Why Should I Be Scared of Anything After Losing Almost Everything?

All the terrible things have already happened.

Photo of my mother and me at my first wedding. Photo owned by Author

After years of a loveless marriage, I had transformed into a zombie, a ghost, a shadow of the former me. My desires were whispers lost in the vast expanse of my husband's indifference. He lived in a separate universe from me and was content there. On his solitary island, he wasn't accountable to me or to us, the family. I tried to pull him back, but it was impossible.

I never wanted to live as a lonely shepherd with her three beloved lambs. I yearned for a loving, engaged partner. Yet, I stayed committed to a decision I'd made over a decade ago. A new life would upset too many people—my husband, for one thing, my parents, and most importantly, my children. The battle between me, my husband, and my parents would be epic.

I'd only lose.

I dismissed thoughts of leaving and buried them in a hole covered by cement. My faith forbade divorce except in cases of abuse. I had created my situation. Allowing myself to think of a way out was a hallucination.

The only solution was death, mine or his.

Yes, my thoughts were dark, and “Until death, do you part” was the saddest of options. I mentally prepared myself for when the kids left, and I’d be married but alone.

There was no way out.

Acceptance was the path forward until it wasn't. Things had grown even bleaker with my husband, and the path to liberation began as a flicker. An email exchange with Larry, a man I dated in college, lit a spark. 

The internet birthed that connection and our zany conversations reminded me of who I used to be. That person was light-hearted and laughed a lot. She was long gone, but the thought that the person I used to be still existed was thrilling.

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. Anais Nin 

My reconnection to Larry and myself is a long story. I made it a three-part series; you can read it here, here, and here.

There would be consequences that cascaded like stones in a river, each ripple a testament to the upheaval that would reshape the landscape of my existence.

I'll start with the first consequence and the one that pains me to his day. 

I broke my kids' hearts. 

As the person who always protected my kids—probably too much if you ask them—I failed to protect them from me. My actions catapulted them from a secure life into something confusing, foreign, and unsettling. The divorce has impacted them in their adulthood, and aftershocks are their stories to tell. I wished that there had been another way, a way that wouldn't have wounded them. That is my greatest regret.

I became a pariah.

Divorces were not a thing in my homogenous upper-middle-class neighborhood. No one I knew left their spouse, and no one ever complained or said anything negative about their marriage. I was in uncharted territory.

I lost friends fast. During the separation and divorce, my support system dwindled to two girlfriends, neither of whom lived nearby. They were my lifelines, taking turns calling me daily and holding space for all of my pain. 

Larry was a soft place to land as I extracted myself from my marriage. I never would have made it without his support. I wish I had been strong enough without him, but that wasn't my path. 

Alliances shifted like sand in the wind. 

Right away, things changed. One of my closest neighborhood friends no longer welcomed me into her home. I had stopped by one day, standing outside, as my friend opened the door a quarter of the way, her small daughters at her sides. I suspected she was creating distance between us, but now I could see it through her front door.

I wouldn't be invited inside her home again. Her husband was my ex's ally, and it became impossible for her and I to stay friends. 

My actions upset the apple cart, putting my friend in a terrible position of choosing between me and her husband. I don't blame her a bit, but I was despondent about losing our friendship.

Men despised me.

There was no visible scarlet letter, but leaving my husband branded me. My friends’ husbands either spoke minimally or ignored me altogether. I think they thought what I had was contagious and wanted to keep their distance. The men were right because two female friends were motivated to start their divorces after I started mine and came to me for help.

I lost my Church community, which was not only my sanctuary but my identity.

I was a Eucharistic minister, a prayer retreat organizer, and a teacher for adults wanting to become Catholics. 

No one from the church I loved sent a note or called. Either I was a leper, or I had only imagined that I had once mattered as a congregation member. Once outside on the church lawn, I greeted a fellow male Eucharistic minister, who looked right through me as if I weren’t there. I repeated myself, giving him the benefit of the doubt, but still no response.

I made an appointment with the pastor to tell him everything, hoping for counsel. He told me that Larry and I breaking up when we were 23 and 22, respectively, was the root of my problem and that I should get used to feeling ashamed and embarrassed.

I deserved everything that happened to me.

I was on my own. I stopped going to church, and no one ever missed me.

I lost my parents, who were the only family I had in the United States.

Even though I expected my mother’s wrath, it still hurt when she became venomous. The pillar of judgment, my mother, was infuriated that I was doing this to my family. She sent me daily emails calling me the worst names used for adulterers and telling me how ashamed she was.

No matter your age, your mother's words matter to you. I blocked her when I could not take any more of her scathing notes. (I've written about my mother's lifelong struggle with untreated mental illness here.)

My mother then directly worked to turn my children against me. She wasn't successful, but it was a new low for her. I hadn’t seen that one coming.

Wherever she went, she told acquaintances, friends, and church parishioners about her disgrace of a daughter.

I couldn't have asked for a worse foe.

After three blissful years of no contact with my parents, their lives imploded. My father died ten months after that fateful day when his sanity broke, and he violently pushed her to the ground after 53 years of marriage.

For the next eight years, I took care of my mother, my worst and longest-standing enemy, through her dementia.

But back to the consequences of the divorce….

With no parents or local friends to support me, I felt unmoored. I no longer had a sense of home because my kids now traveled between my ex’s house and my new one. Oh, how I missed them when they weren’t with me.

The first house I moved into was a few blocks from our family home. It was a quick bike ride for my son and also on the school bus’ daily route.

A year later, when the owner decided not to rent the house, I had to uproot myself and the kids again. Not long after moving into the new place, I discovered this landlord was underwater on his mortgage and had stopped paying the utilities.

I received notices on my door saying the utility would shut off the water unless the landlord paid the outstanding bills. Foreclosure notices came in the mail. Alarmed, I wondered if I would return home one day with my children and be locked out. After repeated calls, the landlord eventually paid the utilities but not the mortgage. Once I got married, I moved out of there before the banks foreclosed on the property.

Photo by Heyn Photography

After losing my parents, friends, neighbors, home, and Church community, I made it, thanks to the support of my husband Larry and the friends who were there for me.

As I look back at the entire tapestry of my life, I can see from the perspective of the present moment that every aspect of my life was necessary and perfect.  Each step eventually led to a higher place, even though these steps often felt like obstacles or painful experiences.

Wayne Dyer

Fear has since loosened its grip on me.

The horrors of being an outcast have been realized. Yet amidst the wreckage, seeds of resilience sprouted, and I forged a new uncharted path. Sometimes, I think I can do anything after losing so much and surviving.

Not just surviving, but thriving.

Leaving my old life has been the basis for my life now and has led to surprising twists. I became a yoga teacher, a Master Gardener, and a wordsmith weaving tales of transformation.

Each endeavor is a testament to my rebirth. I am so grateful for it all and the life I have now.

It has been therapeutic for me to write and share this. Remembering what happened made me cry, too. But I refuse to be ashamed of my story. Wishing my life was rainbows and lollipops, like what we see on Instagram, is useless. I hope that by owning my story, you can embrace yours, too.

I want to remind you that you've been through some things that have molded you into who you are today. We are not defined by mistakes we made a long time ago. We can always start anew.

Do you believe me? I hope so. I wish you much love and support every day.

Thank you for reading!

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If you listened to Rashidah Cartwright’s story on last week’s podcast, you know she’s doing great work through her podcast, “Autism for Badass Moms.” Rashidah has four school-aged children, two of whom are living with autism, while working a full-time job and producing a weekly episode.

Please consider casting a vote for her podcast on the 28th Annual Webby Awards People’s Voice by clicking here.