A little Known Fact

I learned something rather enlightening and infuriating in a conversation with my ex-husband about two weeks ago. We were discussing the current state of our lives and what we both want for ourselves moving forward. He professed how he never plans to remarry, and I beamed about how I most definitely plan to remarry and have the family that I always wanted. The conversation was going smoothly, it was almost refreshing and hopeful. I was beginning to feel like we'd turned the corner and that maybe, just maybe we could be friends after all that we've gone through together. There have been a few times before when I would get this same exact feeling and without fail something would happen to change everything. Unfortunately this time was no different than the last few times. It all came undone with this statement that casually rolled off of my ex's tongue without so much as a bat of an eyelash. "What you don't know is I tried to get you pregnant twice." He said it so proudly, and although I wasn't looking at him when he made that ridiculous remark, I am almost sure I heard a smile in his voice. If pissivity had a language it was written all over my face. I can't think of anything more dispicable, and disgusting. What kind of a person does something like that? When I think of how life could be so much more complicated right now if he had succeeded with even one of those attempts it makes me very grateful for one's right to divorce. The more I find out about my ex, the more validated my decision to end our marriage becomes (as if I didn't have reason enough already). The moral of this story is be careful ladies; it's a little known fact, but men try to create baby traps too.

Golden

The past two days here in New York City have been the most beautiful days I've seen in months. The weather was nothing short of phenomenal! I spent both days (Friday and Saturday) sitting on my ass on a park bench or a slab of concrete, thinking. I had lunch at Central Park on Friday, a salad. It was perfect weather for a mixed baby greens, chicken, avocado, dried cranberry, and walnut salad, with a side of balsamic vinaigerette. I spend a lot of time in Central Park, especially when my issues (i.e. my ex-husband, and my divorce) are getting to me. I was there for about two hours on Friday, people watching, duck watching, and relaxing.

So yesterday, phenomenal weather day number two, I decided to be a little spontaneous and venture over to Riverside Park. This is one of the many things I love about NYC, they can take a seemingly useless, eyesore of a piece of land, or waterfront, and it make a beautiful, relevant space. Riverside Park is located between Riverside Drive and the Hudson River. The south side of the park (which is where I spent the afternoon) is essentially a long, winding, bike trail accented with a few grassy spots for sunbathing or picnicing, and of course, the pier. Compared to Central Park, it really isn't very aesthetically pleasing to look at, but that's what makes it beautiful; it's honesty.

There are a million steps to walk down before you get to the "park," but once you're down there, this serene, sprawling, space is waiting for you, beckoning to you, forget the city, forget your life right now, embrace this life, it's peaceful, and honest; there are no ex-husbands here (at least not yours), only complete strangers, bike-riders (lots of them), runners, and the like, dogs, and ladybugs (lots of ladybugs).

We all seemed to have the same wish, to escape. As soon as I hit the bottom of the stairs I did just that. My ipod was on (no idea what was playing) and I began walking. My stride became a little bit lighter and softer with every step. City me met country me and for four hours my entire world slowed. down. Like the lens of a camera my minds eye took focus. I was acutely aware of everything around me. The whirring sound of the bike-rider's bikes as they whizzed by, the sound of the wind, the sound of my breath, the sound of my heart. I would walk about a mile and a half and then sit. The view was different every time, it changed my thoughts, which in turn changed my surroundings. It was like a magic slide show.

Sometimes I liked what I saw, sometimes I didn't, but equal time was spent focusing on each image. I met a ladybug within my first fifteen minutes there. She found a home on my bag and stayed with me the entire day. I watched her crawl around inside the crevices and folds of the leather of my purse. She seemed to be doing the same thing I was doing. It was obvious she didn't belong there but she was trying to find her way anyway. Every time I moved to walk a little and sit somewhere else I looked for her, and she was always there; busily exploring the terrain of my cream, Marc by Marc Jacobs hobo. Maybe I was a ladybug in a past life I thought.

