It was the lowest point in my life.
It was the desolation. The reservation on the southeastern part of Utah just above the four corners area, the desert we let the natives keep...probably because there is nothing there but sage brush, lonely highway, and complete lack of cell service.
I had no Pandora, no radio stations, and had long since grown tired of the handful of songs I'd downloaded onto a USB stick before I'd set out on my journey.
I drove down that road and cranked Amarillo by Morning for the 38,959th time, but the music wasn't loud enough, or my thoughts were too heavy, or there was just no more running away from how I felt inside.
Barren. The lifeless desert was a perfect reflection of my life.
We'd just sold our house, our five bedroom, four bath slice of SoCal real estate. We sold it for half a million dollars, which, as it turns out, is nothing compared to the price of giving up on the dreams you made together. The future. The family. The plans.
Shattered.
I'd gone to Utah to connect with my roots, to escape from the reality that my life, as I'd planned it, was over. I hadn't meant to drive, but my flight got cancelled and I couldn't bear to stay in the house that, after the 30 day escrow, was no longer ours.
So in the comfort of my childhood home, nestled in the loving embrace of my parents and brothers, or on the back of a horse chasing cows, I hid from the emotions that were under the surface, an underlying current of hot lava that would destroy anything it touched if I let it escape. Even though this was all my decision. I was the one who took it there. I was the one who decided this was no longer right for me. I forged ahead with it all. But once we sold the house, it felt so...final. And with that finality came doubts. So many doubts.
Had I made the right decision? Or could we still go back? Maybe it--he-- was what I wanted, after all.
I stayed home with my family for a few days, then decided Moab would be good for my soul. Maybe I could regain some of the appetite I'd lost. Maybe those splendid arches or that slick rock would fill that void in my soul. Maybe the brewing company would let me bring my dog in and stay forevermore, or at least until that weak Utah beer brought on the numbness I used to be so good at harboring.
I stayed only one night, enough to do some hiking, not long because it was a place we'd gone together many times and it brought back too many memories and dreams that would never come true..also because Hank wasn't allowed on the trails. He had to stay in the car, waiting, wondering if I'd ever return.
In a way, I wondered the same.
I wondered if I'd ever feel whole again. if I'd ever feel happy again. If I'd ever stop crying. Because, as I drove down that highway of broken dreams, it felt like despair had taken over every fiber of my being. My tears flowed from a spring of eternal sorrow. Invisible, yet so very real.
Seven hours later, I landed at my sister's in Flagstaff. She hugged me--even though she's not much of a hugger--and I sobbed and blubbered about how I was alone and I wondered if the hurt would ever go away. This wasn't how I pictured my life at 35.
She looked at me, comforted me in the way that sisters do, and said, "don't be afraid to go to the doctor and let him help you get through this hard time."
Indeed.
Except I didn't. I got back to San Diego and immediately fell for a charming man, one who serenaded me and sent expensive flowers to my work, distracted me from my grief..and had serious commitment issues.
A few months later, I was alone again.
The despondency came back again, this time worse. But that was when I knew.
The only way out was through. I didn't know it all would affect me like that, not when I was so sure I had made the right choice. Still. Losing your best friend and partner, even if it is your decision, even if you choose to remain close (which we are to this day), is akin to death.
Divorce.
It's been two years. I don't feel despair anymore. I'm happy. I feel alive in a way I never have before. Now I'll go outside during a downpour, just so I can feel the rain on my skin. I'll shiver and let the ocean spray my face on a cold winter night while I watch the sunset, just so I can appreciate what it feels like to be warm. I'll jump into the Pacific after a long morning run because then I can remember how cool it felt while I'm enduring one of those hot fall days at my AC-less job.
It's feeling. It's plain old living, and I'm finally doing it.
And I'm almost certain that when I make that drive next week--two years after that initial desperate, soul-seeking 10 hour drive--I won't be crying. And if I do, it will be because I'm listing to Adele (seriously though!) or just feeling gratitude that after all that I went through, the pieces of my heart are back to together and I finally feel whole again.
