Remembering history.


Glorious mountain sky!


“Personal history must be constantly renewed by telling parents, relatives and friends…”  —Carlos Castaneda

One of the really scary things about getting divorced was the feeling that I was losing my history.  I know that sounds strange but D and members of his family (not all of them) were acting as if they hardly knew who I was.  I was no longer welcome at any family gatherings.  I had spent more than half my life with this man and his family  (I was quite fond of most of them.) and all of a sudden I wasn’t welcome.  I realize now that some of that estrangement was D’s ineptness at bridging the gap between married and divorced.  Some of his family said that it was because I “wasn’t ready.”  Wasn’t ready for what?!  To be in the same room with the interloper?  That’s right.  I wasn’t.

I don’t think I have mentioned before that D is the stepfather to all three of my daughters.  I don’t usually bring that fact up because it doesn’t serve any good cause for the most part.  I always worried that it would be divisive.  And I think that he was a good stepfather for a very long time.  I bring it up now to make a point.

From the beginning of our separation I was separated/estranged from D and his entire family.  He, on the other hand, had no qualms about attending my family gatherings.  And that would have been fine with me had he not brought his “friend” with him.  Going to the children’s sporting events and birthday parties became a very special kind of torture.  I am always grateful, though, when he brings his mother along.  I still love her.  And I think that’s all the venting I’m going to do.  It’s exhausting.

I had a friend who told me I always brought D up in all our conversations.  I don’t remember what I stammered back at her.  This was only a few months after he left.  And she was right, I did.  But you know what–I still do and I don’t apologize for it.  It’s my history.  I still have pictures of him in my house, mostly with the grandchildren.  It’s their history, too.  I don’t think I’m being overly sentimental about this.  It is what it is.  It’s history.



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