Last week I received an updated copy of my car insurance which reflected the seemingly innocuous fact that my 1993 Subaru is now registered in my name and Chris is no longer listed as a driver of that car. And there in black and white I saw it printed for the first time: “Lorianne Schaub. Marital status: separated.”
On the one hand, “separated” is such a mild euphemism. When I first phoned my mother to tell her of Chris and my decision to divorce, I couldn’t bring myself to say the dreaded “D” word. “We’ve decided to separate,” I explained calmly. “It’s an amiable split, but things are understandably awkward.” It was only after my mom pushed for specifics–was I referring to a trial separation, or had the die been cast–that I made the situation clear: no, it’s over; he’s moved to Vermont, and the paperwork for a divorce has been filed. Even with my mother, though, I stumbled over the “D” word. In my head “divorce” equated with “failure” whereas “separation” evoked an image of an amiable parting: here we’ve come to a juncture, you and I, and I will walk this way while you go that.
On the other hand, though, “separation” is a jarring and even violent term. Whereas “divorce” can refer to a coldly clinical legal procedure (sign the papers, pay the fee, and you’re outta there), thinking of oneself as “separated” evokes images of body parts lying bloodlessly detached from one another: here’s an arm; over there’s a leg. “Separation” sounds almost surgical, as if the act of divorcing from one’s partner of nearly 13 years is a kind of dismemberment, a cleaving apart of flesh and bone that had improperly knit.
This latter image of separation seems particularly apt. At times over the past two months since Chris moved to Vermont, I’ve felt emotionally dismembered, as if my head is in one place and my heart in another. On one level, I live and work and interact like any other normally functioning person; on the other, I feel like I’ve left a limb or two somewhere, but I can’t remember where. How can people talk and interact with me normally: can’t they see that I’ve been cloven in two, half of my limbs and nearly all of my heart having disappeared, severed? At times as I go about smiling and chatting as if nothing has happened, I feel like a magician’s assistant: my head is smiling, my hands are waving, and my feet are dancing…but each of these parts is neatly segmented into its own clever box, a benignly bloodless dislocation.
Some while ago, Andi described the experience of breaking up with a partner and then moving to Korea as feeling like an unaesthetized spinal transplant: suddenly the very thing that held you upright has been ripped from you, and there you are trying to navigate a foreign airport as if nothing ever happened. (Unfortunately, I can’t find the precise permalink to Andi’s post, so you’ll have to rely on my paraphrase.) Although I’ve never had spinal surgery nor have I ever moved to Korea, I know that during that week when Chris moved out, I felt like I’d been enviscerated, like I was walking around town with a huge gaping hollow where my stomach and guts used to be. I couldn’t eat nor did I want to, and I felt oddly detached from my own body: somehow it didn’t seem real that I could function like any other normal person with a brain that was spinning from an onslaught of “what if’s” and “if only’s.”
The metaphor of divorce being a kind of unaesthetized envisceration works on several different levels. As I mentioned, I’ve never had spinal surgery, but I have had my appendix removed, and several years ago my father had both his colon and bladder removed not long after doctors had riven his ribcage to repair a long-abused and direly blocked heart. I know what it’s like to be bent double with abdominal pain; I know what it’s like to lie abed without the energy to stand much less walk while nurses exhort you to get up and be moving. I’ve seen my father slowly recover after doctors literally severed his insides to keep the rest of him alive: I know the mixed emotions you feel toward the bastards who stole your father bit by bit in order to defeat the damn Cancer that had been eating him, unaware. When you see a man brought to the brink of death then back again at gloved and masked hands–when you’ve felt the press of those same hands as you lay on a gurney, pain ripping your insides as you clawed at your own IVs, madly animalized by pain and fear–you don’t know whether to thank medical science or excoriate it. Those bastards cut open my father after he allowed them to cut open me, and neither one of us would be alive today without such goddamned and bloody intervention.
The deepest irony of describing divorce as unaesthetized envisceration, though, lies in its agency, for I acknowledge that I am both helpless patient and goddamn bastard doctor. This separation is one I both asked and pressed for; when Chris has asked if there’s even a chance of reconcilation, my rational half (my inner surgeon) has said No. Even as I walked the streets of Bar Harbor, Maine several weeks ago, pencam around my neck as I snapped one reflective picture after another, visual proof to myself that I Am Standing and Will Survive, an unexpected cell phone call from him brought the pain of separation immediately back, unscabbed. Was separating difficult? Yes. Did I regret the decision? No. One of the oddest parts of self-surgery is the way you can simultaneously feel yourself lying strapped to a gurney, your guts splayed and splattered, while another part of you stands logical and detached, overseeing the procedure. Really, this must be done: truly, to save the life of the patient, the cancer and contiguous organs must be removed.
