It is such a relief to have the staticky dysfunction gone. The contrast between the high-drama last few months of a dying marriage and the new life you gain is palpable. You can eat in peace, sleep in peace, watch whatever you want on TV, and use all the hot water. The world is full of opportunities. And you're sure, absolutely sure, things are gonna be better from now on. It's like that old rock song, "And I'm prob'ly gonna feel a whole lot better, when you're gone!"
I remember my first little post-divorce apartment—I called it "Little Land of Happy." The cats relaxed. I relaxed. My sense of humor came back. I started laughing at things on TV. And my appetite, always the first thing to go in a tense situation, came back in the slyest way. I tried to eat my little six-bite suppers, and I was still hungry. One evening in particular, I had to get up and re-plug-in the George Foreman Grill and simply make myself more food.
I threw a little dinner party, all divorced women. And I met my neighbors, one of whom turned out to be one of my former, favorite students from when I taught college. I found a whiz-bang divorce support group and changed churches. Found a friendly little gas-and go mart that sold Sunday papers. Found the Y's Buys second-hand shop across the street from my new apartment, and every payday, I bought the nicest piece of dove gray clothing I could find. I went to my grad school graduation in a dove gray, secondhand dress. My friend Theresa remarked on my rather-instant transition from Yuppie Homeowner to Broke Divorcee. She called me the most alarmingly downwardly mobile person she knew. And I remember telling her, "As long as ramen is 12 for a dollar, I don't have to go back to that man."
My pal Barbara invited me to join her group of friends on that first on-my-own Fourth of July, for a big outdoor Pointer Sisters reunion rock concert and fireworks—bring your own lawn chair. I had to buy a lawn chair, but I showed up. Barbara stared in wonder at the chair, "You know," she told me, "that right there is nicer than anything your ex-husband ever bought you." And she was right. The music was wonderful, the fireworks were wonderful. Barbara's husband went and bought us all gloriously salty and hot and greasy cottage fries, and I was so happy. I had a real sense of getting to do something that made me so happy without having to (a) drag an unwilling spouse along, or (b) go alone and then (c) paying for every ounce of happiness the minute I got home from going out without him.
Have there been hard times? Yes. But they are few and far between. And I have coped—without my Ex—through them all. And there have been many, many occasions when I went through something breaking, something gone wrong, something awful, that I thought, "Gee, this sure is easier without the Shame and Intimidation Monday Morning Quarterbacking Spin from a bad spouse."
And sooner or later the euphoria wears off and The Urban Grind wends its way back in. But I still am very (VERY) happy living alone and the peacefulness of it all. I tell people, "I was married for 11 years and then a nice judge gave me time off for good behavior."
And enjoy this time for what it is—a gift. Don't be rushed into anything, not even a new hairstyle. Just take your time. This is part of your healing, a time to do the emotional processing you need to do, not a time to jump into a new relationship or a 30-year mortgage or a navel piercing. They tell those'uns at A.A. to wait a year before entering into any kind of new relationship. That's an excellent rule of thumb for us all.
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