Decree Day Letter to a Friend

A very dear friend of mine recently got her divorce decree.  I went for a run after she told me and in my head, I wrote her this letter.  Maybe more of you can relate, so I'm posting it here:

My dearest friend,

Because we have always been able to say the hard things to each other, I am going to be truthful with you.  People will hand you metaphors.  Such brightly wrapped, beautiful little metaphors.  The one you will hear most often, I think, is about the phoenix rising from the flames.  I love you, so I am not going to hand you that phoenix rising bullshit.  And maybe you don't even want to hear it because you don't feel like a beautiful bird.

If you don't feel like a beautiful bird, my lovely and amazing friend, it is because you aren't.  You are a wounded creature who just outran a predator and needs a minute to hide and figure out what comes next.  Or -- how about this -- you are a messy, confused, hurting, imperfect and wonderful human.  

You know I've been there, so I can tell you-- that phoenix rising bullshit, it's not like that.  It's more like crawling through a storm pipe full of fetid water.  Or waking up hungover with only 10 minutes to get to work.  Or a factory assembly line.  Or having bratty kids jump in the pool where you were peacefully asleep on a raft.  It is all the metaphors.  

But mostly, it is the reality of your body, mind and spirit fully, officially, publicly removed from the other human you thought was going to be yours for life.  It is an open wound that no one sees.  It is a thing you tried that didn't work out.  Because it is such an important thing (love always is), you feel like other important things are forever beyond your reach.  

I will tell you again what I have told you so many times leading up to this day:  it is survivable.  And even more than survive, you can thrive.  But that is for another day.  Today, let's just live.  

Here's the thing about grief-- you don't "get over it."  You integrate it.  Like a cyborg, you take it in and make it a part of you, and in that process both you and it are changed.  And you are made stronger.  And given superpowers.  (Okay, I'm lying about the superpowers.  Maybe.)  The way you integrate your grief is you accept it and nurture it.  I know you can do this.  I've seen you doing it.  What happens now (and will again at unpredictable times) is that your grief will rise up and try to tear itself away from you.  Don't let it.  You are better together.  Introduce your grief to your fear and the two of them will figure out a way to show you where you need to go.  (Hint:  if you think of doing a thing and both of them start to act up, that is their quirky little way of letting you know it is the right thing.)  

Cry all the crying, and it makes people uncomfortable, fuck 'em.  Do all the inappropriate laughter.  Even allow yourself the gently self-destructive behavior, within reason.  If you forget how to be kind to yourself, ask me how.  I'll guide you until you remember.  And ask me as many times as you need to.  Dog knows, you have done the same for me.  

My dearest friend, you are not being burned to ashes.  You are not a phoenix.  Your heart just got punched, really really hard.  But hearts are tough little motherfuckers -- yours especially.  Isn't it miraculous that something so soft and tender can be so tough?  When you are ready, you will live in love again.  In the meantime, I am here to listen, to rein in self-destructive behavior, and to trade stories of sexual shenanigans.  

In Love and Truth,

Rebecca

P.S. Let's go to Costa Rica and lay around with some sea turtles!