This month marks one year that I have been divorced. I've said this before, and it's still true. Divorce felt like someone tore open my chest and exposed my insides to the world. The pain, the loss of control, the vulnerability were excruciating. I couldn't breathe, and my heart was racing as I bled out.
I didn't know until it happened that divorce was an option, a possibility for my life. Once upon a time, I used to walk around my yard to pull out every weed, to cut down every volunteer tree, to find every repair my home might need. My yard was manicured. I was in control. Last summer, though, I let some weeds grow. I let every volunteer tree grow. I found a rotted board on my deck, put a caution sticker on it, and let it be. I'll take care of it sometime, but right now my deck, my yard, my life don't have to be perfect. I don't have to be perfect. The bright side of having my chest torn open is the release of control. Healing, though messy, allows others to see me torn open and then offer me sutures. Scars will develop. Scars will remain. I didn't know until it happened, but a messier yard and a messier life were both an option, and what I once controlled could be beautiful uncontrolled.
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