1. To terminate an existing relationship or union : Separate

2. To end marriage; to dissolve the marriage contract

And my personal favorite:

3. SEVERANCE. (Yes, this was in all caps in the trusty book adding to the scariness of it).

Looking up severance, I found what my sixth grade teacher used to count as wrong – defining a word with a derivation of itself:

Severance: the act or process of severing : the state of being severed

So, onward to severing and severed. Is it me, or does it keep sounding more and more violent as we further define it?

Sever – ed – ing: to put or keep apart : divide : to remove (as a part) by or as if by cutting.

And that finally gets to the core of it. Divorce feels like my heart, my chest, my insides are being cut apart and removed bit by bit by a jagged violent knife. It’s not just one severance causing the pain, for me it is a triple whammy. It is finally dealing with the dissolution of my marriage. Realizing, perhaps too late, how great the loss of my committed relationship and our families with another truly is. And the pain I have finally become conscious of that comes into play now that I have finally acknowledged that my kids don’t live with me full time anymore. The loss and the pain that delve into each of those situations are so deep, so intense, that unless you have been through it, unless you have ever allowed yourself to feel what severing truly feels likes and means on an emotional level, then there is no way to comprehend it.

Today, I share my pain and my loss with you. I heard a great quote today, one that I truly believe I was intended to hear and share, and God willing, it is true.

Pain shared is Divided.
Joy shared is Multiplied.

I never thought I’d say this, but I am sooooo looking forward to multiplication tables.

I remember my life at 32. I had a gorgeous two-year-old baby boy and was happily pregnant with my second child. Looking for a new home, I eventually found and was able to purchase a beautiful house in the suburbs of LA where I would raise my kids, send them to school, and become involved in the community. My husband loved me, supported his family, and, although he was absent quite a bit due to work, was a great father and my best friend. Oh, and girlfriends galore! Luncheons, parties, baby and mommy playdates. In retrospect, my life was really busy, really happy, and I felt that I had finally created and achieved the life of my dreams. A life that would continue it’s upward mobility and keep on getting better and better. And it did. For a while. The glamour kicked in as we were suddenly able to attend the Academy Awards and industry parties; to buy and wear designer clothes and shoes; to be invited to amazing holiday parties with friends; and to take adventurous vacations with the kids. I had lived through many a trial and tribulation to get to this point in my life, so I felt I had started my story. And it never occurred to me that my future would hold anything but more of the same and become even more glamorous, more accomplished, with new stories to create and tell. That was me in my mid thirties.

Well, I am 42 now. 42 years and 37 days. I don’t know why the days seem important but in this moment they do. And I can admit to you, with hot, flushed cheeks, anxiety churning in my stomach, and tears stinging my eyes, that I never thought my life would become what it actually is at 42. In the struggle of that admission also comes acceptance. In that acceptance comes surrender, and through that surrender, a new life will emerge. A new 42 will be experienced. So I share with you my reality, which is my today, but not, necessarily, my tomorrow.

My life is completely unmanageable when I think I have power over  it.  It is what it is.

My kids are growing up and separating from me more and more each day, which makes me feel sad and wistful.  It is what it is.

I never thought I’d go through the pain of divorce.  It is what it is.

I feel lonely at 42. And I don’t like being alone.  It is what it is.

I am struggling financially.  It is what it is.

I don’t like to be out of control – emotionally, financially, physically, or spiritually.
It is what it is.

I know now that I can’t direct life or anyone or anything.  It is what it is.

I fight off anxiety and fear on a daily basis, and move forward, on my own.
It is what it is.

I am realizing that I have lived my life without any appropriate coping mechanisms.
It is what it is.

I have lost dear friends.  It is what it is.

I have willingly self-destructed rather than ask for support.  It is what it is.

I feel sad, yet hopeful at the same time.  It is what it is.

I have let myself go.  It is what it is.

I alternate and vacillate and lose focus – all to my own detriment.  It is what it is.

Yes, this is painful to confront, to admit. It’s also embarrassing. And I remain disappointed that 42 is not what I thought it would be. And I don’t know when that will go away.  Any day now. But it’s over. I’ve turned it. It’s done and it’s time to move on. Like the young woman at 32 dreaming of and describing her future at 42, I need to see mine for what it is at 42, then dream of a new one, even if it is me at 42 and 38 days. For if I look at my life I have indeed, like she dreamed, accomplished a lot. I now have a much more complex (and longer) story to tell, one that I hope may someday be of help to some one else. And I have a future.  And I am finally able to glimpse the endless opportunities and choices being presented to me.

So, at 42 years and 37 days, I am at once shattered and renewed. I am showing up for my kids, for others, for myself. And today, if someone were to ask me, “What’s the perfect age?” My answer would quite simply be, “My age, today.” And it just so happens that age, on this day, is 42. How glamorous!

I am grateful for my health and the health of my family.  It is what it is.

I am grateful that I have a good relationship with my ex-husband.  It is what it is.

I am grateful that today I have a home and food in the pantry.  It is what it is.

