Every storm has one. When the winds die down and the waters recede. The sun hasn't come out yet, it's cloudy and the sky is still gray. That period of time when you survey the damage, clear the wreckage, and think about rebuilding. Some storms leave only minor damage. We patch up the holes, put in new windows, maybe slap on a fresh coat of paint. Others go out like a hurricane, and in their wake there is little to no trace of what stood there before. After every relationship comes the aftermath. It doesn't matter who ended it. It doesn't matter how it ended. Even people who remain the best of friends need to rebuild. We need to learn how to navigate the world, alone. We have to attend events and functions where we may not know anyone, and we don't have an automatic companion. We change our grocery lists. We shift our daily routines. We teach ourselves how to cook, or how to fix a broken toilet. We take out the garbage. We do the carpool. The days are long, but the nights are longer. No one tells you that there are times when you'll pick up the phone to make a call and realize that it's no longer your place. Or the times you want to forward a meme. When you've just finished reading a thought-provoking book and your thoughts are spilling all over the place and you have no one to share it with. When you've had a long day and your mind is in knots and the person who always untangled it is no longer YOUR person. Some days are easy. Some days are just putting on a smile to patch the holes, and some makeup as a fresh coat of paint. Other days, the knowledge of what you're missing is so loud and so painful, you wonder how you'll ever get rid of the debris. No one warns you about grief. They say that time heals all wounds, but the hole doesn't get smaller. We just reshape ourselves around it so that it's less visible. We make our lives bigger so the pain is smaller in proportion. But it never fully goes away. There are days you walk with an ache in your chest and you wonder if you'll ever breathe normally again. Two years later, you still want to say good night. You have big news and suddenly you find yourself dialing. Habit takes its time to die. And so we start again. We build something new. Not every house needs to be built the way it used to be; not every home needs to resemble its previous state. You won't ever be the same person you were, nor do you have to be. Step by step. One day at a time. Slow and steady. Breathe in, breathe out. All the cliches, on repeat. Whatever gets you through to the other side. No one promised it would be easy, this aftermath. Breathe in.
Recently, the Jewish community experienced a tragedy. A woman, apparently suffering from post-partum psychosis, killed her two young children. Some people relayed the story with a gossipy edge of glee. Others whispered, as if lowering their voices could make it less real. Some reacted with horror or disgust, others with tears. And I wondered, how long has this poor woman been in pain? “Don't talk about it”, people said. “It's shameful for the family, they've asked that people not discuss it.” I can understand the embarrassment. I can only imagine how this family is grieving; not just the dead children, but a mother who will have to live with guilt, and whose life will never be the same. “Don't talk about it”, we say, after a tragedy. “Don't talk about it”, we say, when someone is diagnosed with a mental illness. When someone gets divorced. When someone is abused. When someone succumbs to addiction and overdoses. As a community, we are very very good at not talking about it. A few years back, Amudim released an extremely powerful ad, depicting a family sweeping dirt under the rug, while the dining room table became more and more unsteady with the pile of dirt beneath it, until eventually everything collapsed. This is our community. This is the society we have built. We don't talk about things. We don't discuss mental health, or addiction, or abuse. We are not trained to recognize the signs. We are color-blind to red flags. And when we start to question behaviors, we have no one to turn to and ask, “Is this normal?” I've often wondered why women who are abused stayed with their husbands. Physical abuse, while terrible, is obvious to identify, but mental abuse can happen so slowly, over a long period of time, that you don't even notice you're a victim until you have been removed from it. So many women are victims of controlling men, so many men have manipulative wives. Abuse does not always beget visible scars. And still, we say “don't talk about it”. Don't talk about the way your husband treats you in the bedroom. Don't talk about the way your wife criticizes and belittles you. Don't talk about the gaslighting, the mind games, the slow erosion of sanity. “Everything is fine, Baruch Hashem!” we say, in our rose-colored glasses. We put our hands over our ears as we walk around with dreams too large and marriages too tight, and we must never, ever, show anyone the blisters. Maybe if we talked about it, women would know what sexual experiences are supposed to be. Maybe if we talked about it, we would know how to identify signs of controlling behavior. Maybe if we talked about it, we would feel that we'd have support if we left our toxic marriage, or we could help someone else get out. We could pull someone from the dance of addiction. We could prevent some of the blows of abuse. We could know how to ask for help. How to say “something is wrong” without the worry of being shamed. How to escape without the hushed whispers and pointing fingers and the shaking of heads. Maybe if we talked about it, two little children would still be alive today. Maybe.