Thus I live with an odd paradox. Although I both regret and lament the pain of separation and I’m staggered at the thought of my own relational failures and my cognizance of how this split has broken hearts other than my own, I never once have regretted the decision that led to divorce. Yes, I’ve had moments of loneliness since Chris moved out; yes, I’ve had moments of depression and even despair. But none of these lonely moments is as bad as the loneliness I felt in a mis-matched marriage; never have I felt so depressed that I wanted to curl up and die, which is something I felt too often while married. This current pain feels like healing: it hurts, but there is a reason and an end in sight. The pain that led up to separation felt inexplicable and never-ending, the kind of pain that simmers and seethes and ultimately destroys. This current pain won’t kill me; that other kind surely was.
Unexpectedly, I’ve found moments of simple joy amidst the pain of separation: the joy of a quiet house, the simplicity of a single grocery bag full of enough food for just me and the dog. Even when the pain of separation was the greatest, I found unexpected, grounding joy in tangible objects: the caress of a broom on a well-worn floor, the warmth of newly dried laundry. The silent pictures I snapped in the aftermath of Chris’s move were my way of telling the world (and myself) I was all right, that as long as milkweeds still sprouted from sidewalk cracks and vines coiled from shattered factory windows, I too would persevere. Separation is a painful and difficult process–at times your heart and your head seem entirely detached, never to reunite. But underneath the pain lies a promise, a hope that one day I will awake to find myself no longer riven, but entire.
I snapped all of these reflective photos during my recent trip to Bar Harbor, and I’ve posted three of them to the Mirror Project. I am fully aware of the irony that the girl who avoided looking at herself in the mirror as a teenager, terrified of the Ugly Duckling she’d see reflected therein, suddenly feels the need to slap pictures of herself all over her blog. I’ve found, though, that taking and posting these pictures–a visual act of independence and acceptance–is more fun than therapy, and cheaper.
Oct 4, 2004 at 2:08 pm
I wondered at the time — the fussing rationalist — if it would really have been so clear to me what the “silent pictures” were about if I hadn’t known what you were going through. But I can’t help thinking it would have been.
Hugs. Give it time. About twelve minutes after you tell people, they’ll start advising you to stop thinking about it and pretend it never happened and get over it. Screw that. Mourn for a year.
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Oct 4, 2004 at 2:42 pm
Wow. I am in awe of your ability to make art out of pain. I hope it is not unfeeling of me to say that. I really can’t imagine what it is like, never having been married. You have my best wishes.
And you give real meaning to the verse, “and the two shall become one flesh.” Good thing we now have the “technology” to separate the two and let them continue to live…
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Oct 4, 2004 at 5:02 pm
Oh Lorianne, my heart goes out to you, once again. Love and and a hug–
Andi
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Oct 4, 2004 at 6:53 pm
Be well.
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Oct 4, 2004 at 8:27 pm
I feel for you. When I broke up with my old boyfriend after living with him two years – not even married 13 years – I was a puddle of jelly. That one wasn’t my decision. My recent breakup was my decision, and it felt like a grab for life, for air. Even so, I spent part of yesterday and today – weeks after – sobbing disconsolately. Loss ain’t easy, even if it’s the right thing – surgery, as you say.
A friend of mine called today and offered sympathy and understanding, and it helped. So in turn I offer my own support and understanding to you.
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Oct 4, 2004 at 9:25 pm
It so happens I was listening to Bartok’s piano concerto #3 as I came to read this post. A fractured and wonderfully textured piece of music.
Lorianne, this was heart-wrenching to read.
That’s all the more reason why I feel (a little bit) guilty at my aestheticized reaction to the thing. I feel guilty, but I embrace the guilt as mine.
First, the word “separated” in the title, declarative, bare, immediately followed by that fantabulous photograph (head here, body there) that makes one heart catch in one’s throat. And so many wonderful photos, one after the other, broken into so many shards.
Then the gorgeous precision of your prose, like a surgeon on The Learning Channel calmly saying, “Now this is the kidney, and here is the liver, and if you press it just so,” and he presses it with a gloved hand, “you can see how the blood oozes out.” Until it dawns on you that he’s pressing his own viscera.
I’m rambling. Madness. There’s a method to what YOU have written, though. And what I get from it, what helps me, is the idea that, no matter how bad the pain, some things do help, and among them are honesty (especially with oneself), and wit, and art.
All three are on display here, and I hope they, and the love so many of us your readers and friends bear towards you, do help even if just an eensy-teensy bit.
Shanti.
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Oct 4, 2004 at 10:19 pm
This was beautiful.
