May 19

Sometimes I remember today, sometimes I don’t. This year, it’s been sitting in my head for a week.

10 years ago today, I got married.

It doesn’t seem like that long ago. . . and at the same time, it seems like so much longer. I still marvel at who I was back then and how, thank God, seriously much I’ve changed.

For the first few years after the divorce, I was so apathetic about the whole thing, that this date flew right by without a thought. Until a few weeks later, I’d realize I’d missed it and wonder if I was supposed to feel bad. Was I supposed to remember? Was I supposed to acknowledge it somehow? But, the old, selfish me would shrug it off and decide it wasn’t worth the energy worrying what anyone else thought. On with the day! On with my life! On with whatever trivial thing was bringing me happiness that was so much more important than reflecting on my past!

It wasn’t until a good 5 years later that it nagged at me more. And, then, I think it was only because we were finally back in touch. Not out of friendship. Not out of forgiveness or bygones. Not out of love. Not out of anything pleasant, in fact. We were back in touch out of necessity.

MY necessity.

By this time, I had already started to learn valuable lessons about life and kindness and making a positive difference in the world. All things I hadn’t given a second thought at the ripe old age of 23 when I married him. All things he probably never thought I’d grasp.

I had moved half a country away from my entire life and developed an entirely new existence. I had become a person I was proud to be. I had defied all expectations and abandoned the negativity and hate that had for so long been my entire identity. I had marched out into the world, claimed responsibility for my life, and made the changes necessary to leave the past where it belonged. And, I was happy. So freaking happy.

He had no idea. All he knew was the angry, bitter shrew he had married. The one who was molested as a child. The one who had accepted abuse as a standard of living. The one who hated the world because the world was so harsh. The one who took all of the pain and disappointment and anger and fear of all of those experiences out on him because he was the easiest target. The safest target. The only target. He knew the me who lived to make someone else miserable. . . to make HIM miserable . . . to somehow make up for all of the misery that other people had thrust upon her.

He knew the me whose only objective in life was to get back some of what was taken from her. The very selfish me who felt justified in being so amazingly selfish. The me who wouldn’t have kids with him because it would mean less money for clothes or electronics, less time for vacation or relaxation, less attention from him and his family. The me who set a ridiculously high bar for extravagant gifts and extraordinary displays of love and expected it to be exceeded every year. The me who thought only of herself and spent a solid majority of her time fighting to have more because somehow, more stuff, more money, more love was supposed to buy happiness.

So. . . when I called him, out of the blue, 5 years after I had walked out to ask him for a favor, it wasn’t all that surprising that his response was “GO TO HELL”. Well, ok, fine. It WAS surprising. I spent nearly 10 years getting my way, no matter what. On the occasion that he’d get a wild hair and disagree with me about something, I’d fight to the death – whether I was right or wrong – and wind up getting my way. So, while I fully expected it to be difficult to get his help, I definitely expected it to at least be a negotiation.

I had failed to take into consideration the fact that he might have changed over the years, too.

The problem was, I needed a favor whose importance far exceeded even the most serious issues of our past. The bigger problem was, I had spent my entire life orchestrating it such that I would never need anything from anyone. . . and especially not from him. So, I had no idea how to even begin asking for his help, and I had long since forgotten how to fight him for it.

Our first conversation was tough. It was a lot of “I don’t care. Go to Hell. Don’t call me again”. It was me in tears, partially because I didn’t know what to do, and partially because holy shit, he doesn’t live for the chance to be my hero anymore. I’m not gonna lie, that was a tough reality to face. Especially when I had spent forever believing that that’s exactly what he was put on this earth to do (I know! I was horrible! I’ve tried to tell you!).

Our next conversation changed everything I believed about the world and the people in it. The conversation where he called back and agreed to help.

WHAT?! Who IS THIS and what have you done with my ex-husband?!

He definitely made sure we were all super clear that he wasn’t doing it for ME. But, he agreed to do it. And, then we talked. For hours. And hours. And, I tried so hard to make him see how much I’ve changed, how lucky we both are for how things worked out, how ending that marriage was what set us both on the new paths that had brought us both so much more happiness than we ever would have had together. . . I tried to convince him that I was happy! Really! Happy! And, it was awesome! Who knew? Happiness is AWESOME! And, I learned to lighten up and have a few drinks every now and then! And, I don’t bitch at other people when they do the same! And, I don’t throw things or scream or hate people for having more stuff than I do! I run! I sing! I dance! I laugh! I have friends! I leave the house! I LIVE! I tried to cram into that 4 hour conversation every possible tidbit of proof that I am an entirely different person than the poor, tortured soul he married, and I tried to force him to comprehend how lucky he is that I left before our mutual hatred for the world ate us both alive.

I apologized for who I was. I was completely fine with his inability to apologize back, and even willing to tolerate his jabs when he saw an opening to get them in. I beamed with pride at everything he’s accomplished since I left, and I knew that he never would have done it if I had stayed.

