Love: An Ability or a Liability?

Liability:  something that is a hindrance or puts an individual at a disadvantage (Wikipedia).

Ability:  the quality or state of being able (Merriam-Webster.com).

I’m on the fence about this one.  And I’ll tell you why.  I know you must be thinking that it’s because I’ve loved and lost...and that’s partially true.  The truth is, I think I’m on the fence about it because I’m old.

I have loved.  And I have lost.  And, when it comes to love...I’ve gotten old.

I know that many of you are sitting there rolling your eyes and getting ready to hibernate your computers, thinking, “35?  35?  And she says she’s old?” 

But I think, when it comes to love we tend to age pretty quickly.

Since I’ve been trying to build a love life the second time around, I’m less open to new things.  I went from losing my husband suddenly...to wanting to fill that void in my life immediately...to learning (the hard way) that that wasn’t going to happen...to learning (and loving) how to be by myself...to trying to learn how to be with someone else again.

I went from feeling like love is a liability...to learning that it’s an ability.

The truth is, I actually think that most people my age (and older...and some, maybe younger) probably feel the same way.  It doesn’t matter if you’ve been widowed, divorced, or never married:  If you have made it to a certain age and have found yourself single...we’re probably all in the same boat.

I’m less bendable (mentally and physically).  I’m more patient about learning about myself and somewhat less patient about someone else learning about himself (bitchy, but true).  And I’m slowly getting to the point where I just like my life...even though it wasn’t the life I thought I was going to have.

Previously married or not...isn’t that kind of true?

In my first, vulnerable single days after 30 (yikes)...love was a liability.  There was so much at stake.  My sanity, for one.  Breaking up or something not working out would have been enough to send me into a tailspin of epic proportions.  I fluctuated between not having the time or heart to deal with someone else’s shit to not wanting someone else to have to deal with my own.  I flopped around, like a fish out of water, hoping that someone would have the heart to gently throw me back in.

Relationships didn’t work out.  And, true to the cliché... “it’s not you...it’s me.”  Love meant heartbreak.  Abandonment.  Happiness, but with a price.  It didn’t matter how much I was loved...I sabotaged anything I could get my hands on.

In short...I was the liability.

Golly, I wish I had thought to put that on my online dating profile.  Just think of what a hot ticket I would have been.

There came a point (and truthfully...I don’t know when it happened) that that stopped.  The ability to love grew.  Like a toddler, it learned to walk.  And in the childhood phase it learned to run.  I like to think that it’s a teenager now:  It’ll test you, but ultimately it’s something you might like in a few years so you should take a risk and stick with it for a little while.

I’ve started thinking that the ability to love is not something you just have.  It’s something you learn.  And sometimes relearn.  And sometimes try and abandon while you’re relearning.  And sometimes come back to on New Year’s Eve when you’re frustrated with being alone, have had too much wine, and register for eHarmony when you swore you would never do it again.

Wow.  Sorry.  I think I was projecting there.

The point is...I don’t think that the ability to love just happens.  Just like any other “ability” you have, you have to learn it.  You didn’t just walk out of your mother’s womb (although, by my third kid it kind of felt like it)...you had to figure it out.  You may be a musical genius, but that didn’t happen without some effort.  Superman didn’t know what the hell to do with that cape the first time around...they just didn’t include that part in the movie.

Think of the liability he must have been.  And we single girls thought we were bad. 

Sheesh.

Everyone Else Says Stupid Stuff to Us. Why Shouldn't We Return the Favor?

We all go through those times when we feel the most single. Some days it’s not so bad. On other days, you feel like if your body could support its own electrical current you would like to just display a neon sign that says, “SINGLE. Gotta a problem with that?”

School started last week and for my kids and I never feel more single than at school events. I’ve gotten over feeling like the 3rd wheel with all of my friends. Dating…been there, done that. But at school…you know people are wondering why you’re the only person showing up to things, no ring, and usually looking so frazzled that people wonder if they should contact the front desk about you.

Now, I’m not so self-important that I think that everything revolves around me. I’m just so nosy and gossipy that when I see other people look like that, I wonder what their story is. So I just assume everyone else is wondering the same thing.

For me, nothing says “single” more than my daughter’s preschool. There, I have to sign her in every morning on her own personal sign up sheet. When I flip through the book to find our paper, I notice the names of all of the couples at the top of each child’s paper. ‘Cause the truth is…even if you’re divorced, both parents’ names are at the top of the sheet. When you’re in the situation I’m in it’s just you. One. Alone. Single.

(If you really want to know the difference between divorced and widowed…take a look at that book.)

Now, no one is ever nosy enough to actually ask me why I’m the only name on that sheet. And sometimes I’m helpful enough to just come out and explain it.