I spent the better half of my four- hour- day- at- the- park sitting at the pier. This has to be one of the most peaceful places I've ever dwelled in. I was totally and thoroughly relaxed in my peaceful dwelling. I listened to music and thought until my thoughts were no more, and I could hear only the music from one side of my head to the other. I could feel the sun on my skin. It seemed so close that I swear there were flecks of gold from it being carried on the wind speckling the water, sweeping into my hair, and making my eyelids heavy.

There was something rare, indescribable, and mystical in the air yesterday that touched everything and everyone that wandered onto that pier. It had to be gold. Even my ladybug was gold, with black and white spots, and I never even noticed it until I was in that moment. Sporadically, as I sat there in pure peace, my eyes would close for a few seconds. My head tilted up towards the sky and I could feel the gold sprinkling and flecking across my face. It made me smile and wish that I could bottle this golden moment up and take it home with me where I would sprinkle it all over the apartment, and sniff it before bed at night so that it would fill my senses and get into my dreams. After a short while they would reopen and it was like a new scene going on around me all a twinkle in gold. New voices, new laughter, a kayaker in the distance, a shorter piece of wood bobbing in the river, a new pair of geese flying off into the horizon. A closer distance between myself and the sun.

Dawning

Anxiousness is paralyzing. Joy tangled up with fear, and excitement, and pain. That feeling of wanting to cry and laugh and scream all at once for reasons you know but are unable to understand at the moment. How overwhelming life can be and then suddenly everything is silent. You don't know whether to relax or run. I have so much ahead of me, nothing is in front of me. I could run if I weren't so afraid. If I had the direction, If I knew the direction. I read something the other day about being aware of your unconscious mind. I'm too aware of it. It speaks to me all the time. Showing me things, giving me the answers to questions I never knew I needed to ask. I don't know what to do with all of it, it makes me so anxious. What move is the right move, what if I do it wrong? How many more chances do I get to screw it all up again before its over, I'm maxed out. My hands are shaking with the realization of what my life has in store for me, and while it may not all be great, it's certainly satisfying. It's certainly beautiful. "Don't look at your situation, try to look past it," is what he told me. I was too involved at the time to imagine the possibility of that. But now. I see what you want me to see. It's clear as the blue sky on a sunny day. I am dancing in the light. I own it. It belongs to me. It always did.

Satisfaction

It's not too often that I get what I want, exactly the way that I want it. So when it does actually happen, it's worth documenting. This past Saturday night was especially rough for me. I've been communicating with my ex again, and it's proving two things one, to be agonizingly difficult, and two, if there was ever a doubt before, divorce is definitely the answer (for us anyway). I can't even remember what time I went to bed, but the first thing on my mind when I woke up Sunday morning was blueberry pancakes. I think I dreamt them up the night before. It's funny the things that pop into your mind after a rough night. Usually, I'm more of a french toast kinda girl, but blueberry pancakes were my heart's desire this particular, windy, rainy, New York City, Sunday morning. They were calling my name so persistently that I pulled myself up way earlier than I should have been awake, dressed, and tipped out of the apartment in search of sanity and satisfaction. I find myself getting lost in the sounds and the somberness of the city. It was just me, my ipod, and gray drizzly rain as I made my way up 60th St. to Eat Here Now.

As I took off my coat in the diner, and heard the clinging of silverware, and the chatter of thick New York accents, the smell of coffee, whatever mood I was in shifted. All that mattered was the goings-on in this place and time. I take comfort in the noise, it's a welcome distraction. I settle into my chair, and with a deep breath I exhale my worrisome thoughts. I catch snippets of the dialogue being exchanged around me. Even the way a little girl likes her eggs is more interesting to me than whatever i have going on right now. The waitress takes my order and within about ten minutes there was a perfect, porcelain, plate of fluffy, perfectly colored, blueberry pancakes, accented by two fat, cute little sausage links. I took my time buttering and syruping them. In this time and this place, they were the most precious things to me. My sanity depended on this staggered stack of carbs speckled with tiny blackish blue berries. The first bite was nothing short of sweet satisfaction, and every bite thereafter confirmed the perfection of the bite before. I guess sometimes dreams do come true.

