The Dog Days Are Over

I said I would write a blog post dedicated to a lovely friend of mine who told confided in me recently about the day she had to sign her divorce papers. It was a rough day for her OBVIOUSLY. She wasn’t pulling a Nicole Kidman and waving her hands in the air, relieved and happy on the way to her car. So I promised I would post about a similar day for me when I had the time and unfortunately, I haven’t prioritized correctly the last few weeks and it is long overdue.

I haven’t spoken to many people about this day and really, looking back now, it was pretty eventful and in some cases even funny. I got papers on a Thursday night. In anticipation of the rough weekend ahead and I wasn’t teaching on Friday mornings so I planned to go to class and drive to Spokane to spend the weekend with my best friend, let’s call her the Pixie Fairy and her husband. I like to arrogantly think that my planned, prepared (if business like approach…who cares what my therapist said) approach to the battle ahead was much more mature and adult than ahem….a glow in the dark paint freshman kegger bash. (Who did that again? I didn’t say anybody did).

I was in my element—I was planning ahead for the coming disaster (which makes disasters so much more bearable I always say). I was admitting I was going to be a wreck (hey, that was better than being in denial), and I chose to surround myself with close loved ones who could pick up the pieces if I really really fell apart, which was not part of my plan. Ok. So I signed the papers which was one of the most surreal experiences in my life. It was as if years and YEARS of life, my identity, my *&^%ing name was completely dismembered right before my eyes. Forget the months of screaming and arguing against this complete toss of a towel. It was here. So I got up. I did cardio. I taught. (My poor students last spring…God help them). I went to class. I did a weight session. Then I dropped papers off and headed to Pullman. I stopped and got gas on the way and also stopped to get some drinks for the road. On my way there, I got a text from my ex stating he had told his aunts that we were divorced. I asked if he had given them a message from me as I asked and he said no. (Big surprise!) So I decided to do the worst possible thing you could do on a day when you turn in divorce papers—I called my ex.

This resulted in a huge argument, one that makes my head spin to think of to this day. It was while I was driving. It was while I got gas. It was while I was inside the grocery store getting Snapple. I even sat on the floor in the empty frozen foods section as I was trying to talk to him and reason with him, ultimately ending in a rage of tears asking why he insisted this was the only option. The answers I got on the phone in the conversation were literal slaps in my face. I remember feeling nerves tingle in my jaw as they had when I got my braces taken off. I remember feeling that dazed feeling after splashing cold water on your face.

I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t let go. So he hung up on me. It figures since we weren’t getting anywhere productive and I would have kept fighting till I was blue in the face (or the store closed) and the conversation became the epitome of what had gone wrong in our marriage. I hate that I can think deeply even during times of crisis. It gets confusing.

So with that, I got my Snapple and started the long drive to Spokane. On that drive I finally lost it. I started screaming alone in my car and the fields, my steering wheel. Whatever. I sobbed until I felt like I couldn’t anymore—all while driving (I’m so smart). I yelled, cussed, punched the seat next to me, held myself. I remember looking at the wet, snot covered mess that was my shirt thinking about my body. Of all times and places? I remember sitting there, driving, thinking no one had ever touched me before—my stomach, legs, breasts, kissed my neck. Would I be loved in that way again? No! I had no desire to be. It was like I was in some sort of wrestling match with my thoughts and eyes and body and I don’t think any of them knew who was winning. I remember thinking that it didn’t make sense. I HATED that it didn’t make sense. That’s what I was more mad about than anything else—that it confused me and I couldn’t understand it. If you’ve ever met me, I will attack something that doesn’t make sense to me until it does. I have to.

It was dark and I was about an hour out from Spokane when my pixie fairy friend’s husband texted me to see if I was ok and get my eta. I told him what happened and he kept telling me to calm down and drive. About ten minutes later, I realized I was going 95MPH in a 70 and slowed to about 80. Too late. I saw the red and blue lights in my rearview mirror and thought…’Oh, of freaking course.’ So I pull over and this nice older officer asks where I’m coming from and where I’m going. I tell him I’m a student from Pullman headed to Spokane for the weekend. He asks if I’ve been drinking. I say no. He asks for license and registration. I take a second to text my friends that I was pulled over. He comes back and says I have no record and asks if I’ve been on the road before. I say yes but qualify it by saying I’m a student in Pullman and don’t get into Spokane or Coeur d’ Alene very often. He asks me to slow down and I say of course. And I breathe, thanking God and crawl to Spokane in another burst of tears from all the adrenaline.

