Guilty Grieving
The separation had largely been my decision, so it didn’t feel right to accept any sympathy.
When I was newly separated from my ex, it always felt like I was girding for a fight when it came time to tell someone. I would cross my arms tightly in front of me, my stomach muscles clenched, as if expecting to take a hit.
The script always played out the same. I would share the news, and the recipient would respond with “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
That was the gut punch I couldn’t defend against. The separation, the impending divorce, had largely been my decision so it didn’t feel right to accept comfort. In those moments, my cheeks would redden as I dropped my gaze to the floor and murmured “thank you.”
I felt awful about hurting my husband. He had done nothing wrong beyond what we both had done: allowed ourselves to drift from being partners to roommates. I felt tremendous guilt in walking away from him, from our home, from the vows I had taken. Hearing “I’m sorry” just made that guilt worse.
And yet at some level the sympathy was not misplaced because I was hurting.
I had spent all those years working toward a lifestyle everyone was supposed to aspire to: the husband, the kid, the four-bedroom house in the suburbs. I spent weekends buying groceries, painting bedroom walls, planting flower bulbs. I befriended other moms during playdates. Brought jugs of water to soccer games. Volunteered at church. Cuddled with the dog in front of the TV at night. I had a fulfilling career managing communication for a nonprofit. It was a normal, comfortable life.
Walking away from that had been incredibly difficult. Facing a blank slate was terrifying. I missed the stability, the predictable sameness I had left behind. Yes, I had decided to leave. But that didn’t mean it was easy. Or that it didn’t hurt.
Through those many months of sharing the news with people, of adjusting to life apart, I kept trying to manage the balancing act of emotions.
I felt guilty.
I was grieving.
I felt guilty about grieving – convinced that I had no right to the sadness that I felt.
And then one day the script played out differently. After work, I went out to dinner with two coworkers. We had only recently started working together, but I felt comfortable with them, so I braced myself and told them what I hadn’t yet told anyone else in the office.
“I’ve separated from my husband,” I said.
“Congratulations!” Emily replied with a big smile.
I looked at the young woman in stunned silence. So did our colleague. After a few moments, I laughed and said: “That’s not the reaction I was expecting.”
“Well,” she said. “It was the way you said it. You separated from your husband. I think you’re pretty smart, so if you think that was the right thing to do, then it must have been.”
After that evening, I stopped clenching my stomach muscles quite so tightly when I shared the news of our impending divorce. Words of sympathy felt less like blows, and more like the comfort they were meant to be. I could look the other person in the eye, thank them for their words, and assure them that the separation was for the best, and that we’d both be okay.
Emily’s confident assurance that I must have done the right thing loosened the grip guilt had on me. That, in turn, let me accept the legitimacy of the grief. I finally reached a place where I recognized my right to feel both emotions and from there, I found I had a right to move on from both of them as well.
Photo by Siora Photography on Unsplash