I am grateful that I am able to smile at others and be of service.  It is what it is.

I am grateful that I can now be fully present for my kids.  It is what it is.

I am grateful for my self-awareness and that I am able to grow as a person each and every day. It is what it is.

I am grateful for all those who have come into my life. For those who have remained. And for those who have not.  It is what it is.

I am grateful for my ability to share this struggle. For ultimately, life, at any age for me, is about connecting with other human beings, about developing and sharing a sense of community, about being true to self, and being open to what we all can learn from one another.

Months before my marriage was officially over, I stopped wearing my wedding ring. Initially, my story was that it on occasion had caused a rash on my skin (which is true). I am now willing to admit that on some deeply painful level it was a symbolic stab at Keith. But truly, more than either reason, it was my way of making an “I belong to no one but me” statement. Eventually, I found a personal power in my naked left ring finger and, through many triumphs and as many failures, a desperately needed new sense of self.

Moments of ease and awkwardness seemed to accompany the absence of rings on that ring finger. Unwelcome insinuations, advances, and questions as to my marital status by complete strangers were commonplace. Being the odd woman out by not wearing one was blatant – if only to me. And choosing on occasion to wear another type of ring altogether on that finger and having that observed, commented on, and judged made me feel, personal power or not, that I just could not win.

But when I was ready, new people, new opportunities and yes, new rings started showing up in my life. Kamden, my son, found a darling little ring on the soccer field and gallantly presented it to me (yes, we tried to find the rightful owner but could not). Andrea, a friend of a friend, had sent rings to be sold at a gold party and when she was not offered what she wanted for them, gave them to me as a gift simply because I had greatly admired them. And a brief visit to a little store while on vacation prompted the purchase of a little ring by me for me – one guaranteed not to give me a rash. Suddenly, I had four rings representing the love of my child, of my friends, and yes, of myself.

In a moment of personal solidarity, I put all four on my naked left ring finger. I wore them all that day. And the next. And the next. I witnessed some from my tribes old and new noticing them. New people I meet still glance at my finger and see that it is full – this is such an odd social ritual, really. But none of it matters anymore. I love them. I love what they represent. I love who gave them to me. And I finally love myself enough not to care what my ring finger status means to anyone but me.

I am now committed to that which is most important in my life – my kids, my friends and family, and me. With these rings, I wed me, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, I will honor and love myself all the days of my life. I do know how to love. And, it’s not like I can ever divorce myself.

While this may seem like a harmless and easy question for most people, I am at that precarious point in my life where I wasn’t quite sure who to call first. AAA was out of the question, as I have not signed up for my own membership since the family plan lapsed after the divorce – a membership, by the way, that I never needed in 15 years (of course). I had to call someone who would be willing to drop everything, rush to my side and either let me have their car for the next several hours, or drive me and hang out until my meeting was over. Which made the list very short. Should I call my ex-husband? Or should I call my boyfriend? Or should I call one of a few girlfriends? It was an odd feeling, weighing in on each option and what I should do. I felt like, out of respect for my girlfriends, I absolutely should try the ex and the boyfriend first, as in my head, they should be the first ones to come to my rescue. Again with the ‘shoulds’, and the implied expectations.

I have a wonderful relationship with Keith, my ex-husband, and I know that if he could, he would drop everything to help me. If he could. But we are no longer married and it just feels odd sometimes to call him with my problems, especially since there is another man in my life now, my boyfriend, Michael. In my mind, it came down to a matter of relationship hierarchy that he should indeed be the first one called. But I was nervous that I would not get the response I needed. Or desired. I don’t do damsel in distress well and I did not want to be disappointed. But it was the appropriate first call – for the ‘appropriate’ standards I have set in my mind. Add in my growing sense of panic and this was a truly precarious situation.

Michael answered on the second call. The first went to voicemail. I explained the situation quickly then did not say much more. For some strange reason I did not want to ask (this would not have been the case with Keith or a girlfriend). I wanted him to offer to drop everything and come and help me – again, the distressed damsel thing. After he ran down a few options he did indeed come to it on his own. He offered to pack up his two girls and head to my house so that I could take his car to the meeting. At this point, I had 40 minutes to make it on time (the new late time). It was 15 minutes from his house to mine and 20 minutes from my house to walking into my meeting. Arghh. Not a lot of cushion. I sat calmly waiting (it’s a new skill), while my son Kendall occasionally lifted his head away from his laptop to remark on the situation. “Of course, your car had to die today,” he said. Then, “This really sucks for you.” Then, “How long do you think it will take the girls to get ready to get into his car?” Then, “How much time do you have left?” The support was overwhelming. But Michael was there, quickly, at my door, girls in tow, handing me his keys.

The rush of gratitude I felt in that moment was not just about him rescuing me. It was that he could. That for some reason I thought he should. And that he did. It was also that I was not disappointed. That I could count on him in a personal moment of crisis, like I knew I could with my ex-husband, like I knew I could with select girlfriends. And that felt good. Like it should.