A mess

I guess I had some unfinished business here. That's the only reason I can imagine I'm back here again. Right back where I started. Here. I wish I could say it's unnecessary, but there is so much to do. Too much to do here. It's comforting and uneasy all at the same time. The remnants of a life that once was, the promise of a life that will never be. It's sickening to watch you attempt to seduce me. I don't want you. You seem desperate and unsure of yourself. It's disgusting. I'm cornered, backed against the wall facing what I have, turning my back on what I want; hoping my decision will spawn the desired outcome this time. It's a challenge, but I've always loved a challenge. So difficult, so validating, so intriguing. I know where I stand now. I know what I want. I know what this is. I know what this isn't. Definition confirmed. Nothing here is the way I remembered it. It's all a mess, but I guess that's the way I left it. I can't stand a mess; nothing is where it belongs, nothing is all in one piece, but somehow everything is as it should be. A mess.

Know Your Role

I've scrambled eggs and fried up some turkey bacon, and I haven't even been here two hours. Don't butter his toast. I'll butter it, but I refuse to put jam on it. He can put his own damn jam on his toast. And I'm NOT washing these dishes. That's not my role anymore. I place both of the plates on the table, with the jar of strawberry preserves (humph!) "Thank you, babe" he says, after he finishes his breakfast. I can feel my temples begin to tense up, and I physically shudder. I am not your baby. I take the dishes into the kitchen and place them in the sink. As I turn on the water I am reminded of what used to be.
Cook.
Serve.
Clean. I catch a glimpse of my reflection standing at the kitchen sink in the window. Rather than filling the sink with water, I fill my tea kettle instead. Within moments I'll be sipping tea out of my favorite mug and slipping into a cat nap. As soon as I feel my eye lids getting heavy, I hear the water running in the kitchen sink. Rest commences.

The Problem with Proposals

During dinner he kept fidgeting, and shifting in his chair. He left the table at least twice in the middle our meal. I knew what he was up to, act surprised I kept telling myself. Dinner was over, and he asked for the check. Okay, here it comes. I looked him straight in his eyes. He gave me a wink. He paid the bill and we exited the restaurant. Okay. He drove down to the beach. We parked, I took my shoes off, he didn't, he would never do that, and we walked down to the shore. It was a pretty night, a little cloudy, and cool, but I love the beach at night; the way the ocean looks as if it stretches farther than your imagination. Endless, and overwhelming. We talked about our future, what we wanted out of life. Then he spun me around, and got down on one knee. "My life is not worth living if I don't have you." "Will you marry me?" I giggled, I was so nervous. I really wanted to think about it, but I couldn't hear anything but the sound of the waves. Before I knew it I shook my head yes, then the word yes slipped out of my mouth. He slid a one carat round solataire on my finger, and it was done. We were engaged.

