Chapter Ninety; Saying Good Bye and Finding My Voice

If we are lucky, the story of our lives contain several chapters. Both bitter. And sweet.

This year my chapter was not really a chapter, but the end of one and the beginning of another. It was an in between time. A suspension.

Don’t get me wrong, everything in my life this past year post-divorce still went forward. Children grew. Work deadlines were met. And new friendships blossomed. But somewhere beneath the momentum, I felt like life just hit the pause button when I got divorced.

All of the things that had previously composed my identity vanished. Friendships that had seemed so real merely disintegrated into misty memory, to the point where I doubted they had ever existed at all. And I questioned myself for investing so much in something that life could not sustain.

In terms of my existence, I am pretty sure my in-laws just tried to forget I was on this earth at all. I never heard from them again once my husband and I separated.

It was like I just took a big eraser and in one swoosh of legal ink.

My life.

Was gone.

In the aftermath, I grasped fragments of who I was. Like a victim of amnesia being quizzed by the doctors, “Who are you? What do you remember?” I asked myself these questions and hesitantly answered myself with guarded answers, unsure of what was even real and solid any more.

Mom.

Daughter.

Neighbor.

But who ARE you? The voice still asked.

For a few months? I just didn’t know.

And then, one day.

I remembered.

Writer.

I am a writer.

Just prior to my husband and I separating, my first freelance article was published. I should have been ecstatic. My writing aspirations were taking flight, but what should have been a momentous moment was shrouded by divorce darkness.

And my writing endeavors soon disappeared into that black hole.

But now. They were trying to resurrect themselves.

I was haunted.

Writer.

You are a writer.

The voice in my head began to prompt and prod.

I resisted.

And sighed a lot.

I just couldn’t fathom finding the energy to write again. To go through the submission process. To attend workshops and network with editors. To work on my novel. To search for an agent.

I could barely get through my day the way it was.

Who was I kidding? For the past four months, any spare time I had had found me on my couch bawling, and eating a lot of cookie dough. On the weekends I didn’t have my children, I partied like a rock star.

It was either that or stay home and cry.

(Martini comas were far more appealing.)

And then, last January, I read the book, “Eat, Pray, Love,” by Elizabeth Gilbertson. Her literary voice was stunningly similar to my own. You see, every writer has a “voice.” A style that is unique. It’s our soul on the page, and I sensed a kindred spirit when I read Ms. Gilbertson's novel, and connected with her voice. Her quirky wit, coupled with introspective life observations, hit home.

And oh yeah.

Her novel is about her journey through divorce.

Shya Sista.

I could relate.

I devoured that book and wept when it was done. I didn’t want it to end. I read every syllable. Even the book reviews at the end.

Then I Googled the author like a psycho fan.

But I wasn’t searching for any more of her words.

I knew. I was just searching.

For mine.

And so one cold February night I just decided to take a short cut. I would start a blog. I had to have some outlet and this one looked just too damn easy.

I remember staring at the screen and trying to choose a title for this deal. I hated to put the word “divorce” in it. It seemed like all I talked about was divorce. But, the iron clad rule of pen for every writer, to “write what you know,” stalked me and forced me to succumb.

In other words, if you live in Africa and try to fake you are from Ireland when you write. Good luck.

You will suck.

Readers are smart. And they will never buy the concept of a Kenyan leprechaun.

Well, I wasn’t even going to try to pretend I was Irish. (Frank McCourt beat me to that . . . “Angela’s Ashes” if you haven’t read it, people).

I had to be honest.

There was only one land I was living in last winter.

And that one.

Was Divorce Land.

If I was going to write about anything, it was going to have to be this. I would write about the pain bonding with women who had previously been on the parameter of my life, who were also simultaneoulsy navigating their own divorces. You see, we didn't just stumble into one another and share martinis, we clung to each other like life rafts asking frantically if anyone had a compass. Nope. None of us did.

All we had was each other.

I would write about my first relationship post-divorce that I fell into simply because it seemed like a good idea to have someone to lie next to me at night. I just didn't know how to be alone.

I would write about the crazy antics my girlfriends and I got ourselves into (who can forget my ER Greek God adventure with Sonja? That night is still Divorce Land legend. Chapter Thirty Seven if you just got to Divorce Land.)

I would write about my first wedding anniversary post-divorce and how I couldn't let that day go by without reaching back in time and putting my arms around my former self, and letting her know, that I finally got here. I had set her free.

I would write about the single parenting moments that sustained me through some of the darkness. Who knew biking for miles with a little girl could bring such joy?

I would write about breaking up with my first boyfriend, and creating a mountain of kleenex next to my bed to rival Mt. Everest.

All of it.

I would write about.

And so I did.

Every Monday and every Thursday.

I put an essay on my blog.

Most were humorous, but some just weren't. Because life seems to come with equal parts of joy. And pain.

I spammed everyone I knew and shared the link. And pretty soon, more than just my mom was reading this thing. People were emailing me. People were stopping me at the store.

I was making people laugh. I was making people cry.

And I couldn’t believe it.

But most importantly? I was writing.

I was me.

I’d found the thread of myself that had not vanished when everything else did. The piece of my soul that burned the brightest and would not be extinguished, the part of me that would actually outshine the darkness of Act One.

And light the stage up for my Act Two debut.

My words.

My writing.

My voice.

And so, dear Divorce Land readers. I am ending this blog today. It is the one year anniversary that I learned my divorce was final.

And it seems quite fitting to use this benchmark to move on. To get back to my freelancing. To my novel.

To my writing.

But before I go, I will give one last “Divorce Land” update. For the DL girls are all moving too. Each and every one of them has found new love and I celebrate for them. I will be a bridesmaid in at least one wedding this year, possibly two. And I am sure two more will follow . . .

(Oh shut UP, already, Julia! Queen of denial!)

I also included a post under this one I am calling "Divorce Land" credits. I'll post some pictures of the people who shared my Divorce Land spotlight for a while.

As for me?

Well, my life continues to be where it has always been: in God’s hands. Oh, I’ve tried to wrestle the map away from him from time to time, but he usually always gets it back. But yes, I am the last Divorce Land girl still standing in the single scene, but after the way God lifted me up this year, I don’t doubt that his plan for me may included love again . . . someday.

And so, I close the door on my in between chapter. And move on to the next one.

A new land.

Where writers write what they know.

And voices are never silenced for long.

Especially.

Mine.
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Divorce Land is retired but not vanishing. This simply means I will not be posting any new essays. I will keep the site live so feel free to come back and visit and read more if you haven't yet subjected yourself to the three hours or so of reading torture it takes to consume ten months of my Divorce Land adventures.

If I do start a new blog, it will be an author blog devoted to updating people on my writing endeavors and I will announce the site here. Obviously, the optimist in me hopes that blog will be titled something like, "Audra Gets a Book Deal" or better yet, "Pulitzer Land." (Hey, let a woman dream . . .)

I am only and always an email away at fourgirlsonestory@gmail.com and will continue to check that inbox from time to time.

Thank you to all of you for your support and encouragement along the way. In the solitary writing world I am now entering called, "Work on the novel already, you loser," I may just dredge up YOUR words from time to time. Those emails and comments you took the time to send me over this past year that were so encouraging and thoughtful.

And I will smile to myself in my second floor office.

And remember you.

And to those who wrote to me because your lives are in bitter chapters . . . keep the faith. And never forget.

YOU have a voice too.


Blessings . . .
~Audra

Oh, and P.S. Just stream a little Anna Nalick, "Shine" if you miss me. It's my theme song, my running anthem, and my saving grace. With it, I can shine, shine, shine, shine over shadows. Enjoy . . .