I literally gasped when I saw the sign. “What? What?” Screams  from inquiring minds in the back seat begged  to know, “Are you okay?”   “Yes,” I said, calming down from my initial reaction. “Why do you sound sad, Mom?” And with that I pointed to the large,  white, upside down “L” holding a new “For Sale” sign planted in the front yard of our next door neighbor’s house. The three of us sat in silence, truly speechless, as we slowly pulled into our driveway.

Many things are changing in our world today. In my world. In my neighborhood. In my home. And depending upon whom I talk with, there are many reasons for the change: the economy, the administration, the greed of consumerism, inflation, the in-laws, the Joneses, and on and on. I listen, I comment, I shake my head in agreement or toss out the occasional disagreement. I also try to recognize what good can come of this – of each situation. I do not buy into the belief that we have to go through another Great Depression so that this generation can “learn its’ lesson,” thereby validating older generational behaviors (it’s okay to recycle the magazines dating back to 1982 and to donate old clothes stuffed into closets since the 70’s – you still don’t need them or wear them, they just take up space!)

Thinking of how different my life is now from just this same time last year, I looked out my living room window at the For Sale sign and I began to look at my home environment as a microcosm for my world.What is going on in my world, in my home, and how I choose to deal with it will (and does) affect all other areas of my life – my relationships, my finances, my body (I live on a hill), my network of people, my actual physical space, myself.

In this moment, I find my neighborhood, my world, my home, in a state of flux, with change coming in and out – sometimes a welcome visitor, sometimes not. Selling my house has crossed my mind as I went through a divorce last year, and while I gratefully came out of that with the house, I now realize how much of my life is in this home and that the way I live in this space has changed. My home environment has been affected by everything going on in my life – from the way it looks, to the way it feels and smells, to what things and which people are now inside of it. And while certain areas used to be for grown-up gatherings only, with my working more and throwing social gatherings less, my pre-teen boys are slowly taking over – even further redefining our home.

So, I ponder what is going on inside my neighbor’s house. In their lives. How their world and the happenings in their home world have shifted such that they decided to move after living and raising a family here for thirty years. How having a new neighbor will change the feel of our street, the look of our street, the safety of our street, and the socialization of the people on our street (hopefully they will become the new social gathering house!)

Our homes and our neighborhoods – and all that happens within them – can be viewed as a microcosm of our larger world. I invite you on this journey as I explore just how far our home environments can stretch us as individuals to make our ‘at home world’ and the world at large a better place to live.

HomeStretch™ will be a regular column the first Wednesday of every month on KathleenMelton.com.  Let me know what is going on in your home by emailing me at info@KathleenMelton.com

It’s 5-o-clock in the morning.  Regardless of what time I go to bed, or how I feel, I always wake up at this time.  I decided to stop fighting it.  I’m outside on the patio of my house in the valley feeling the cool morning air caressmy woozy head. I don’t know why everyone hates the valley.  It’s beautiful in the early morning.  And in the late evening.  Just ignore the daytime July through September.

Looking at my kids’ play structure makes me want to cry. Thinking of Team Melton, what we all call our family, makes me sad beyond words. Pretending that we are a happy little family that can spend time together as though nothing has changed since we split up makes me cringe, as it is a recipe for disaster.

And disaster it was. After being plied with too many triggers (food, junk everywhere, wine, no one listening – the list seems endless!) I cried because of how painful it is to pretend. How trapped I felt, how disingenuous. The pressure was more than I could bear, and things were said and done under that pressure that wouldn’t normally be said or done.

Today, now, I accept full responsibility for it all. For being an emotional wreck. For being human. For being imperfect.  For surviving a failed marriage.  I will no longer pretend. To myself. To my ex-husband. To my friends. To the world. And finally to my kids.

Happily ever after isn’t, always. Happy. But it can be manageable. After having pretty much exploded under the pressure of pretense and caused an unknown number of future therapy sessions for my kids, I realize that there is a better way to handle this situation. With grace. And honesty. And compassion for all involved.

The first thing that I am going to do is alter one environment at a time. My home environment first. I am removing all triggers – and finding a better way to deal with them – for at this point exposing myself to messy piles of junk, his stuff still in the house, baked goods, booze, and/or dog poop that hasn’t been picked up in a week, can only be likened to dropping a match on the wick of a firecracker. Once done, it’s best to step back and watch the spectacle.

Second, I will alter my relationship with Keith, my ex-husband. After apologizing to everyone (even myself), I sat on the front porch with him and told him that we need to stop acting like it is anything other than what it is…us, divorced. God that is an ugly word. Never did I ever think I, or my kids, would have to experience the knowledge, the feeling the, the, the what? Shame, disappointment, loneliness of divorce? Of them having two homes, two rooms, a split up life?

Moving forward, we will do our best to handle this situation and each other with kindness and respect. He agreed. We sat on the front porch for a bit. And then I got up. And felt sad. And all of a sudden exhausted from too little sleep. But I also felt lighter and peaceful knowing that some of the pressure had been removed. That we are on the same page. That he and kids and I will still be a team – a team that will find a way to operate and function and still win – even with two home fields.