My Intellectual side and my Emotional side wrestle over every paradox, painfully so. Partly because of this, the intellectual side - being more mature, has dragged us “all” (my sides and I) to therapy. Like parents, my intellectual side and I have been troubled by the apparent slowness of my emotional side's development. Impatiently, I’ve banged my head on the idea of accepting a new truth and a new set of paradigms, but I always ended up feeling like I'm being tricked, and in a heightened state of paranoia reject the idea. Then, last night, all at once the emotional side of me grew. I felt it! It just pushed through the soil, or unfolded a new leaf...or maybe, even blossomed? (No, too far)!

The emotional storm had been brewing for days if not months and on the cusp of his asking me for a divorce (largely because he too has grown impatient with my emotional side) I suddenly understood all that had held me back. While I was mulling over the “issues” of our crumbling relationship with him, I came to understand that which I already “knew”, I am responsible for my own happiness, not he. What’s more, if I dare to accept this as a principal the, converse must than also be true; Nor, is he responsible for my misery. Like lightening strikes, in the night, it hit me. Self determination! Mine has atrophied appallingly!

It wasn’t his overbearingness anymore than my, underachievement that has overwhelmed me. I’d turned the reins over to Ray, because after so many years of “raising myself” I couldn’t do it any more. After all, HE was the responsible one. HE was older. HE knew better. HE was right and he seemed to like to take care of me. He believed it and so than, did I. At first it was easy, a relief even. I began to curl up into a ball and just roll along; lulled by his steady stride, confident that he’d do me no harm. It was SO long ago that now it seems like it’s the way it’s always been.

“Cast me gently into morning, for the night has been unkind…'''” S.M.

Intellectually, I understand the value of making decisions. Last week my veins surged with pride when my four year old, clearly disappointed that I’d walked to pick her up from school instead of having driven the 200m, looked up at me a said, “Mommy, I want to make my OWN decisions now”. But, in fact, decisions have always frightened me. The consequence of making mistakes (perhaps due to emotional decisions) has paralyzed me…''' And in rolling along, I stopped making decisions. I have let decisions be made for me and have let that sick joke “hind-sight” be the gage to my success. And regret the conduit for resentment. As things turned out not to please me, I resented the people around me for bringing them to pass. Ushering me to another fork in the road, “What to do with my life?”

“The road diverged in the yellow wood and I…'''” R.F.
Chose to loiter there until the wood grew up around me and I sunk onto my knees.

I have allowed my anger with my mother be the guiding principal of my life. For example; my University degree is not mine. It’s the one my mother would be proud of. My house is not mine. It’s the house that my mother would have admired. It’s not my pride that Lynton has learned to read. It’s an appeal to a dead woman to PLEASE be proud of me. When they pulled me off her grave marker crying, “I wasn’t finished”, I think I actually meant, “I wasn’t finished proving myself to you!” I have been living out my mother’s life as it could have been in the eyes of a child. I have beautifully constructed everything that SHOULD have been. It is mine, but it is not “me”. There are some decisions to be made here. I’m not going to make them out of anger this time though. I’m not necessarily going to sell my house, anymore than I will begrudge my daughter learning to read. I am going to be open to reassessment and choose with different motives in the future.

Band-aids! All of them! Band-aids on a festering wound so deep its inception was nearly forgotten. There is a hole in my sole. It aches and gushes occasionally and I have spent my life trying to put Band-Aids on it; Michelle, Raymond, alcohol, my degree, the kids, Rx drugs, our house, soccer, Bubbles, the Internet and (almost) lesbianism! None of it works. I've been told that I had to “heal the hole from within”. My emotional side didn’t believe. I thought if I could just spend a little longer with her, or high, or drunk, or on-line, the pain would stop. If I could just stuff enough gauze IN the hole it would go away. My intellectual side grabbed onto this new paradigm, found it easy to accept, but then couldn’t figure out HOW to pull it off. Last night, in explaining to Raymond why he can’t “make me happy”, I got it! I accepted that the hole must heal from within and further more made a plan that will begin the process. SSRIs are merely an antibiotic. It must grow up from the bottom. No amount of stitching from the top will hold the puss in. I’ve decided that to heal the hole, I must make decisions!

In my recognizing my desire to write as valid, I have re-awakened my belief in myself and my self determination. Today I did not smite any mighty blows, but believing again is golden. I don’t want to do things out of anger. I don’t want to go about living my life as a result of the things I disagree(d) with. I don’t have to greet the fork in the road with apathy; I don’t have to be a lesbian just because I kissed a girl AND just because I sought comfort there does not pre-determine me to an eccentric life in a women’s commune in Tucson. LMAO!

These are a few of the things that came to light for me last night, when Raymond said, “I want a divorce.”