One of the many dreaded days that I feared facing has finally gone and went - my first valentine as a single woman in 11 years. I have spent eons of time worrying how I was going to spend this day, how I was going to feel and how I was going to be.
Sitting here, after cupid has left with his bow and arrow with a breathless sigh, I laugh at how much unnecessary time and energy were wasted with thoughts that served for nothing.
You see, I spent one of the best valentines I ever had for a very long time.
Several days ago, my very good friend and fellow divorcée, Veronique (might I just digress and say that I inwardly envy this girl, not only because she’s one of the most beautiful women I know, inside and out, but also because she was blessed of carrying a name that for me, sounds ever so chic…) proposed to spend the day with me and my daughter. I guess she got tired of hearing me whine and lament about my valentine trepidation that she took it upon herself to exorcise me of this one particular evil.
In one minute and a half, she came up with a plan that even my desolate self couldn’t refuse. She said “Here’s what we’ll do: We’ll go to the open market in Divonne (one of the small and quaint villages in nearby France), have lunch, then we’ll go ice skating.” I agreed to it because I thought that it will be fun for my little princess. Little did I know that I, too, was reserved some few surprises.
We met in Divonne amidst the icy cold of winter, walked around, bought some dried fruits and had lunch. Already there, I was startled that I didn’t get a feeling of heaviness seeing couples and their “I heart you” vibe around me. We then went back to Geneva to go ice skating. And this is where this particular valentine turned out to be a revelation.
I’ve never been on an ice skating rink before. I would always be looking from the sidelines envying other people who manage to glide, twirl and jump with such grace that left me awestruck. Much as I wanted to be like them, I was too scared. I was scared of falling, of being laughed at, of hurting myself, of plainly making a fool out of my clumsy self and a whole myriad of other fears of what may befall on me. Plus, I thought that I was way too old to learn it.
I decided to try it today because I wanted to share this moment with my daughter…and Vero told me that she will hold my hand and not let me go. So I donned those skating shoes with trembling fingers and waddled my way to the rink, already foreseeing the numerous falls that I will have.
I only fell twice. But the second one landed me full on my back, with a loud thud and seeing stars. And right there, lying spread eagled on the ground, I learned that:
1. You are never too old to learn to do anything. All it takes is a sprinkle of guts and determination.
2. You will fall. It is inevitable. However, you will also get up. There is no other choice.
3. If getting up by yourself proves to be too hard, help will come. From anybody….even from total strangers.
4. Don’t worry if some people laugh when you fall. The trick is to laugh with them.
5. The fall will not leave your spirit hopeless. Rather, it will encourage it to go on.
6. The farthest you can fall is to the ground. You cannot go lower than that.
7. The ground is nearer than you think.
8. You will hurt for a while, but you will recover. We are gifted with a natural ability to heal.
9. Skating is like learning to walk. You will need to take it slow in the beginning. You will need somebody to hold your hand. Until you hear yourself say “It’s ok. I can do this on my own now.” Then you realize not only you can walk, but you can glide. You can twirl. You can run.
10. Valentine is not only meant for couples in love. It is meant to be shared with people you love - friends, family, even pets.
Six months ago, I thought my life has ended. Today, I learned how to skate. And I say to myself: Life is just beginning.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
Where Do I Begin?
Among all of the feedback I received shortly after sending the link of my blog to family and close friends, only one made me stop short.
One of my best friends, Jake, who always have been one of the wisest too, asked me why I chose my blogsite to carry my real name. I was caught off guard. Why indeed? Why just put my name instead of including some catchy phrase like “recently divorced”, “journey to healing”, or “right smack dead into the center of emptiness”? It took me a few silent seconds before I can respond with an answer that, even to me, resounded with so much simplicity that it can never be anything else but the truth.
I named it with my name because this blog is about me. Through this blog, I will embark on a path to take back that which I have lost: myself.
