Last week was a whirl. Divorce, creation of an LLC, taxes and all the paperwork associated with those things. Packing a life’s worth of crap. Unpacking. Culling. Packing again. Still too much stuff. Starting over. And all the while, fighting to swallow the lump that is growing in my throat like an undercooked dumpling.
It’s normal to be sad, I tell myself.
It’s normal to be scared.
It really is over. Twenty eight years of marriage, gone.
I spent several sleepless nights worrying over such ridiculous things as how to keep my suitcases from falling out of the back of the truck (at 3:00 AM shutting the tailgate didn’t occur to me) and whether I would be able to go through the mountainous passes of Utah without deliberately driving my truck off the edge of a cliff. Finally, I lost the struggle and took Tylenol PM. By then, the lump was monster-sized.
I’ll be alone… Like, really alone. The Discovery Channel has taught me well: it’s the lone straggling moose that gets eaten by wolves. What if someone breaks into my motel room and kills me? What would happen to the ranch? The mortgage? I should get insurance. That takes too long. I’ll get accidental insurance before Term life kicks in. And I should make out a will.
What if my house burns down while I’m gone?
What if I can’t do the job? I’m older now than I was before. I’m less … festive. My new boss is my old boss but grouchier. He told me to leave the ‘smart-mouth’ at home. I don’t know how to do that: I think I might have to kill her. She tends to go where I go.
Then comes the crying. Once it starts, I can’t stop. I cry in the tub. I cry in my sleep. Cry when I walk by the picture of my used-to-be happy family. Cry. Cry. Cry.
I hear the voice of others: You can’t drive a stick shift. You can’t haul a gooseneck. You can’t live by yourself. You can’t load hay. What are you thinking?
But I did.
Now, it’s my voice that won’t shut up: You can’t live alone. You can’t earn your paycheck. You can’t be divorced. You can’t…you can’t…you can’t…
I didn’t just get a divorce. I gave birth to it. Five years of labor. But I made it as fair as I could. I tried not to become bitter and vengeful. Tried not to give my ex an excuse to be bitter or vengeful. Tried not to be that ex-wife. I did that.
I structured the LLC. By myself. I drove the restoration of a house that no one thought could be restored. By myself. I sold my car. I bought a truck. I fed the cows and loaded the hay and unloaded it again. By myself. I lived alone. Without electricity, then without water, then without heat. I did that.
I saved as much money as I could. I ate beans. I worked every odd job that came my way. I slept cold, woke cold, chipped ice off the inside of my windows so I could see out. I began to work out and lift weights so I could get stronger physically because I was unraveling emotionally faster than I could tie the ends back together. I did that.
I can do this. I can.
I will.
I have to.
I’m scared.
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