My story is a classic American marriage proposal. Boy meets girl, sometimes they fall in love, sometimes they don't, but for whatever reasons, they stay together. If they stay together long enough, inevitably, at some point in the relationship, the question of marriage is going to come up. Girl waits patiently, or impatiently, for the day that he finally proposes, never questioning whether or not she would say yes or no. Boy kneels down on one knee, girl says yes, with or without a second thought. I had second thoughts, but I didn't entertain them for longer than a second. My boyfriend of two years had just knelt down on one knee, in the sand, and asked me to marry him at the precise time in my life when I wanted to get married, holding a diamond ring, what woman wouldn't say yes. This is the problem with proposals. In American culture, while men may fret over whether or not the woman will say yes, women rarely do. Most of us either don't realize we have the option of saying anything other than yes, or we don't have the guts to say anything else. Whenever I spoke to my girlfriends about the possibility of my ex-husband proposing, no one ever asked me "What will your answer be?" There is no emphasis on the answer, it's all about the question. If a man asks you to marry him you say yes, that's just what you do. No woman wants to be the bitch who turned down her boyfriend's marriage proposal. Surely it will be the NO heard round the world, and undoubtedly it will mean the end of the relationship. It's like blindsiding someone with an ultimatum, only it's teasingly biased because you know that the right response will get you a pretty, sparkly diamond (beautiful wedding, 2.5 kids, and a house, or a classic six on the Upper East Side of Manhattan whatever your dream is). As long as the relationship is okay, and there have been no major problems, this is usually enough to sustain most of us; never mind love and happiness (sorry Al Green). If my ex had never put his hands on me, I know we would still be married, even given the fact that I was never in love with him. I'm not placing blame here. I don't blame men or our culture, nor am I blaming the women (such as myself) who say yes when they really wanted to say "no," or "maybe." I am proposing that we revamp the way we propose marriage.

Women you are not going to like this but I disagree with the idea of a man purchasing the ring before proposing (yeah, I know, now that somebody put a ring on it and it didn't work out I'm ready to screw it up for everybody else). I think it adds too much pressure. If there were no ring involved until after the woman accepts the proposal, then maybe we wouldn't feel as if we had to say yes. At the very least we wouldn't feel so much guilt if during the time between the proposal and the actual purchasing of the ring, we changed our minds. It would also lessen the humiliation for the man, who probably spent four to five months salary, or maxed out a credit card to purchase such a ring, only to have to return it, or sell it on ebay. The ring in and of itself creates so many problems with marriage proposals. It is a symbol to the world that another human being thought highly enough of you and loved you so much that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you. The ring is usually symbolic of something more personal for the woman wearing it. For me it was a symbol of the relationship we had before, the man he was before, the woman I was before. It was a symbol of everything I worked for and fought for and defended. I deserved it, it was owed to me. But the world's idea of what that ring symbolized was easier on my spirit and my heart so I forgot about all of that and held on to the world's idea for dear life.

I never dreamed about my wedding day as a little girl. I always wanted to get married, but I never obsessed about it. After I was engaged however, I could think of nothing else including whether or not I honestly wanted to marry this man. The task of planning my wedding became a welcome distraction from the reality of my unhealthy relationship. I became fixated on this image of the life I always wanted for myself, and got busy planning it. I may not have been in love with my ex, but I was 100% dedicated and devoted to our relationship, and our marriage before I started to examine the issues. The American traditions and customs that a marriage proposal is based on are the reason why over half of all marriages fail in the U.S. If the answer to a marriage proposal was discussed and well thought out the way we handle any other type of proposal, there would be less people shouting YES to it and investing so much time and money so quickly. As I've figured out by now, a proposal is just that, a proposal. A marriage proposal should not automatically be the pit-stop on the way to holy matrimony. It should signify that you're giving the idea of marrying this person some serious thought.

Sincere Lee

To my husband

I apologize for hurting you. I accept my responsibility for the hurt that I caused you. I knew before we married that I was not in love with you. I should have ended it then. I took advantage of you because I knew you would do anything for me. I expected too much too soon, and no matter how hard you tried; no matter how hard you worked to give it to me it wasn't enough. It could never be enough because I didn't love you. I know now that when you truly love someone you don't feel the need to measure it in terms of money spent, time spent, which neighborhood we live in, what job he holds, what position he maintains at that job, who his friends are, where his family is from, his bad habits, the way he dresses, the food he eats, the house he grew up in. You did your best, but it was never enough. I covered it all up with designer dresses and designer bags. I sauteed it up for dinner every night in my top-of-the-line cookware, and plated it for you and I to eat. I poured a glass of it every evening at five pm and drank until my heart was content. Then I wrapped myself up in it, and slept on it peacefully and comfortably until I woke up. I lied about it. I complained about it. I cried about it. I fussed and cussed about it. I yelled about it. I was silent about it. I gave up on it. I walked out on it. It should never have gone this far. I am truly sorry about it. I am truly sorry. I am.

