The day my marriage ended was a long time coming and a total shock. Even though I’d spent years batting the idea out of my consciousness, there it was, happening anyway. And it destroyed my identity. Everything I thought I knew about love, and trust, and commitment turned into a mushroom cloud within me, and dissipated. Amazingly, my crisis communications skills kicked in and I made a rapid response plan. I was going to do all the things I had to do. Even if I didn’t know what was going to happen to the person I had suddenly become.
Then, even more miraculously, my journaling instincts had me open up a journaling app, and write one sentence starting with, “Today,”. And for the next 365 days, I made a single entry with the same beginning. The entries didn’t always stay in the Today lane after I got going, but there was always something, something about that day - what I ate, a fight with the kids, how I felt, one thing I accomplished, a horny fantasy. It wasn’t dreamy, or pretty, it was gut wrenching at times, mundane more often.
It kept me grounded, sane, and without my realizing it, gave me a complete in-the-moment story of the most incredibly challenging year I hope ever to experience. My oldest was finally diagnosed with ADHD and Asperger’s during that year. My youngest, who spent every day with his dad before we broke up and was suffering from excruciating separation anxiety, would go into rages over things like pants. Everyone was traumatized. And I was the one in charge.
(Looking back, I suddenly recognize a bit of the old captain’s log situation in that year. Remarking on the adventures and misadventures of being at sea, all souls aboard my responsibility to bring safely to some port I’ve never been to before. I mean, the metaphor could go on for ages. I literally sometimes feed the children clementines to prevent “the scurvy.” Huh.)
I realized, as I was writing, that I was capable of being and feeling and doing a lot of things at once - often in conflict, regularly exhausting. But I could do it. I could still be the Communications VP with the big house and the many pets. I could go to the school functions and take vacations on planes and remember Halloween costumes. But it was hard.
It felt weird complaining about it being hard because I was The Strong One, and also I was doing it. And, of course, so many people have it so much harder. But a few close friends knew, my mom, my therapist. And every day that it was hard, I admitted it to myself in my journal. I never pretended. Every pathetic little moment like when I realized it was free donut day at Dunks, and I was so happy I laughed out loud, then realized that it was the first time I’d felt happy like that in weeks, and cried. It was a mindfuck. So I kept getting it out of my head and into an entry. The next day, a new page.
The day my marriage ended, I couldn’t believe what was happening. I never wanted to feel that way again, and I was going to chronicle literally everything until I could be perfectly clear on who I was and where I stood.
I felt lost again the other day. I mean, the world’s on fire literally and figuratively multiple times over, so, like who doesn’t these days? But it wasn’t just basic American existentialism. It felt like I was unraveling a little. Wrapping up consulting gigs, building out my own business, the start of remote 2nd and 5th grade for the boys, a flameout romance, people I knew dying and not being able to collectively mourn. It was a lot of heavy stuff. I puzzled and puzzled over how to pull the threads back together.
I talked to sweet friends, I did the best I could with my work, I gave myself time off, I doodled lists and musings. I was feeling better. Then I realized, I hadn’t written, just written what was on my mind down on a page somewhere for a long time. So I came here to write to you.
Your writing prompt is a journal entry beginning with “Today,”.