All throughout our lives, we always seem to identify ourselves with whatever role we are playing at a given point in time. In my case, I was a daughter. A sister. A girlfriend. A wife. A mother. A friend. My identity always hung in relation to another being. Even in my professional life, my title was always juxtaposed to somebody, “Executive Secretary to….” Or “Assistant to…”
Some even have it bigger. They are identified not just with a person, but with a country – “Mr. X, Country Manager for Turkey”. Until even a country is no longer enough, so they have to attach it to a continent - “Director for Europe”. But then, as human nature is by itself, insatiable, we seek a larger piece. We move on to an entire region and call ourselves “Vice President for Asia Pacific” and finish off with something that has “Global” in it. I suppose that had He-Man hadn’t beaten us to it, we would have happily put “Master of the Universe” in bold letters in our stiff, overly priced, calling cards. In my life with James Bond, we used to go to events where big players like these people abound. When introductions were made and they spew out a massive collection of words to identify themselves, I can barely hold my tongue from saying “I’m Malou, a libra, ruled by Venus, the Goddess of Beauty and Love”.
Sometimes, even at simple occasions, say at a neighbor’s party, I find myself saying “Hi, I’m Malou, a friend of Annie who is a friend of Patricia who organised this party.” As if people will not deem it worthy to make my acquaintance if I don’t establish my relationship to somebody.
I have always identified myself through somebody else that when I found myself alone, I crashed. I didn’t know what I was or supposed to be anymore. Only one thing was sure, I had to begin finding myself fast before I totally lose it.
When you are faced with an enormous task and do not know where to begin, it is wisest to start with a simple, basic truth. In my case, it was my name. In that moment, it was the only solid truth I can hold on to. It was the only thing that stood alone, independent of anything else. And so I named my blog with this truth and began my journey.
I am done hiding. I am done depending on another. On this space that I have created for me, I am speaking not for anyone nor everyone. I will be speaking for myself. The truths that I will put down here will be, first and foremost, my truth.
And on this space, I can finally introduce myself simply: I am Malou. Glad to meet you.
One of my best friends, Jake, who always have been one of the wisest too, asked me why I chose my blogsite to carry my real name. I was caught off guard. Why indeed? Why just put my name instead of including some catchy phrase like “recently divorced”, “journey to healing”, or “right smack dead into the center of emptiness”? It took me a few silent seconds before I can respond with an answer that, even to me, resounded with so much simplicity that it can never be anything else but the truth.
I named it with my name because this blog is about me. Through this blog, I will embark on a path to take back that which I have lost: myself.
All throughout our lives, we always seem to identify ourselves with whatever role we are playing at a given point in time. In my case, I was a daughter. A sister. A girlfriend. A wife. A mother. A friend. My identity always hung in relation to another being. Even in my professional life, my title was always juxtaposed to somebody, “Executive Secretary to….” Or “Assistant to…”
Some even have it bigger. They are identified not just with a person, but with a country – “Mr. X, Country Manager for Turkey”. Until even a country is no longer enough, so they have to attach it to a continent - “Director for Europe”. But then, as human nature is by itself, insatiable, we seek a larger piece. We move on to an entire region and call ourselves “Vice President for Asia Pacific” and finish off with something that has “Global” in it. I suppose that had He-Man hadn’t beaten us to it, we would have happily put “Master of the Universe” in bold letters in our stiff, overly priced, calling cards. In my life with James Bond, we used to go to events where big players like these people abound. When introductions were made and they spew out a massive collection of words to identify themselves, I can barely hold my tongue from saying “I’m Malou, a libra, ruled by Venus, the Goddess of Beauty and Love”.
Sometimes, even at simple occasions, say at a neighbor’s party, I find myself saying “Hi, I’m Malou, a friend of Annie who is a friend of Patricia who organised this party.” As if people will not deem it worthy to make my acquaintance if I don’t establish my relationship to somebody.
I have always identified myself through somebody else that when I found myself alone, I crashed. I didn’t know what I was or supposed to be anymore. Only one thing was sure, I had to begin finding myself fast before I totally lose it.
When you are faced with an enormous task and do not know where to begin, it is wisest to start with a simple, basic truth. In my case, it was my name. In that moment, it was the only solid truth I can hold on to. It was the only thing that stood alone, independent of anything else. And so I named my blog with this truth and began my journey.
I am done hiding. I am done depending on another. On this space that I have created for me, I am speaking not for anyone nor everyone. I will be speaking for myself. The truths that I will put down here will be, first and foremost, my truth.
And on this space, I can finally introduce myself simply: I am Malou. Glad to meet you.
Monday, February 1, 2010
And I cried....
Oh how I cried. I cried like there was no tomorrow. For 90 days and 90 nights, I cried. Every. Single. Day. Big, fat, carbohydrate-laden tears would roll down my cheeks and cruise me along Depression Avenue.
