Finding Our New Normal

I'll admit my journaling gets a little hit and miss at this point. I was officially a single mom. I would compare that first week of becoming a single mom to the first week of having your first baby. You have no idea what you're doing, but you're shell-shocked and operating on pure adrenaline, so you're getting by. I apologize if my words aren't as well organized from this point forward. 

For the first few days after Jon moved out, he would drive back to Raymond in the evenings to see the kids and help with bedtime. After nearly a week of this I asked him to please stop, as this really wasn't sustainable and the kids needed to begin getting used to our new normal. Usually after he'd leave I'd spend another hour with my oldest girls. They would tearfully ask me why things had to be this way, why I couldn't forgive their dad, and why did dad break promises that made him have to leave. I chose to elaborate a little to our oldest, Sheriff, asking her what she knew about the promises you make when you marry someone. When you're married, should you kiss other people? Should you fall in love with other people? She answered with a stern "No!" To which I explained that these were things that her dad had done. After a pause, she asked again, "But can't you forgive him? I know he's sorry and he wouldn't do it again!" And then I broke her heart a little more, telling her how I had forgiven him once before when she was a newborn baby. 

These conversations killed me. How do you balance protecting the innocence of childhood and helping your kids make sense of what's happening? Why their world as they know it has broken into a place of despair and confusion? I honestly won't know if I handled things right until my kids are grown and look back on this time in their childhood. But if you're wondering what I did, it's this: I cried openly with them, I let them know how sad and hurt I was too; I acknowledged that I wished things were different too; and, despite not knowing what the true outcome would be yet, I made a conscious effort to never say anything that would give them the idea that mom and dad might get back together. And after a time of acknowledging our pain and grieving together those nights, I did my best to swing the conversation to something positive. What do you want to try? If you could do anything, what would it be? 

Which is how my kids ended up doing the most random, and admittedly expensive, extra-curricular activities that spring. Logan and Gibb did rock climbing (and Zuzu too, ha, we paid drop-in for her and she got to pretend she was in the class). Sheriff did horse riding. My parents often told me I was too soft of a mother, that I let my kids get away with too much. Little did they know, separating from Jon made me even softer. If I couldn't give my kids a home with a mother and father who stayed together, I would do everything in my power to give them anything else I could. 

Shortly after Jon moved out, it was Zuzu's birthday. By now, I had been pregnant long enough to share the news with the kids. I decided to do this by giving Zuzu a shirt that said "Big Sister" for her birthday. Unfortunately, I made the rookie mistake of putting the t-shirt in the same bag as her real, toy present. When she opened it, she literally grabbed the shirt and threw it over her shoulder. We had to stop her from digging the toy out of the bag and redirect her attention to the shirt. Even the older kids who could read were too preoccupied with seeing what was in the bag. After showing the kids what the shirt said, it still took them awhile to really grasp what we were trying to say. Eventually Logan caught on and the kids got what we were saying. "You're having a baby?!" It was the most underwhelming pregnancy announcement ever. 

Worth mentioning is the fact that Jon was still a (semi-) welcome guest at my parents house. Zuzu's birthday festivities happened at my mom and dad's. Jon sat at the table with us for dinner. In fact, I'm pretty sure he shared a Sunday dinner or two with us as well after he moved out. I owe my parents, especially my mom, a debt of gratitude for allowing this. From the very get-go all of my decisions have revolved around "what is best for my kids?" And that answer has always been helping facilitate a relationship with their dad and striving to have "normal" family time despite our "less-than-normal" circumstances. I realize now that what I asked of my family, to choose peace for the sake of my kids, was an incredibly big thing to demand. Although I may have been cut the deepest, they too were aching to see someone they loved be hurt. Yet I demanded that they ignore their pain and be around Jon for my kid's sake. I'm sorry I asked so much. But I'm so, so grateful you complied.

And then one week had passed. I had survived one whole week of being a single mom. Of working part-time, running a home, caring for kids, all the single mom things. And truth be told, it was the easiest week of the entire year. I mean no harm or offense in saying this, but it literally felt like I had one less kid to take care of. And I realize that I am partially to blame for that. Over the 10+ years of our marriage, I had become the type of partner that looks after their spouse like a child. Instead of asking for help, I had rationalized why Jon was too busy or couldn't do something as well as me, so I should just do it myself. Jon didn't just become this person, I helped him, heck, I might have even pushed him to it. And that's not healthy for a relationship. But in my defense, there had been times in the past that I tried to communicate grievances or hardships and Jon would just shut down. I had been conditioned to grin and bear it, because trying to talk through things was never worth the trouble and inevitable silent treatment.