Your wife

Breathless

"I can't breathe" I mouthed to him.
He didn't hear me. He didn't see me.
The white of his eyes were bright as white light.
He was looking past me.
I didn't recognize him. He had become something else.
I closed my eyes and began to pray. God make him stop, God make him stop.
I could feel myself giving up, but still believing.
I can't recall how it started, or what it was about.
Shoes, I think it was about shoes. But it was bigger than that, he needed to have control.
His hands gripped my neck so tight, he squeezed tighter as he shook me.
Only the tips of my toes grazed the ground.
"You're choking me," I mouthed to him.
I closed my eyes. Let it be over. My voice was inaudible.
Like a child releasing a spinning top, he released me.
My body hit the wall and bounced back.
My balance was off.
I couldn't stand up straight. My view of the room was sideways.
I was gasping for air.
Gasping. for. air.
Gasping. . . for. air.
My whole body heaving back and forth.
One foot in front of the other, hands outstretched to help hold my world in place, I managed to stumble out of the bedroom.
"I HATE MYSELF,"
"I HATE MY MOTHER,"
"I HATE MY FATHER," he was screaming through clenched teeth, clutching his head. The pain was paralyzing.
In my brain there was no sound.
I felt like crying. My spirit couldn't comprehend, it was shattered.
A belly deep, eternal, aching in my soul.
God knows it hurt.
This isn't me.
This isn't my life.
I didn't grab anything, I didn't look back.
When I got to the door, I stopped.
If I leave the whole world will know.
I have nowhere to go.

Degrees of Separation

I had no idea that dating when you are separated could be so complicated. The more I try to get around the fact that I am getting a divorce, the harder it is to explain exactly what is going on in my life. It's no longer as simple as status: married, place of residence: NYC. Now I have to give the back-story of my life because none of these elements of my life are defined right now, and none of them are the same anymore. This always proves to be very tricky. I usually make something up on the spot that's colorful, and witty, and little less shocking. The fact that I look about five years younger than what I really am, makes it all the more agonizing.

The second I say I'm getting a divorce eyebrows rise, and they give me that skeptical eye. Inevitably, the questions how long were you married, and why are you getting divorced, follow. The answers to both of those questions are equally embarrassing. Then one of two things happens; the guy either pays for my drink, the pity martini is what I call it, or he finds a reason to walk away. On occasion he actually asks for my number and uses it, but rarely does it go beyond a first date. How serious can you be about someone who is still legally married? It bothers me that even after deciding to end my marriage, I am still defined by it. It bothers me that I will never be single again. It bothers me that I had the perfect wedding, and a painful, short-lived marriage. It bothers me that I am going to be someone's ex-wife, and at the tender age of twenty-six, I will have an ex-husband. My life is on a red light right now, and I am so desperately ready to go. I can't wait for the spring.

Goldilocks

I've been sleeping around so much since my husband and I separated (gotcha! please refer to fact #6 in Ex Marks the Spot , just a little play on words). I've decided to dedicate this entire post to all of the different "beds" I've slept in ALONE. I use the word bed very loosely, meaning the place where a lay my head, not an actual bed. I don't own one of those anymore.

So here goes, my first bed is the couch at my parent's house. It is at least seven years old, moss green, and made of a tweedy, itchy fabric (sorry mom). This has to be the most uncomfortable place to sleep. If I really think about it, it's utterly disgusting to sleep on anyone's couch family or not. This is a place where people place their butts, sometimes for hours and hours on end.

