I write a lot about working through my divorce. I write a lot of unflattering things about my ex and myself. But the truth is, I don’t hate him. I loved him greatly and fiercely and as much as I could, until I had to stop. I wanted things to work, and he wanted them to work too, but our time lines for wanting never matched up. Before all of this, we were just two kids who were introduced by a mutual friend one night over a phone call and then spent hours and hours talking until late late at night. We were just two kids who met at a dance and talked for hours and parted ways. We were just two kids who were in the same kindergarten class and spent days and days together but he moved and we reunited as teens.
I had an ugly life for much of it up until I met him. He was sweet and oh so kind and made me smile and we could talk about everything and anything. We started dating when I was eighteen and stood together all those years.
Somewhere along the way the oh so kind to each other got lost and we ran out of words. There were times he was a lovely, wonderful, partner. There were times I was too. There were times when he was a shitty husband and times I was a shitty wife. I thought we would be together forever. I was shocked when I realized different. I mourned our marriage breaking up. I probably always will. We grew up together, but became too different from each other along the way. We took the other for granted, stopped the hugs and kisses and offerings of grace.
When you get a divorce people want to know why. They want to pick sides, cast blame. There will always be parts of what we were that I will miss. There will be parts I will not miss. But I will never go into the nitty, gritty details of why we broke apart. We both played our roles until we couldn’t anymore. We can only be who we are, even if we are still trying to figure that out, individually now.