HELL

Quite frankly, I don't know how to write about this without disassociating a little and robotically regurgitating what I remember. So, here goes nothing.

After telling Jon he needed to move out as soon as possible, he was able to reach out to a friend at school and secure a room in his apartment. He would be moving out the coming Thursday and Friday when he had spare time. Thus, on Monday, it was time to start preparations. After the kids were in bed, I had arranged to go speak with our landlord to let him and his wife know the state of affairs. Before I left, Jon got a little emotional. His actions and their consequences were suddenly clear and he began to realize there were things he would inevitably miss if he was no longer living with the kids and I. "When I was helping Zuzu get dressed this morning I realized one day she's just not going to need a pull-up anymore and I'm not going to be here for that," he said as tears ran down his face. I was crying too. This, THIS type of realization was what I waited so long for Jon to have. The understanding that his selfishness was going to cost him dearly. But it never came until it was too late, and even then, I don't believe this dawning on him earlier would have been enough to convince him to fight for our marriage. He had convinced himself so thoroughly that he was unhappy with me, that he couldn't see how happy he was with his kids. 

As Jon and I stood in the kitchen wiping tears from our cheeks, our oldest two daughters wandered in and were alarmed to see both mom and dad crying. Oh, it's nothing! Don't worry about it. We'll explain a little later. Go back to bed. I can't imagine the amount of trepidation that filled their sweet hearts after seeing something like that, but they obeyed. After that I drove to the landlord's house. I had tears already streaming down my face as I knocked at their door. They quickly whisked me into another room and both husband and wife sat with me. I managed to choke out that Jon had cheated, that we were separating, that he was moving out, that I would be moving in with my parents eventually. They were shocked, speechless, and tears streamed down the other woman's face as well. There was a small silver lining to this though. My landlord also happened to be a very good friend and the Stake President, the church leader that presides over all the Latter-day Saints in Raymond and the surrounding area. He offered me a priesthood blessing which I gratefully accepted. Not a day has gone by that I have not felt the strength and power that that blessing endowed me with. 

Some other preparations included speaking to the Principal at my children's school. I gave him a heads up even before my kids found out. It was important to me that their teachers be aware of their pain and struggles and that they have access to the school counsellor. I also sat down with my boss. My work at the junior high started at 7am two days a week. Without Jon in the home to get the kids on the bus, I wouldn't be able to get to work that early. Both principals were kind and understanding.

On Tuesday my daughters were still curious about the night before, asking why Jon and I had been crying. Again, we tried to soothe them into not worrying about it, that they would find out soon enough as we had decided to tell them the night before Jon moved. After putting my kids to bed, I went to a friend's house. I was bawling before I even arrived as it dawned on me while driving that I had just experienced the last "normal" bedtime with my kids before their hearts would be broken and their worlds changed. I'm grateful to have spent this evening with friends who opened their ears and arms to my pain.

And then it was Wednesday. Perhaps I haven't encountered enough pain in my life to accurately gauge things, but this was without a doubt the most painful, devastating night of my life. My daughter's curiosity was killing them by this point. We reassured them we would tell them at bed time. I'm fairly certain Jon and I were both crying by the time pajamas were on, teeth were brushed, and prayers were said. We sat in the basement living room of our house, the floor was littered with toys. I sat on one side of the room, Jon on the other. And then we broke their hearts. Dad is moving out. He's going to live in Lethbridge. He has broken important promises and has to leave.

I'm trying so hard not to feel things while I type, to be the robot I said I would. I've said before that I've forgiven Jon, but maybe that is inaccurate. I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive him for making me face this moment in my life, where we ended a small portion of the ignorance and delight of our kid's childhoods. This hour or so of a Wednesday evening in March will forever be my most personal version of Hell. Everyone cried, everyone except Zuzu. She played with the toys while our words and new reality floated blissfully over her head. Occasionally she would ask a question, she was upset that dad was leaving, but really didn't grasp the reality of that. As for the older three kids, they alternated between Jon and I. Sheriff came to me BEGGING me to forgive Jon and let him stay. Logan clung to Jon for dear life and choked out through tears that she wished this was a dream, that she wished this wasn't real. Gibb begged his dad not to go, to stay. I may never understand how Jon didn't foresee that all of his actions were leading to this very moment. And it was all avoidable. I had waited as long as I did, I let him hurt me and crush me as long as he did so I could prevent that night from happening. 

