Divorce is a trauma that breaks us open, as Elizabeth Lesser explains in Broken Open: How Difficult Time Can Help Us Grow. She talks about the Phoenix Process, which she defines as an experience of going through the fire and rising from the ashes of your former life to reinvent yourself. Her book gave me hope. It made me feel that what I was going through could actually mean something, could make me a better, or at least different, person. The one advantage—and it’s a big advantage—of getting divorced later in life is that we’ve reached a time when we’re pretty much “cooked.” We are who we’ve become. At this point we have enough perspective to look back and reflect on the past. Self-reflection comes more naturally with age, when the kids are grown and it’s time for you to work on you. Divorce can be used to look at the past, to reflect on what you’ve lost, what you may have gained from that loss, and who you want to be from now on. If you do it right, divorce pushes you to change and grow.
The Phoenix Process is the gift of divorce, so don’t look a gift horse—or in this case a gift phoenix—in the mouth. Do the work now. Remember, you’re not getting any younger. This may be your last chance to reinvent yourself, so take advantage of it.
Don’t Be Afraid To Show Your Feelings
My husband and I had been going to services at the Woodstock Jewish Congregation for a long time. It was one of the only times during the week that we were at peace with each other. I loved sitting there, holding his hand, and experiencing the power of the prayers we sang together. After he left I had to force myself to go and sit there alone, with no hand to hold. I kept going because it was somewhere to take my daughter on a Friday night, and because our rabbi is charismatic and inspiring.
I’d never felt a part of the community before, but after I started attending alone my experience started to change. My husband was not a sociable man, and after the services we both had stood awkwardly on the sidelines, feeling left out, wondering who to talk with. I like people, but I tend to get shy in a group. In my first months without him, I felt naked. When people would ask how I was doing, I’d smile woodenly and reply, “Fine.” I didn’t know what to say. I assumed no one wanted to hear my tale of woe, so I made believe I was okay.
Finally I couldn’t hold it together anymore. At High Holy Day services a few months after our separation, I was so profoundly moved that I started weeping. And once I started crying, I couldn’t stop. It felt really weird, and embarrassing. I felt like an idiot, but people I’d known for years, whom I’d always thought were standoffish and cliquish, came up to me, hugged me, told me that they cared about me. The woman sitting next to me, a total stranger, hugged me and held my hand. I was stunned.
Maybe you, like me, need to be in control and are afraid of showing vulnerability. Unfortunately, this kind of stiff-upper-lip approach to life has the effect of keeping people at a distance. But if you practice telling people how you actually feel when they ask, you may find, as I did, that instead of driving them away you’ll get all kinds of positive responses. These may well include outpourings of sympathy from other women who’ve been through divorce and want to share their experiences with you.
You can’t cry absolutely everywhere, of course. Breaking down at a sales meeting will not result in a promotion. Weeping at the supermarket is probably going to create a wide berth around your cart. But crying with friends will separate the genuine from the fair-weather ones in a flash. Try sniffling at your desk and see who comes over with a tissue. If the teller at the bank has a sympathetic face and asks how you’re doing, tell her. Don’t be afraid to let a few tears roll down your face anywhere around middle-aged women. Guaranteed one of them will come over, ask you what’s wrong, and share her own divorce story. We are everywhere and we feel for you. Right now you need all the sympathy you can get. Don’t feel bad about letting it all hang out.
Warning! Spread the tears around. If you constantly call the same person with the same tale of woe, even a good friend will—understandably—get worn out.
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