But I’ve gotten a little more ballsy in my aging widowness. And there’s a big part of me that’s just itching to make up some random story as to why I’m the only parent listed on the page.

“Well, you know? One day he was a lawyer and the next I got a postcard from clown school. I know! Shocked the hell out of me too!”

Or.

“I told him that if he didn’t start cleaning the bathrooms, I would just pretend he doesn’t exist. We’ll see if he makes the sheet next year.”

Or.

“Don’t tell anyone, but I suspected he was having an affair with the woman who reads our gas meter. For some reason the police keep digging up my backyard. But I’m not saying a word.”

I know you guys think I’m crazy…that’s nothing new. But come on. Aren’t you even a little bit tempted to make up something more exciting than what happened? I mean, the people around us have been shocking us for years with their own stupid comments. Isn’t it our turn to get a little revenge?

I’ll tell you something else.

The fact that my daughter actually attends a religious preschool kind of makes it even more tempting.

Widowhood: Only the Lonely

Loneliness is not a surprising by-product of widowhood. I mean, even for the people who have never been through it…it’s a no-brainer. But frankly, I think that “lonely” is not a strong enough word.

There is a deep silence that comes with losing your spouse. And it doesn’t matter if you’re standing in the middle of a crowded room…you will still notice it. It’s the quiet that comes when you don’t have that familiar voice, whispering in your ear at a wedding, “Can you believe she wore that? I mean, what was she thinking?” It’s the missing sound of two glasses clinking together on your anniversary. It’s the absence of someone breathing soundly next to you as you go to sleep at night.

Our friends are so good about trying to make sure that we know that we’re not alone. And we know we’re not friendless. We could call up any number of people if we just wanted to hang out. But we are alone. Our marriages were amputated in the prime of our lives and, for some of us, there is no prosthesis.

A lot of us, since our loss, have found comfort in chat rooms and support websites and that has helped relieve the discomfort of the amputation a little. It’s like taking two Motrin after extensive surgery. It eases the throbbing a bit, but when we look down, the limb is still missing.

We’ve found anonymous support from strangers who don’t know us but are as close as we can come to confiding in people who know exactly what we’ve been through. We tell these strangers some of the most intimate details of our lives, knowing that out of thousands of people one person might understand us and out of thousands of people, no one will be heartless to enough say, “You did what??? You’re crazy!”

Because, if nothing else, we all have crazy in common.

It’s an anonymous way to just let our widowed freakiness spread its' wings and fly. We get support from people who understand what REAL retail therapy is. People who get that a sleepless night with a newborn is one thing…a sleepless night with a dead spouse is a whole other deal. People who understand how guilt, anger, frustration, and sadness all come in a beautifully wrapped package with our names on it, signed “With Love, Widowhood.”

Finding these groups has buffered the fact that, with our spouses gone, most of us have lost the person we would have leaned on when the worst thing we could have possibly imagine happening...happened. It’s almost like we need to roll over in bed and say in utter disbelief to our spouses, “Did you hear that you died? And you were so young!” This would be followed, by a hug from them, a pat on the back, and the murmuring of some comforting words while we cried on their shoulder.

But when we roll over…well…our spouses already know that they died. It kind of spoils it a little.

I don’t think that most people who haven’t experienced loss truly understand that element of solitude. And that’s the very foundation of what makes us so lonely. The person who cared when something really great or really bad happened is missing. The person who was just as excited and saddened by the milestones of our kids is someplace else (I hope…I’ll leave that one up to you). The person who was just as invested in our lives and the decisions we made is now (again, hopefully) enjoying everlasting comfort while we slug it out down here on our own.

Do you remember the moment that you truly felt the change? (And for my handful of very brave male readers…don’t worry…I’m not about to talk about “The Change.”) I mean, the time when you realized that this was it? When you catapulted from married to involuntarily single?

For you, it may not have been a moment. But it was for me. I was leaving Wal-Mart (where so many of my breakdown moments occur) when I noticed that “Wild Hogs” was about to come out on DVD. Now, my husband and I had had many failed attempts to go see that movie in the theater, so when I saw that big billboard up at the store, I automatically got really excited. I thought to myself, “I can’t wait to get home and tell him it’s finally out!”

I think there was an audible “thud” as reality came crashing down on me standing next to the stale cookies that were on sale.

As most of us feel, I would give anything for just one more day, one more conversation with my husband. I’ve had dreams about it. Where we’re just lying in bed and I’m telling him all about what the kids are up to. We both know that he’s gone, but I’m filling him in anyway, like we’ve never missed a beat.

Those are the mornings I wake up and feel the most alone…the most like I’m missing that appendage. And even though there are so many people I could call who would commiserate with me, they’re just not in my head and in my heart living my life.

And does it make sense when I say…when I’m feeling this way…sometimes I just want to be left alone?

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© Catherine Tidd 2010