Children of Divorce

As I’m writing this, tears flow down my face, stemming from a pain that I thought wasn’t there anymore. A pain that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. A pain that only writing has healed over time. When my parents first separated, everyday was hard. After a while, some days became easy, and only some were hard. Now I am at a place in my life where most days are easy, and only a few are hard. Those are usually the big days, the holidays, the birthdays, days where I daydream that our family is back together. Days where I envision going to “my parents'” house instead of one or the other’s. Today is not big, but writing this made it "one of the those days."

I understand why they broke up. I get that. The lasting question in my mind is not why they broke up, but why did it have to be hard in the first place? Why couldn't life be easy for them?

Why couldn't love be enough?

I always wondered if I would be more messed up had my parents divorced when I was a kid, or when I was an adult, like they did. It runs through my mind more often than not. Would my childhood have been stunted? Or would I have thrived, not having long term issues that possibly occurred during the toxicity of their marriage? Would I still be anxious about the uncertain things in life? Would I still cry in fear of ending up like my parents?

If I did something the way I saw my mom do it, or if my husband mimics my dad in the slightest way, would it still send me off the deep end, looking for answers and solutions to problems that don’t really exist? I don’t think I’ll ever know those answers.

Like my friends posts', I too felt an instant need to be independent, all while carrying an enormous burden of guilt, unbearable sadness, and void. I was always an emotional girl, but for the first time in my life, I did not know how to feel. I did not know if I should be relieved, because the arguing was finally ending, or burdened because of the new life I was about to embark on. Either way, it hurt.

I always joked and told my dad that I wasn’t moving out until I got married, and then my life came to a screeching halt when I was 20 years old. I was technically an adult on paper, but far from one in real life. I had a less than job, with little to no college education and considering when I should go back to school. Less than six months later, I was sharing a studio apartment with my sister and working a commission based job. It was like someone slapped me across the face and then told me to “stand up.”

Our home was no longer ours, and every member of my family became individuals instead of a whole. My anxiety worsened, and it took a tole on the romantic relationship I was in, causing that to end. Years later when we got back together, it took a lot of work on my husband’s end to endure my brokenness and understand my fears of marriage. To walk beside me through the apprehension that something was always wrong, or about to go wrong.

One day I will have the financial means to publish the book I wrote, and you will read in great detail how my twentieth year of life shaped me.

My 21st birthday was a breath of fresh air, and a chance to start over. While I was still recovering from the heartache inside of me, I felt relief knowing that I had grown more than I would with an easy life.

Now at 26 years old, I’ve determined that I don’t need an apology from my parents. It isn’t something they owe me. They raised me well, and that was their job. They ended their marriage because it was best for them, and in the end, that was best for our family.

Everyone deserves to be loved, and if they were not getting what they needed from each other, I’m okay with the route they chose.