- A Question of Trust
- Intro: The Birth of a Blog
- You and Me Could Write a Bad Romance: Part I
- Bad Romance, Part II: The Couch
- Bastard Package #1
- Hallelujah
- Born This Way
- Baby Girl X
- Another Victim of Love
- True Life
- The Girls Who Went Away
- Love and Other Drugs
- 11 Things Adoptees Love to Hear
- Uh, Never Mind
- Adoptee Kid Lit
- Bastard Princess and the Search for the Holy Grail
- MYOFB
- Awkwardness
- Baby Steps
- Faith, Hope, and Catholic Charities
- Special Delivery
- Green-eyed Monster
- !@#$
- Pandora
- Fantasyland
- Adoptees You May Have Heard Of
- Big MAC Attack
- Material Girl
- VISA and Mastercard Accepted
- Don't Hold Your Breath
- Our Love is Like a Constipated Cat
- A Question of Trust
- Adoption, Hollywood Style
- All in the Family
You and me could write a bad romance...Part I
It’s pretty scary, exposing your personal flaws and scars to the world. I hope that the next couple of installments, which have been particularly tough for me to set free, might inspire someone having similar problems to hang tough, have faith, and get help from someone they trust. No one’s perfect, and I believe that we’re all here to learn from and inspire each other. In this way, letting others see you at your lowest, begging God for mercy, can be a wonderful gift.
(The next couple of installments are backstory, so please bear with me. More adoption stuff to come.) This memoir was borne of a personal crisis. Just days before last Thanksgiving, on a metaphysical binge, I had a psychic reading to learn more about my spirit guides and deceased relatives, curiosities recently ignited by lots of reading about spirituality and life after death (incredibly fascinating stuff, by the way). I was enjoying the session—until the medium told me that a elderly female relative was warning me of serious impending problems in my marriage; at the time, I was a little surprised but blew it off, since Jeremy, my husband of 13 years, and I rarely fought or even disagreed. When I mentioned my unease to him the next day, he blew me out of the water by haltingly admitting that he wasn’t sure he wanted to stay married, and that separation and/or divorce were possible. A friendship with a woman he knew whose advances he had previously rebuffed had grown into an emotional affair, and he didn’t think he loved me anymore. He wasn’t even sure he wanted counseling and told me that I might want to look for an apartment for myself and our three young kids. What. The. Fuck.
I couldn’t believe my ears. Although I’d been warned, I was totally blindsided and confused. I thought we were best friends. We exchanged “I love you”s on multiple daily occasions. How could this have happened? I’d been taking medication for years to manage my clinical depression and also battled a flagging libido. But Jeremy had seemed to be making the best of that, accepting whatever scraps I occasionally threw his way. It wasn’t at all that I didn’t love him—I just had no physical desire—for anyone (myself included). In his defense, he’d recently told me he was worried about us drifting apart. In denial, I blew it off, reassuring him that all busy couples with busy kids naturally drift apart to some degree. But nothing bad would happen to us. I had no idea how desperate he was or how wrong I was.
I was devastated and in a blind, hysterical panic. I wept and couldn’t eat for 4 days but fought to keep a brave face for the kids in an attempt to stay occupied, with business as usual. They didn’t seem aware of our problem, although I know that kids are pretty perceptive, and ours probably sensed that something was off. What was I going to do now? Where would we live? How would I support the kids? What would happen to our pets? Our lifestyle? How could I possibly recover from this? What man would ever want me now—a sad woman with a few extra pounds and three young kids for baggage? The prospect of starting over after 20 years together was terrifying. Living without him would be easier if he had simply died instead, I thought. At least that way it wouldn’t be so personally damaging.
Communication remained cordial but awkward. I walked on eggshells around Jeremy, without a clue to what he was really thinking, what was going to happen, or how I was supposed to act. I was both desperate to know and terrified of what I might hear. A couple of days after the initial bombshell, I casually mentioned that, on the basis of his initial bombshell, I’d set a preliminary meeting with a divorce attorney at the insistence of family and friends so that I’d know how to protect myself. That news seemed to jolt him back into reality, and he told me he wasn’t actually thinking about separation or divorce anymore. The sudden 180˚ reversal--he’s since attributed the entire episode to depression and confusion (and midlife crisis, per Mark—AHA! I was right!)--baffled me further, but to my relief, he agreed to couples’ counseling.
Long story short: We’ve since been attending weekly counseling sessions with the goals of first fixing ourselves and then resurrecting our connection, passion, and marriage. Is it working? Stay tuned…
(The next couple of installments are backstory, so please bear with me. More adoption stuff to come.) This memoir was borne of a personal crisis. Just days before last Thanksgiving, on a metaphysical binge, I had a psychic reading to learn more about my spirit guides and deceased relatives, curiosities recently ignited by lots of reading about spirituality and life after death (incredibly fascinating stuff, by the way). I was enjoying the session—until the medium told me that a elderly female relative was warning me of serious impending problems in my marriage; at the time, I was a little surprised but blew it off, since Jeremy, my husband of 13 years, and I rarely fought or even disagreed. When I mentioned my unease to him the next day, he blew me out of the water by haltingly admitting that he wasn’t sure he wanted to stay married, and that separation and/or divorce were possible. A friendship with a woman he knew whose advances he had previously rebuffed had grown into an emotional affair, and he didn’t think he loved me anymore. He wasn’t even sure he wanted counseling and told me that I might want to look for an apartment for myself and our three young kids. What. The. Fuck.
I couldn’t believe my ears. Although I’d been warned, I was totally blindsided and confused. I thought we were best friends. We exchanged “I love you”s on multiple daily occasions. How could this have happened? I’d been taking medication for years to manage my clinical depression and also battled a flagging libido. But Jeremy had seemed to be making the best of that, accepting whatever scraps I occasionally threw his way. It wasn’t at all that I didn’t love him—I just had no physical desire—for anyone (myself included). In his defense, he’d recently told me he was worried about us drifting apart. In denial, I blew it off, reassuring him that all busy couples with busy kids naturally drift apart to some degree. But nothing bad would happen to us. I had no idea how desperate he was or how wrong I was.
I was devastated and in a blind, hysterical panic. I wept and couldn’t eat for 4 days but fought to keep a brave face for the kids in an attempt to stay occupied, with business as usual. They didn’t seem aware of our problem, although I know that kids are pretty perceptive, and ours probably sensed that something was off. What was I going to do now? Where would we live? How would I support the kids? What would happen to our pets? Our lifestyle? How could I possibly recover from this? What man would ever want me now—a sad woman with a few extra pounds and three young kids for baggage? The prospect of starting over after 20 years together was terrifying. Living without him would be easier if he had simply died instead, I thought. At least that way it wouldn’t be so personally damaging.
Communication remained cordial but awkward. I walked on eggshells around Jeremy, without a clue to what he was really thinking, what was going to happen, or how I was supposed to act. I was both desperate to know and terrified of what I might hear. A couple of days after the initial bombshell, I casually mentioned that, on the basis of his initial bombshell, I’d set a preliminary meeting with a divorce attorney at the insistence of family and friends so that I’d know how to protect myself. That news seemed to jolt him back into reality, and he told me he wasn’t actually thinking about separation or divorce anymore. The sudden 180˚ reversal--he’s since attributed the entire episode to depression and confusion (and midlife crisis, per Mark—AHA! I was right!)--baffled me further, but to my relief, he agreed to couples’ counseling.
Long story short: We’ve since been attending weekly counseling sessions with the goals of first fixing ourselves and then resurrecting our connection, passion, and marriage. Is it working? Stay tuned…