Next on the list, the make-shift "bed" at my brother's apartment. This "bed" was actually not too uncomfortable. It is essentially a leather sectional sofa, with pieces that can be pushed together to form one large square. I refer to this one as my "king sized bed." It was hard as a rock, but I did have plenty of space, and lots of comfy blankets. The best thing about this bed was the location. I actually had my own room, complete with closets and a full length mirror (what else does a girl need). The bedroom was positioned right on the front of his apartment, so it was as cold as a meat locker, hence the reason for so many blankets, but it was my room while I was there.

The best bed, was actually a bed. A nice queen sized bed at the Westin Hotel, complete with lots of pillows and sheets with a decent thread count.

Hands down the absolute worst of all of my "beds" is the one I'm sleeping on right now. The Aero Bed. Who the hell invented this? Every morning when I wake up and slide off the side of this mockery of a mattress, I am so tempted to write Mr. Aero and inform him of how much this bed really sucks! I feel like I have to perform a balancing act in my sleep. I'm constantly in fear of rolling off and breaking my neck since this thing sits so high up off of the floor. The plastic stench is enough to make me want to choke myself, and the first night I slept on it I had a horrible nightmare about a blow-up doll. Goldilocks has nothing on me.

Sincere Lee

Mine

I've never been a selfish person. I was the girl at the lunch table in second grade who would pass out each item in her lunchbox to all of the other kids. Nothing makes me happier than knowing that I have something to share, which is essentially, something to give, and actually presenting someone with it. Lately, however, I have been thinking about what is mine. I have this urgent need to claim something, anything that has been a part of my life in any way. So often I feel like I am grasping at thin air. I used to feel like I had a grip on my life, and the life I envisioned for myself. I shared that life with another person. Now that I have done that, it so hard for me to distinguish between the things that belong solely to me, and the things that are part of a past existence. What is worth holding on to? What should I let go? My life in New York City was so much a part of me, and I'm having to let it go. I feel like I'm giving up my future for the past. It's not completely impossible for me to envision a future here in Virginia. I just always thought a future should feel fresh, and new, unchartered territory; but I've definitely been here before. I can certainly own that.

Blog, please forgive me

I promised myself that I would blog everyday of this year. I am going through an extremely crucial time in my life, and most days this blog helps me to get out all the things that can't say. But today I'm so full, it's all so overwhelming that I can't even begin to find the words to type into this small, square space on my computer screen. It won't fit. It's too much.

Sincere Lee

Drinking flat champagne

The nervousness has already begun to set in. I am about four days away from facing the inevitable. On Tuesday January 5, 2010 I will return to the big city that I love so very much to face my realities. It doesn't quite feel the way that I thought it would. I am usually running, skipping even, and smiling with giddy anticipation of leaving boring, mundane, typical Virginia, and heading back to Mecca aka NYC. But this time is, dare I say, bittersweet. I am actually a little sad. Virginia has been very good to me. I can't really harken back to any time in my life when I've felt the way that I feel right now; but I imagine it's the way a high school graduate feels when he or she leaves home and goes away to college. The unknown. How am I ever going to navigate this maze? There is, of course, that trail of broken promises, unconfirmed hopes, and disbelief. Before pouring a glass of last night's leftover champagne, I thought of how wonderful it tasted. It was so crip, and light, and bubbly. I was so looking forward to experiencing the exact same thing again tonight. It is flat, but I'm drinking it anyway.

Fearless

Dear Comment,

It's been awhile since I've blogged. I almost let you scare me out of the one space that I created for myself as a means of expressing my inner most thoughts. Today I challenge myself to continue to be fearless. The world will judge me anyway, no matter what I do. I love the freedom that I feel in knowing that I can express myself here and never know who, if anyone, could be somehow enlightened, or even pissed off by my thoughts. So I will continue to think and express myself. I will continue to be fearless, and I look forward to hearing from you again.

with love,
sincere lee

Chance It?

