Monday, June 16, 2008


I've said over and over on this blog how divorce puts you in a strange dilemma. It's almost a theme. On one hand, you are terrified of getting married. You know how awful marriage can be, and you never want to be in the situation of feeling trapped again, of feeling lonely when you are with someone, of losing yourself in the pain of a miserable loveless marriage. On the other hand, you are terrified of never getting married. You know how wonderful marriage can be, how meaningful it is to build something, to have someone you love, and you don't want to be the only one left standing, feeling the stonecold loneliness of having no one, of losing yourself in the pain of not being able to give.

Being divorced, well, you just feel like, no matter what, you are screwed. Damaged.

There is some other aspect of the second-time-around that makes it very different from the first time: the lack of dreams. I no longer dream of my fluffy white wedding; I had one already. I no longer dream of a romantic honeymoon traipsing around Europe or decorating a home together, or buying china, or getting flowers for Shabbos, or of being Mrs. Someone, or of being part of a couple. I don't dream. I feel like I just want to get there, skip the trappings, skip the journey.

But I'm a liar. I know that there is some teeny, tiny part of me that is still dreaming of Mr. Right. I deny it, even to myself. It certainly doesn't come out when I make decisions or try to sort out where I'm taking my life. I don't let it. It has no place in my plans anymore, this dream, it has no voice in my internal dialogue. If it starts to come, NO, I tell it, GO AWAY. Most of the time, almost all of the time, it's silent, as it deserves to be.

It comes out when I listen to music. I'll listen to a song that used to make me think about my Prince Charming, long, long dead to me now, and then, against my will, I'm dreaming again. "Oh baby you're the only thing in this whole world that's pure and good and right," Meat Loaf will croon, and I feel my mind leave the room. Peter Himmelman is singing "When you need confession, I'm there to listen; when you're crossing the ocean, I've got a boat to row, that's the mission of my soul..." and my heart turns over. Sheryl Crow will wail "when I’m throwing punches in the air, when I’m broken down and I can’t stand, will you be strong enough to be my man?" and I wonder where he is, this elusive man of mine, and I dream of him, fighting it every step of the way (stupid stupid stupid!), but I dream anyway. Will he come riding in on his white horse and come and get me, even though I stopped looking for him, even though I push him away every day, I push away even the chance of him, because I'm so tired of kissing frogs, I'm so tired of feeling ugly and fat and old and dead, and it's so much better and healthier to embrace reality than delusion. Even though I tell myself and everyone else that I'm okay, really, really okay by myself, thank God for good friends and rock concerts, thinking about getting a dog, and going to Scotland on a vacation and I'm going to be FINE. Will he come and get me anyway, my Mr. Right? Will he know? Will he find me?

It's only when I listen to music, when it's four in the freakin morning again and I'm lying in bed trying to fall asleep without Ambien, with my Ipod strapped on, it's only then, that I let him in, the dream of him, maybe the hope of him, into my life. It's only then.

1 comment:

SuperRaizy said...

You can still dream of Mr. Right. It's just that your dreams are a bit more realistic now. Nothing wrong with that.
I hope that somewhere out there, your future Mr. Right is dreaming about you, too.