Yesterday, I took my 12 year old son shopping for a suit for my nephew’s upcoming bar mitzvah. He had filled out a little this summer, but I wasn’t at all expecting him to look the way he did - like a young man. My baby is growing up. I’m sure all parents experience moments like this one. It sparks feelings of “when did this happen?”, and “did I do this right?” And yes, I had those feelings. But there was also a whisper of “how did I miss this? What else did I miss?” I missed a lot when my kids were younger. I was working full-time in the city, at a job with ridiculously long hours. My daughter was just 6 months old when I started that job. I don't know what her first word was. I don't remember when she started walking. When my son was born, I told myself it would be different. I was working from home by then, so I'd be around. And it was different, for a little while. I do have a few more memories from that time. There's something about single parenthood that makes me feel like I'm missing things all the time, even if I'm not. It's there behind the strain of trying to manage a household by yourself. It's just beyond the frantic race to keep up with “regular” families. It's underneath the constant murmur that questions whether I can be enough. There is no shame in having a day, or 2, or even a week where you "just can't". Where you don't clean the house and you don't do the laundry and you can't get any work done, but at the end of the day, your kids are alive and they know that you love them, and that is all you need to be the difference between success and failure. We are not perfect, and life is not amazing. That's a lie that we tell ourselves to bandage the holes. Life is not good or even great. Life is messy. But there are some beautiful moments in the middle of the mess, and that makes the mess kind of wonderful. Look for those moments. Watch for them. Create them. Don't be afraid of the mess. There are many evenings where I throw my hands in the air and say “screw it all”, pull out some board games, and we have family game night. And maybe some homework doesn't get done, or the kid who refuses to shower stays dirty, and everyone goes to sleep late. But my kids will remember that we played games in the middle of the week, for no reason whatsoever. And suddenly, the mess is beautiful. And maybe when we celebrate my son's bar mitzvah, or when I walk my daughter down the aisle, maybe I won't feel like I missed so much.
Seems like a funny title for an article, right? Especially for a community designed for divorcees. Do we really need lessons on how to talk to each other? The answer, oddly enough, is yes. I've met a number of divorcees over the last couple of years, but especially once I started working on this site. People who heard about this project were quick to introduce me to friends who were newly divorced, recently separated, or trying to get divorced. I've always tried to pay attention to what people need in conversation, and I’m by no means an expert, but I learned a few things on this journey.
If someone is newly divorced….. DO listen more than you talk. Most people at this stage desperately need to vent. They don't necessarily need solutions, they just want to know that they're heard. DON'T compare your experience to theirs, and definitely don't make yours sound worse than theirs. Every divorce story is different; you'll always be comparing apples to oranges. Each relationship has its nuances, and no one in the middle of the mess wants to hear that you had it worse. To them, nothing is worse than the moments they can't seem to escape. DO ask if there is any particular resource they are looking for, or if there is something specific for which they need assistance. If you're in a position to help others, and you're able to help out, go for it. But don't overextend yourself. Is there someone else - a person or organization - who might be better suited? Offer to give them contact information. DON'T be discouraging. People are most vulnerable at this stage, regardless of who initiated the separation or what the reasons were. Be supportive. Be encouraging. If you can't do that, just listen. DO ask them if they're ready to join a whatsapp group or to attend a casual event. Most people at this stage are not looking to date, they're just looking to network and to meet people in similar situations. DON'T PUSH.
If someone is divorced for a while….. DO reach out and say hello once in a while. Check in. Just because someone has a routine doesn't mean everything is going smoothly. DON'T assume they “have it under control”. No one ever does, not really. DO ask for advice if you feel this person has something constructive to contribute in a specific situation. We may not have been successful in marriage, but we're not total failures! Everyone has something to give. Everyone has something to teach. DON’T forget that friendships, like relationships, are not always 50/50. Sometimes you need to be the supportive one, other times you need the support. DO be sensitive. The journey is not always linear; even the veterans struggle.
There is still so much to learn. It’s not just about communicating, it’s about support. How can we be effective in our encouragement? What should we be saying or doing to lend a hand to someone else? How do we know we are not saying the exact wrong thing that will push someone to their breaking point? Listen. Pay attention. Be there. Give someone a hand, lend them your shoulder. We are all in this together.
“You're going to be fine.” Those are the words my father said to me, after he dropped me off back at home the night I got my get. My kids were spending the night at my sister's, and I had one night to regroup before our new chapter would begin. My father had no reason to think otherwise; I had always been independent. I had always had a job and earned money, I had been the one managing finances and paying the bills during my marriage, I had done the cooking and the cleaning and the shopping and everything else. I was used to this. I told myself that the only thing that would change is that I would now be the one doing carpool. I was wrong. So was my father. Many things changed, and for a while, I was not fine, no matter how hard I tried to fake it. I was very very lucky in that I had more than a few amazing and unbelievably supportive friends who helped me through those very difficult first few months, which were complicated even further by the onset of Covid. But even with that support, even with my history of being capable and efficient, I was not fine. Being a single parent, particularly the custodial parent, is difficult, more so than I expected. It's not just that you're the one doing the cooking and cleaning and shopping and homework and all the little things in between. It's that you need to be present, constantly on call, every hour of every day. We don't get to turn to our partners and hand them the reins for an hour so we can clear our heads. We are always needed. We are always available. And we are always, always expected to show up. People who have never been divorced (or widowed) can't understand what it means to “need a break”. “What do you mean?”, they ask. “These are your children, this is your life, married people don't get breaks.” That's true. But everyone needs a chance to take a breath, an opportunity to rest, and a moment where we can just STOP. I will warn you that sometimes, once you actually stop, it can be very very hard to start up again. A social worker once explained to me that I had been on autopilot for so many years (long before my divorce), that I no longer understood what it meant to function at a slower pace. I had just been going and going for so long, I forgot how to relax. I forgot what my hobbies used to be. I forgot what it was that made me ME. Parenting is exhausting; parenting alone even more so. It's OK to admit you need to rest. It's OK to ask for help. And yes, it's OK to sometimes put yourself first. It took me a very long time to learn this, and even longer to accept it and to actually do it. But yes, sometimes you come first. You cannot bury yourself in your responsibilities to the point where you are lost. You are important. You matter. And you're going to be fine.
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