October is Canceled

There’s an episode of Friends where Ross is seeing things all around town that remind him of his first date with Carol, which happened several years ago on that day. He says they eat stone fruit and its supposedly fall, which seems ridiculous, but that’s not the point. The point is: you can be skipping merrily along in your new life when suddenly you’re clotheslined by a memory that knocks you flat.

I have a good life now. I am genuinely happy every day. I’m surrounded in good people and finally get to live near my family. The last year has been like waking up from almost two decades of slumber as I learn about myself and what it’s like to live on my own with my three children and navigate new situations. I’ve written more in the last year than the two years prior combined. Work is fulfilling and my team is full of wonderful women. I’ve traveled and gone to concerts, met new people, and had a truly great year, all things considered. But, grief is sneaky.

I went public with my divorce in January of this year, but it really started a full year ago in October. Each morning when Timehop shows me photos of last year, I look at the selections from last year closely. I don’t take a lot of selfies, but when they pop up, I stare at my face. Girl, it’s about to get bad. That woman didn’t know when she took a mirror photo of herself in her ski jacket to send to her sister that she’d be going to Colorado next month alone with her kids. Once it was decided, it happened fast.

While life is good here in Houston, this month has left me feeling uncomfortable. What used to be my favorite time of year, when the heat finally abates (though not much, it’s still Texas) and I can put cinnamon in everything without shame, is now tainted with ugly milestones.

The day after we agreed to get divorced, I chaperoned a field trip to a pumpkin patch. The timing was admittedly not great. It’s a miracle I didn’t lose a kid in the corn maze, I was so distracted. None of this had crossed my mind in almost a year, but a couple weeks ago we went to a pumpkin patch. I got about halfway there and remembered the last time I’d been, and my mood turned sour. I ended up thinking about that awful day the entire time, and I was pissed that this year’s visit was ruined by flashbacks. No one wants to relive their ugliest days, especially when doing something they usually enjoy, like spending time with their kids. I just wanted to have a fun day with my family, in the ridiculous eighty-five degree heat that we call fall around here.

We’ve started getting into some of our fall traditions and I’m honestly not sure if we did most of them last year. It was all a blur after things were set in motion. Instead of marking the season with cranberry apple compote and decorating halloween cookies, we hired lawyers and divided our belongings. I spent mid October to mid December packing boxes and hashing out custody details. I was supposed to help with Thanksgiving dinner in Colorado, but my roasting pan didn’t make it into the car, and neither did my enthusiasm for cooking. We usually make seven or eight kinds of Christmas cookies, and I have no memory of baking last year. Maybe Timehop will remind me.

I don’t want my old life back, I just want it to stay in the past. I don’t want to drag that shit around forever, and though it’s only been a year, I was taken by surprise when suddenly everything reminded me of what had happened. I felt like a cyclist flying down the road to someplace exciting, and some asshole opened his car door and I went flying.

Having my favorite time of year tainted with brutal memories makes me sad. Sad my marriage failed, and we didn’t stay together until we died like we promised God we would. Sad my kids had to watch their parents split and have so many big feelings about the changes we made. Sad our parents had to comfort us while we tried to find our footing. Sad that I couldn’t be my best self while going through the early days of arguments and decision making when my kids needed me to be warm and loving the most. I was drowning, but seeing their faces kept me turned toward the surface. When I’m not sad, I’m angry, but ex-wives are always portrayed as angry, so I try to be angry in private or only around other ex-wives. I’m thinking of starting a club. A First Wives Club, if you will.

Even if by some miracle your divorce is a “conscious uncoupling” a la Gwyneth Paltrow, it still feels like a death. Vows are important, and if you don’t keep them, it’s the epitome of failure. Promises made before God aren’t supposed to be broken, but alas, you can’t swing a judge’s gavel without hitting forty-seven divorced people. Got to keep the lawyers in business, I suppose. Even if it’s the right choice, it can feel like defeat. All the times you said that will never be us come rushing back to you, and you know anyone watching is reassuring themselves they’ll never be you.

I hope they’re right. And I hope the rest of the season is better than this particular month, because pumpkin patches can go to hell, and honestly, fuck pumpkins, too.