There have been times where I'll flashback to this night with such vivid recollection that it feels like I'm back in that basement. My chest will get tight like someone is sitting on me and my eyes will fill with tears before I even realize what's happening. Is this what is referred to as a panic attack? PTSD?

We let the kids skip school the next day. My sweet Sheriff set to work making a list of all the things we needed to do as a family one last time before Dad moved out. Unfortunately, Jon was so busy packing that he only participated in half of one activity. I honestly can't remember what else we did that day. Jon came back to help with bedtime, but after leaving I remained in Sheriff and Logan's room for at least an hour trying to console them through my own tears. On Friday my parents had the kids and I sleep over so they could help me with bedtime. Gibb had been holding up okay, but after not seeing Jon really at all that day he broke. Instead of tears, he rampaged for an hour. He screamed, he threw things, he hit me, he yelled at me. And I stayed with him and just took it, stopping him from wrecking anything or really hurting me, but staying until his anger turned to anguish. When he finally calmed down I held him as he broke and admitted that he was so, so sad and missed his dad so much. I cried with him. I cried a lot with my kids.

Let There Be Light

Mid-Marchish last year I took a trip to Calgary with the kids while Jon stayed home to study. My sister Hannah was visiting from Tofino, so we spent time with her and the kids had fun with their cousins. I was so spoiled the entire time I was up there. Jon's sisters watched my kids so I could spend time with my sisters. We shopped, we ate out, we visited. My mind was distracted. I even got a massage, it was so wonderful I fell asleep during it and woke myself up when I snored. When it was finally time to drive home we were all tired from playing so hard for two days. I texted Jon to let him know we were on our way. He let me know he was going to a friend's house in Lethbridge, but would be home when we got there so he could help me put the kids to bed.

As I made the trek back to Raymond, I texted Jon two more times to let him know where we were. We just turned onto the Granum road. We're passing through Lethbridge now. We also had each other on "Find My Friends," so I was sure he'd be keeping track on that too. As I got closer to home and watched him on "Find My Friends," I began to realize he wasn't going to beat us there. In fact, he wasn't moving at all. Fortunately, my mom and sister came home with me to help unload four exhausted and grumpy kids and get them ready for bed. 

It's hard to describe what I felt at that moment, as I wrestled my sleepy babies from the van, into their pajamas, into their beds. As they cried because it was uncomfortable to be woken up and taken from the warm van. As they asked me where their Dad was. As I could feel how angry my mom and sister were for me while they helped. As I kept looking at a stupid blue dot on my phone that refused to move and acknowledge where it should have been. I probably felt every emotion you could imagine: anger, disappointment, frustration, self-pity, and more.

It wasn't until after the kids were in bed and my mom and sister gone that Jon texted me. He had missed my texts, he was sorry, he was on his way home. Half an hour later he sheepishly walked through door, apologizing that he didn't get home in time to help. By then I was half numb, but knew we needed to talk. I told him he hadn't given me any sign that he wanted our marriage to work. His response infuriated me: "You haven't either." And there it was. The indignation, the fury, the wrath of a woman more than slighted, thawed from the permafrost of courtesy and etiquette. 

What happened next could best be described as a monologue; I wish the words that flowed from my mouth could have been transcribed for me to read over again and again. I told Jon it wasn't my job to let him know I wanted to stay married, I wasn't the one who had messed up. I hadn't wandered, he had. I was offering him an olive branch all this time to step up, to step back in, while he had been vainly waiting for me to beg him or something, who knows. I listed all the ways he could have let me know, all the ways he could have made amends, and he didn't. You could have apologized, you could have shown remorse. You could have deleted What's App, deleted her number, quit messaging her. You could have asked your clinical instructor to change your cohort so you wouldn't be around her. But you did NOTHING. I asked him if she had been at his friends. "Yes." Did you know she would be there? "Yes."

