mess I was in, literally and figuratively. And still, so many days and hours to go to get through with this chore. It would have gone faster, and been easier with help from my husband, but there was none to be had.

Finally, a few days ago I reorganized a closet, gathered boxes, and packed up all of the pictures. They are now stored out of sight, and usually out of mind. Although they are there waiting for me, they will be dealt with one box at a time going forward. Then put away until I’m up for another round of tugs on my heart, and bittersweet memories of a different time in my life.

Although the pictures occupied me to the exclusion of many other things for several weeks, I discovered some things about myself during the process. I can look at pictures of my older daughter before she met her husband and not become tearful. I have separated her life into sections also. She was a little girl I loved and adored. A brilliant, beautiful girl. A star student, moved from kindergarten into first grade just after she began school. Sailing through, and mastering everything she took on, gently pushed by me, valedictorian of her high school class.

Into the engineering school of one of our state’s foremost universities, excelling there also. She met her husband her freshman year, but things changed so slowly that it took years for his narcissistic manipulation to destroy the loving relationship she had with me, and all other family members. I say all, because although she still sees her father, it is rare, and he is devastated by her actions and those of her husband. He continues to quake in fear that he will meet the same fate I have should he make one wrong move.

So I managed my feelings about her as I sorted picture after picture. During these many weeks of combing through long-ago events and happier times, I began to realize I’m not as angry with her as I have been. Have my feelings softened? I wouldn’t go that far. I have no wish to see her. But the anger I feel towards her doesn’t burn as hot as it did. It’s manageable.

As for my husband, I suppose I expected him to dump the sad job of sorting through the pictures on me. I had just allowed myself to hope he wouldn’t. If anything such as this comes up again, I’ve learned, finally, not to expect anything from him. If he actually shows up and does what I hope he might in a future situation, whatever it might be, I will be pleasantly surprised. Not sadly disappointed ever again, I hope.

I’m not who I was two years ago when I seriously considered suicide throughout every day that passed. I don’t think about my older daughter every minute of every day. Of course, I miss my granddaughters, and I always will. But they are no longer at the forefront of my thoughts either. It’s been almost thirty months since I last saw them. Children change so quickly, they aren’t the giggly little girls of five and seven I knew them to be. They are eight and ten. I would hardly know them if I saw them now.

I try to focus on the fact that I was fortunate to have them in my life for several years. I loved them with all my heart, and I know they loved me. Many people never get to experience the love of a grandchild. I’m fortunate in that regard. My younger daughter continues to include me at least every week, often more than once, in activities with her family. I love and adore my infant granddaughter. She doesn’t replace the older ones, but rather has her own place now designated in my heart.

In conclusion, I’ve come to realize I’ve moved on. I’m not who I was before I left my marriage. I’m used to spending most of my time alone. I do have a much harder edge, one I wish I had developed years ago. I still care for others a great deal, especially those less fortunate. But I care for myself more and that’s a good thing.

This post was previously published on medium.com.

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