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Oct 5, 2004 at 1:39 am
It’s strange how much I care about someone I have never met in person. In reading your recent, at times cryptic blog entries, I caught glimpses of the pain (and perhaps chaos?) you hinted at underneath the mostly “business as usual” blogging, where I’m sure it is a bit easier to hold it together. Funny that although we don’t know each other outside of the words we each use to recount our days, I could tell with certainty that you were hurting underneath the protective shroud of a blog template and format. I’ve been thinking a lot about you these past few weeks, even though (as if it matters) we’ve never once spoken. Stay strong, and thanks for letting us into your life on a more personal level than we, as readers are accustomed to.
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Oct 5, 2004 at 5:12 am
Feeling my own emotional pain this morning of a quite different sort, I read your blog and was deeply moved by it, as well as deeply satisfied by your prose and your pictures. My heart and mind moved to a different place. Writing, and sharing, are so important and powerful – a gift to all of us, and, I hope, to yourself. Thank you, Lorianne, and my warmest good wishes.
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Oct 5, 2004 at 4:56 pm
Kwan Seum Bosal X3. “Art from pain,” I second that glowing remark. Compelling writing.
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Oct 6, 2004 at 8:06 am
Thanks, everyone, for the kind comments & words of support. The fact that I’m “finally” writing about the split reflects two things. First, at first I wasn’t ready to “go public” with my private life. Second (and more importantly), it takes a while for pain to “digest” into art: Wordsworth was onto something, I think, when he said poetry was “emotion recollected in tranquility.” During that silent, pictures-only week on Hoarded Ordinaries, I didn’t have anything to say about the split: I knew it was the right thing to do, but I didn’t want to talk about it. Now the dust is settling, so it’s time for gentle de-briefing.
The comments about art & pain are right-on. If we didn’t have pain, we’d have very little art; if we didn’t have art, we’d be ill-equipped to deal with pain. There’s a certain comfort in *honestly* looking at & trying to describe one’s pain…and there’s a certain comfort in reading someone *else’s* admission of their own paid: a reminder that we’re not alone.
During the past couple of months, it’s been very comforting to know that there are living, breathing people “there” reading what I write. Even if we’ve never met, and even if you don’t know “everything” about my personal situation, it’s comforting to know that folks will notice if I don’t blog for a couple of days. So thanks to everyone for being my sounding board whether you’ve ever spoken up in comments or not: it’s good to know you’re there, and I hope you find some sort of beauty, honesty, or truth in the things you find here.
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Oct 6, 2004 at 8:46 am
Potluck Post – New Feature!
Once a week I will troll my daily website reads and pull out a handful of my most favorite quotes for your purusaul. It wont be every website every week, but if something really strikes me – funny or serious
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Oct 6, 2004 at 7:22 pm
Lorianne, your spirit moves me beyond words. You are a true artist – one who makes art out of life’s circumstances. I especially related to your self assurance that there would still be milkweed poking out of the sidewalk. A few years ago, we went through an extremely tough time, and I kept myself intact by realizing that despite whatever happened to us, the essence of my heart would never change. And I’m sure yours will not either. Godsend on this journey.
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Oct 7, 2004 at 2:18 am
That was an amazing article and I hope you heal well.
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Oct 7, 2004 at 9:31 am
Finally the Zen Mama let’s out the pain, trying to get to that place between caring and not caring. You HAVE made art of it. May the wind be at your back, girl.
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Oct 9, 2004 at 5:12 pm
you make me want to live
out loud
so, that’s how it’s done, then?
thanks
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Oct 9, 2004 at 7:47 pm
Well there is way too much in this space for me to absorb. So much familiar. I am reminded that though each of us is a unique being we share a common source. I am moveded by your reflections. I am also wondering if after a separation of such depth if it is common to want to ‘see’ ourselves. Does it help assure us that we are still here? Does it support our transformation? I too found my self taking interest in my reflections, my image. Late in 2003 my 16 year marriage ended abruptly. We took a respectful stance but the wounds still bleed from time to time. But one of the first realizations I had that this was the sane thing to do, even though every instinct wanted to fight it, was an afternoon of running errands and I realized that for the first time in many years I neither had a headache or stomach ache. Time has passed and I still miss parts of us – the solo journey still seems both treacherous and elating.
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Oct 9, 2004 at 8:38 pm
Lorianne, what you’ve written is beautiful and enormously painful. What struck me the most was your comment about those times, while you were married, about feeling like you wanted to curl up and die. I had a short first marriage that ended after a year and a half; an incendiary tragic mistake. I’ve now been with my husband for 25 years, and although the good times by far outweigh the bad ones, I too have had the feelings you describe: it is the pain of relationship when it isn’t working, and when you don’t know if it ever will. All I can say is that I wish you every strength in the world, and to encourage you to keep writing it all down with the same courage and grace you’ve done here.
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