Move On – Part 4

I exited Part 3 wanting to write THE END but having to beg your indulgence once again; I needed more of your time. I’ve gotten so used to your company and enjoy it so much I might have been guilty of dragging this out a bit…

First and foremost, I’m compelled to turn the spotlight on a delicate issue that pressed on my soul and heart and had to be put to rest before I could consider entering another relationship.

I have grappled with the wisdom of being so open about deeply personal difficulties but concluded it will be relevant, and hopefully helpful, for some.

For years I questioned whether there was something physically wrong with me after the birth of my children that my then husband found dissatisfying or even repulsive? My mother did her best to reassure me but the fear had embedded itself and was covered by layers of insecurity and false assumptions.

It reached a stage where I understood I would never, ever be open to sexual intimacy if I did not seek a professional opinion. I made an appointment with a female doctor who specializes in women’s reproductive health. After the physical examination she looked at me with soft compassion and said these words:

‘You’re perfectly normal. There is nothing wrong with you. It’s all good and healthy. Sometimes people don’t have sex, not because there’s a physical problem, they just don’t fit in other ways.’

At this point in time what you’ve perhaps suspected while reading my story had not been confirmed. A few months later it filtered down via my children’s observations and eventual blunt questions to their father about his lifestyle and new partner (he never sat them down, never explained, informed or discussed. They had to deduce).

He is gay.

I welcomed the news. It was a relief. And not surprising. My sister and mother had pondered my ‘I wonder if he’s gay?’…

and my, ‘I wonder if he was having an affair/affairs?’

I didn’t wonder anymore. The answer to one, if not both those questions, was yes.

My suspicions about his honesty and lack of financial transparency were also warranted.

Our marriage would have ended regardless of his sexual orientation. We had become pot-bound (the imagery I used when asking for the divorce, and later, when telling the children of my decision). It was time, for his sake and mine, to go our separate ways; to be lifted from the soil, divided, and replanted in our own pots, with plenty of room to grow. It was simple imagery and it was true. We were no longer good for each other which meant we were no longer flowering, no longer blossoming.

Instead of thanking me for releasing him to the life he really wanted to live, he chose to embark on a campaign of slander and destruction that did not spare our children.

His rage and conduct brought into sharp focus, not only an absence of romantic love (to be expected), but more importantly, an absence of principled love – ‘acting in accordance with morality and showing recognition of right and wrong.’

Most of us know what it’s like to have dark periods. We don’t take the darkness and shape weapons with it, using those weapons to lash out at others. For then, not only are we in the dark, we’re spreading a terminal darkness that will assault and maim others, and kill us. Not physically. Our humanness and our sanity.

Look at some leaders and politicians (now and throughout history) to see the truth of this. In the end, after perhaps a few glory years, they don’t look good, no matter how white, persuasive, and charming their self-portrait was.

For those of us who mistakenly, but easily, take or accept responsibility for things going awry, who too readily assume the fault lies with us, there is a wounding consideration and consequence: this trait can be mercilessly exploited by our own subconscious, and by those looking for a route to manipulate and remain unsullied in the eyes of others. Interrogate the ‘I must be the baddie here’ thoughts when they arise.

Without the threads of my safety net slowly but steadily working themselves into a finely spun and exquisitely crafted mesh, I didn’t stand a chance. Those threads made my 180 degree turn in life a living event rather than a crushing, bone breaking fall to death. The wonder of it all was that I didn’t know it was there until it was there. Think of a movie where someone jumps from a burning apartment on the top floor. They jump and there, beneath them, are the firemen (all strong and handsome) holding a net to break the fall. That’s cool, isn’t it.

This little series skimmed the surface of my Move On experience. It’s by no means a comprehensive account.

My goal was to demonstrate how seemingly random, mundane connections and events in our lives are no such thing. They’re planned and profound. Who plans them? Is it Us on another level of consciousness? Is it a They? Perhaps it’s a combination of both an Us and a They, teamwork.

Before I go: between you and me (move closer, I’m going to whisper) my aforementioned concerns have been delightfully, penetratingly, and firmly laid to rest, put to bed you might say, in the most effective and ummm, practical ways (wink).

I see you snorting and giggling behind the hand that flew to your mouth!

And let’s not forget ABBA. How did the world turn, and the sun rise in the morning, pre-ABBA? Even the sun needs a wakey-wakey-rise-and-shine song, surely.

On that happy, light, slightly flirtatious note I want to, once again, thank all my darling threads, and all of you who’ve returned again and again to ride the Move On roller in the ocean with me. Let’s dry out on our beach towels and listen to the waves. I hear them sizzle as they sink into the sand. I hear them sigh ‘as long as I can tell myself I’ve always tried.’

Oh yes. Amen to that.

THE END

(bet you thought I’d never write that!)

xxx TeaShell