Running out the door to get to an important meeting, I got into my car and, because the universe tends to put ‘interesting times’ in our paths at the most inopportune times, my car would not start. Completely dead. I sat for a moment in disbelief. I glanced quickly at my watch. I had allotted the exact amount of time needed to get to the meeting. No buffer for anything to go wrong. As my life is currently a fine balancing act on a very tight rope, being thrown off feels like a cruel test. I could feel the upset coming on. Eyes tearing. Irritation and anger boiling up. I let myself have a brief moment, and then forced these totally useless reactions to pass. I took a deep breath and started thinking. I called those I was meeting with to let them know I was going to be half an hour late, but that I would be there. “Are you sure you can make it?” “Yes,” I said with false confidence. It was very important to me that I make it – not making it was not an option. Next came the plan of attack, “Who should I call for help?”

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.

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.