Unless you've been living under a rock, on a deserted island for the past few days, everyone is talking about Tiger Woods and his infidelities. While I am not at all surprised that Tiger was caught cheating, or that he was cheating at all; I was a little appalled by the number of partners who have come forward. Now while it is indecent, and utterly disgusting to think of how wreckless and irresponsibly he behaved, would it not be less so if there were only two women involved. The general consensus amongst both men and women discussing this tragedy of a story is that Tiger's "transgressions" are made worse by that fact that the number of partners has increased into the double digits. Talk show host, Wendy Williams, commented earlier today that yesterday she felt like Elin Woods should stay for the duration of time specified in the couples updated prenup and collect her money. Today, however, since more women have come forward with allegations, she feels that without a doubt Tiger's wife, Elin should leave him. I ask myself why should it matter if it were one woman or twenty. That's like saying if a man punches you in the throat once, it's understandable if the woman stays, but if he punches you ten times, it's definitely time to heave hoe. Disrespect and dishonesty should not measured in terms of quantity, but quality. A large part of the reason that my estranged husband and I are separated and divorcing is because of domestic violence. I stayed with him for while after the incident for several unjustifiable reasons, but in the end I was not able to co-exist with him safely, comfortably, and lovingly as a wife, so I left. I can't count how many people questioned my decision to leave on the basis that he hadn't done anything like that since the initial assault. Was I supposed to sit around and ignorantly wait for it to happen again? Women have come a long way in America, but clearly, we need to reasses our values in relationships with men, and more importantly as those values relate to marriage. The concept of a second chance was birthed through America's womb, but when it comes to serious life circumstances, and relationships between men and women, second chances are often overrated, and undeserved.

Uncomfortable

Oh what I wouldn't give to be comfortable. About a month ago my entire world was turned upside down. In my haste to leave my husband and my situation, I forgot that I was also leaving my sense of normalcy and comfort; my seven-hundred, fifty thread count sheets, my queen sized bed, and my lofty, comfy pillows. Six of them to be exact, ranging in size from standard to euro. I think back on how I would stack them all according to size and prop myself up on them. I felt like I was in a cloud, floating on a sea of dreams. Oh how I long to be comfortable. I miss the joys of lulling in bed on Saturday mornings, peacefully drifting in and out of sleep, without a care in the world; that warm, enveloping feeling created by my own body heat that hugs me, and assures me that in this moment, while I lie in bed, all is right with the world. And even if it isn't, it can wait until later.

As I wake this morning on my parent's couch I am reminded of how utterly uncomfortable my life has become. The scratchy, harsh reality of my world hits me before my eyes even open. I am blanketed under a patchwork quilt of hard truths, pain, and resentment. It's kind of difficult to forget, or even pretend to forget how much life can be a pain in the neck when a pain in the neck sharply greets me good morning daily. I haven't slept in a bed in at least two weeks. Oh what I wouldn't give to be able to curl up in my sheets, hug a pillow, roll over and go back to sleep on this early, rainy, cold, Saturday morning. A bad marriage can interrupt your life in ways you never dreamed possible. Worst of all I know that right now as I am up lamenting about how uncomfortable I am, my estranged husband is still sleeping; no doubt curled up in those seven-hundred, fifty thread count sheets, comfortably hugging a pillow.

Sincere Lee

Missing the main ingredient

Six months and two days ago was my wedding day. I knew the night before that I was not in love with my husband-to-be, but I was doing what I thought I was supposed to do. I was twenty-five, and in a long term relationship. We lived together for almost two years, and I'd moved four-hundred miles away from my family and friends to be with this man, and start this fabulous life in New York City. We were getting married. Nothing was going to stop me. Now it's six months into the marriage and we are separated. I have informed him that I want a divorce. I could go into the specifics as to why I have decided to dissolve my marriage so abruptly, but I will not. It makes no difference. I was not in love. I had convinced myself that I didn't need love to be married. I didn't believe in soulmates; I believed in choices.