 I keep getting reassuring texts from my friends saying that I just need to get there and will be taken care of the whole weekend and need to calm down. They have a table for me at my favorite place for appetizers and drinks in Spokane. I start crying again right as I get there—little kid types of tears and sniffling. I walked into the restaurant, see my friend and her husband with a ouple of other friends. Walked over and basically collapsed into his warm, safe arms and was immediately tucked between him and the pixie fairy.  Even when they or I were talking to other people, I think I had the pixie fairy’s hand in a death grasp for part of the night. There were a couple of other friends there I hadn’t seen in years w ho were aware of the situation and were trying to be as nice and encouraging as possible. It took me a while to catch my breath and start eating as I sat there, with someone’s arm wrapped around me or holding someone’s hand for the next three hours.

I remember falling asleep thinking *&^% plans and I have no idea what life holds for me.’

The next day I wake up and I’m in rare form. We go for a walk. Fresh air was good and my friends decide to take me to one of my favorite places in Spokane—the Davenport Hotel for an early dinner. I love the food and the atmosphere and I haven’t been back in years. So I say sure. So we walk into the restaurant and as I come in the door, I’m aware that something seems dreadfully wrong. I’m not sure what it is exactly but something is off and I’m not feeling well. So we sit down and order and I remember telling the pixie fairy something was wrong and I didn’t know what it was. I felt like I was going to laugh or cry or punch something. And she kept saying I needed to calm down. Then it hit me.

The Davenport Hotel in Spokane is lovely (google it). They have the building that is old Victorian/turn of the century and is a Spokane landmark where famous people stay. And a few years ago they built an addition across the street with an elegant safari theme. While I had been to the original Davenport several times in the past few years (dates, to see the Christmas trees, etc), I had not been to the Safari Room in a few years.

I hadn’t been in that building since my wedding night.

I blurt this out to the pixie fairy as the world got blurry. And she’s like “Ohhh. OHHHHHH NOOOO.” And of course he gets back to the table and is like, ‘what?’ And of course this is like thee worst possible place to take me on this weekend. And it’s so ironic it’s kind of funny but not at the time. Of course he feels horrible and so does she. And I’m like sobbing/moaning, “Just get me out of here.” It’s like they had a three year old all over again. So we finish drinks and pizza and I remember holding onto her arm as we walked back to their apartment, where I fell asleep for several hours, sobbing. I couldn’t take it anymore. I admitted defeat at that point—to planning on being a wreck, to trying to spend a weekend forgetting what was going on, to knowing what was going on in my life or where it was taking me. I admitted defeat. Life won. I lost. And I was out.

I woke up later…it was night and I remember feeling somewhat peaceful. The pixie fairy woke me up and was sitting on the bed. My makeup and hair was askew and I remember this weight had been lifted. I could still barely breathe. But it was as if something in my perspective about that whole year and the whole situation had changed.

I’d admitted defeat. I’d admitted I didn’t have it together and that it really didn’t matter. That was what changed. I remember coming into the living room and talking and even laughing over the events of the day and about the future. Thailand was coming up and I was excited and I remember telling them I didn’t know what to do or what was going to become of me. And they said, ‘Katie, that’s ok.’ The rest of the world knew? And I didn’t? How did that happen? How could I have been that arrogant? It wasn’t arrogance really. It was self preservation. It was a defense mechanism and I’d just thrown it out the window.

And I was ok.

So to all of you going through events like this—admit defeat. Be broken. Feel broken. Know where your strength is. Cling to your loved ones, your faith, your hope in something and someone greater than yourself, and then you have my permission to fall flat on your face and stay there as long as you need to. There's no magic recipe for getting over things and getting through things. There isn't. I don't care what book or movie you read or see. It's just dealing with reality. I can't say that enough. 

That’s what I did. And I could not have imagined a future so bright. Even if I’d planned it myself. Ha.