That was the last straw. There was the light. I had told him he could wait until the end of the semester to move out, but now he needed to leave ASAP. And the monologue continued. I told him we were pretty well passed the point of reconciling. That he had chosen the wrong thing over and OVER again. He could have stopped and made things right when I told him I was pregnant. But he kept cheating. He could have stopped when he saw how devastated and hurt I was when he wouldn't tell me he loved me. But he kept making the wrong choice. He could have stopped when I patiently and kindly talked to him when I found out he had a crush on someone, when I encouraged him to "get out of Vancouver." But he kept making the wrong choice. And even now, that night when I needed his help to unpack and put kids to bed, he made the wrong choice again. And he was speechless as per usual.

The Atonement

As I continued to "sit in the dark," waiting for a direction or any kind of inspiration, I could feel myself beginning to lean towards the direction of divorce. Instead of being relieved that my gut was finally telling me something, I found myself wondering why the scales weren't being tipped in the other direction. Why didn't I feel like repairing my marriage was the right thing to do? And because I'm a deep thinker, this triggered a whole Rube Goldberg mental machine of questions until I found myself asking the biggest question of all:

Do I not believe in the Atonement of Jesus Christ?

I'm fairly certain the majority of my readers are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but if there's someone who has ventured here and isn't, allow me to explain.

I am a stout and steadfast believer in and follower of Jesus Christ. I have a testimony in the reality of His existence and that He lives, even now, as a resurrected being. I believe in the miracles He has performed and continues to perform. I strive daily to emulate His example of love and kindness. Teaching my children about Jesus and how to be like Jesus is my life's biggest priority. I am humbled by the magnificent gift of His Atonement and believe that because He died for me, I am able to be perfected in Him. Not yet on this earth, but each week as I partake of His sacrament I am given the divine gift of renewal, a fresh start, a clean slate. Unfortunately, because I'm human, I mess up. I yell at my kids, I swear under my breath, I think something unkind. But each and every week that I remember Him and take the sacrament, I get another chance to do my best. To begin again. To forgive myself. To try to do better. I believe all of this and I'm immensely grateful for it. As a recovering perfectionist, it is such a breath of fresh air to be able to accept Jesus' grace and offer the same to myself. It's okay to not be perfect, it's okay to try again. I am greedy for forgiving myself and getting a fresh start. Which brings us back to my dilemma: If I believe in forgiving myself and fresh starts through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, doesn't the same apply to my marriage? Do I not believe that I can forgive Jon and we can begin again? That my heart can be healed and made new?

The answers to those questions were incredibly complicated. Yes, I believed I could forgive Jon, I had done it once before. But no, I could never, ever see myself loving him with the same naive and reckless abandon that I had over a decade ago, or the same seasoned, calm, contented love I had come to know as we worked side by side to raise a family and build a life together. He was no longer a safe place for me. Yes, I believed my heart could be healed. But no, it could never be put fully in his hands again. The reality of my situation was beginning to dawn on me. No matter what forgiveness or healing I could find through the Atonement, I would be insecure, guarded, and hesitant with Jon for the foreseeable future.

In addition to these complicated yes-no answers, there was other rhetoric fogging my mind with confusion. My aunt I spoke to on Valentine's Day told me about forgiveness. About a woman who had forgiven her husband. About the Tutsi people of Rwanda who had survived the genocide and forgiven the very people who had killed their loved ones and families. What was I lacking if I couldn't comprehend the sort of forgiveness that enabled others to remain steadfast in their situations?

These weren't just passing thoughts. They weighed on me heavily. I'd cry trying to talk through my thoughts with my parents. I'd cry as I read my scriptures or wrote in my journal. It wasn't until I spoke with my Bishop that these thoughts were quieted.

I'm sure everyone thinks this, but I really do have the best Bishop. He checked in with me often. His family welcomed my kids over with open arms. Although it seemed like every time I sat down in his office I'd just cry and mumble, I really did leave feeling more direction and peace than when I entered. After explaining to him my confusion and doubts regarding saving my marriage, the atonement, and forgiveness, he made some really powerful points. First, that I don't need to reopen myself up again to be hurt to truly forgive someone. And second, just because divorce is the last choice I want to make, it's still not a wrong choice. I finally realized that Jesus never meant for His Atonement to be the reason someone continues to put themselves in a situation that hurts them time and time again. I can still believe in forgiveness and being made new AND protect myself.

That afternoon I left my Bishop's office with my doubts and fears quieted. If I had to pinpoint a moment where I realized that I was likely going to get a divorce, this was it. The light was beginning to appear. And less than a week later, Jon would do something that pushed me towards it.