I have always been a cry baby anyway. My tear ducts are five-lane highways to eye fluid traffic. In the good old days, James Bond (in an attempt to promote a semblance of anonymity, this is how I am going to refer to my not-quite-of-an-ex-yet throughout this blog. In the midst of all the pain, I can, at least, pretend that I was married to the sexiest man ever to invade Great Britain) would often laugh at my innate ability to produce tears. They would appear while watching just about every Disney film every produced and in every family occasion that involves hugging and giving of speeches – weddings, baptisms, funerals, Hannukah. You get the picture.
However, it starts to get worrisome when your tears start coming up at any random moment, like when you’re doing the grocery, or driving down the highway, or just doing nothing. It also becomes particularly embarrassing because I am not one of those chosen few who cry gracefully. Not a chance. When I cry, my eyes look like they’re going to fall out of their sockets. My nose grows into the size of a small continent in full rebellion.
It would not be an understatement to say that I was not looking very good during my three-month crying spree. I wore a perpetual look of doom on my face and my friends didn’t know what to do with me. I think their feelings hovered from wanting to adopt me to running away from me as far as their high-heeled shoes would take them.
At first, I rebelled against my tears and asked God to “please, please make them stop”. Until it dawned on me that God didn’t want my crying to stop. He, in His immense wisdom, is presenting me a gift so I can survive this heart-wrenching pain. For through these tears, I can start to let go.
So I let it all out. I cried for my false arrogance. I cried for my shame. I cried for my guilt, my pride, my selfishness and all the things that I brought on during the life that I lived. And I also cried out my hurt, my disappointment, my loss, my anger, my disillusionment, my sense of failure. And most of all, I cried out my pain.
And then one night, while I was lying spent on the floor after a three-hour marathon of sobbing, wailing and bawling, it stopped. Like a song that has reached its final crescendo, my tears faded away and finally stopped. And there, amidst the silence, with just the faint sound of my own breathing, I noticed the first ray of calmness descend. And I understood that the onslaught of torrential tears, much like everything happening in my life right now, had a purpose. They gave me hope that somewhere deep within me, I had what it takes to cleanse my soul and purify my spirit. That once the tears stop – and believe me, they will – you finally have opened the doors of finding the real you.
I have always been a cry baby anyway. My tear ducts are five-lane highways to eye fluid traffic. In the good old days, James Bond (in an attempt to promote a semblance of anonymity, this is how I am going to refer to my not-quite-of-an-ex-yet throughout this blog. In the midst of all the pain, I can, at least, pretend that I was married to the sexiest man ever to invade Great Britain) would often laugh at my innate ability to produce tears. They would appear while watching just about every Disney film every produced and in every family occasion that involves hugging and giving of speeches – weddings, baptisms, funerals, Hannukah. You get the picture.
However, it starts to get worrisome when your tears start coming up at any random moment, like when you’re doing the grocery, or driving down the highway, or just doing nothing. It also becomes particularly embarrassing because I am not one of those chosen few who cry gracefully. Not a chance. When I cry, my eyes look like they’re going to fall out of their sockets. My nose grows into the size of a small continent in full rebellion.
It would not be an understatement to say that I was not looking very good during my three-month crying spree. I wore a perpetual look of doom on my face and my friends didn’t know what to do with me. I think their feelings hovered from wanting to adopt me to running away from me as far as their high-heeled shoes would take them.
At first, I rebelled against my tears and asked God to “please, please make them stop”. Until it dawned on me that God didn’t want my crying to stop. He, in His immense wisdom, is presenting me a gift so I can survive this heart-wrenching pain. For through these tears, I can start to let go.
So I let it all out. I cried for my false arrogance. I cried for my shame. I cried for my guilt, my pride, my selfishness and all the things that I brought on during the life that I lived. And I also cried out my hurt, my disappointment, my loss, my anger, my disillusionment, my sense of failure. And most of all, I cried out my pain.
And then one night, while I was lying spent on the floor after a three-hour marathon of sobbing, wailing and bawling, it stopped. Like a song that has reached its final crescendo, my tears faded away and finally stopped. And there, amidst the silence, with just the faint sound of my own breathing, I noticed the first ray of calmness descend. And I understood that the onslaught of torrential tears, much like everything happening in my life right now, had a purpose. They gave me hope that somewhere deep within me, I had what it takes to cleanse my soul and purify my spirit. That once the tears stop – and believe me, they will – you finally have opened the doors of finding the real you.
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