We had the most comfortable conversation, even after 5 years of no contact, that any two people could have. Because no matter what has happened, no matter how much time has passed, there will always be love between us. We will always know that neither one of us would have made it through some of the worst times of our lives without each other, and we will always have a bond because of it. That’s how I knew he’d answer the phone, and that’s how I knew he’d help (though I doubt he ever thought I’d swallow my pride enough to ask).

And, at the end of it all, he helped change the entire course of my life yet again. He changed my faith in humanity. He changed my belief that people are inherently self-serving, mean-spirited people who are just waiting for the opportunity to hurt someone. He demolished my perception of who he is, and at the same time, changed my perception of the world.

The May 19 that followed all of that was the first time I remember remembering our anniversary.

The next one, I forgot.

The NEXT one is what set this date in my head permanently.

On May 19, 2009, out of paralyzing fear and the desperate need for someone I believed to tell me everything would be ok , I left a voicemail for him that said basically this: “Happy Anniversary. Oh, and I might have cancer”.

He, being the only person in my life who has ever seen me so vulnerable, was the only person I felt comfortable leaning so heavily on. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. I have amazing friends who refused to let me drive to the biopsy appointment myself and forced me to laugh at lunch immediately thereafter. Who called me A LOT to check on me while I waited for results. Who listened to me freak the hell out for hours at a time. Who sincerely could not have been more supportive. Who I just wouldn’t let see me fall to pieces (I like to pretend like they never know it’s happening as long as I pretend like it’s not happening).

I shouldn’t have called. He didn’t have to call back. But, for 30 minutes, he patiently listened while I drowned myself in a puddle of my own tears, and he quietly promised that everything would be ok, and he insisted that I let him know as soon as I got the results.

I can’t explain why he was the only one who could chill me the fuck out. I can’t explain why he was willing to. I can’t explain how that is the case, how we know each other so well after so much time. And, I can’t explain how both of us find it perfectly acceptable that I texted him the results and we haven’t spoken since. We’re weird that way. But, we BOTH are, so it’s fine.

I don’t know how that bond remains after all these years, but I bet it has a lot to do with having grown up together. The person I was all those years ago would never believe that I ever needed him. . . and that he has never needed me. Because that person saw that entire relationship in a completely opposite light – and was pretty darn resentful about it. I’m glad the person I am now sees the person that he is now. I’m glad we’ve had my circumstances as an excuse to reconnect so that we could know each other as we are without each other. I’m glad to know the guy has a heart.

When May 19 rolls around these days, I can’t help but remember what it means. Instead of rolling my eyes and groaning about the years I spent wasted in a failed marriage. . . I smile and thank the universe for all of the ways his presence in my life altered my path, I embrace the memories of the good times, and I thank God I married a man who, despite a very sincere effort to be mean and hateful, simply couldn’t abandon me the way I abandoned him all those years ago. And, I reflect on that lesson.

Happy May 19, Internet. May you be so blessed.

Good point, John Cusack!

I headed over to the Bobs’ tonight and watched The Ice Harvest.  Rarely, and I mean VERY rarely, does a quote stand out of a movie so much to me that it sticks in my head until I look it up and read it over and over again.  Here it is:

Charlie Arglist: Did I ever tell you my father was a twin?
Pete Van Heuten: Identical?
Charlie Arglist: Fraternal. Looked a lot alike, though, him and my uncle. Different temperaments completely. My father, he’s a cop. By-the-book guy. Believed in the law, wanted his only son to be a lawyer. Drank in moderation, didn’t smoke. Kept up his life insurance premiums. Voted in every election, not just for president.
Pete Van Heuten: Lemme guess, uncle didn’t vote?
Charlie Arglist: He said he didn’t want to encourage the bastards. In and out of jail from the time he was 16… drunk all the time, fucked everything that walked. Won a fortune playing poker, lost it all the same way. Lost an eye in a fight. My father was 54 when he died of a massive embolism, right here in Wichita. My uncle died the very next day in a car wreck in California. So the point is… it is futile to regret. You do one thing, you do another… I mean, so what? What’s the difference? Same result.

This probably sticks out to me now for a number of reasons.  Possibly because I have given some thought to whether or not I regret some of my recent crap.  Like crazy swing dancin’ guy who apparently can’t hold his liquor.  Like being, by far, the wildest kickball girls ever by being exceptionally inappropriate, crass, and completely unladylike. 

Turns out, I don’t regret any of it.  Whew!  That was going to be a burden I didn’t want to carry, so this works out nicely.  I’ve definitely tested my boundaries, and toed the line on a few of the aforementioned instances, but at the end of every day, I can sleep easy knowing I haven’t crossed the line (yes, there’s a line!).  So, I’ll go ahead and set up camp in No Regret Land.  And, I’ll also be glad that dialogue stopped me such that I took the time to think about these things, because I can now effectively let it go instead of holding onto it until I had time to think about whether or not I should feel bad.

It is futile to regret.  Futile to regret.  Indeed, it is.