My primary care physician, as usual, asked some questions. Am I seeing anyone? One man for 6 months now. He is 50, divorced, has children and doesn’t want more. Me? 44, divorced for an entire year, content to remain childless. I stick to Plan A, which hasn’t changed since I was in my teens and 20s. As usual, the plan is to not get pregnant. Some things change as I get older, but some things do remain the same.

Birth control method? Tracking my fertility by watching mucus–sounds gross but it’s easy–and knowing when I ovulate. Occasional naked sex when it’s safe, but definitely using condoms or other equally entertaining activities when I’m fertile. Am I OK with this, with the risk? Well, yes. It’s been my method for 15 years. And it has some benefits.

My lover is older and has problems maintaining an erection. Is this normal for middle-aged men? I don’t know, I’ve never fucked one regularly before. It hasn’t been a problem so far, other than presenting some condom difficulties. But we’re monogamous, and there are so many ways to have fun, so many options to make him cum, why limit ourselves to latex-sheathed sex?

And it’s simple. Just remember: No Naked Fucking When Fertile.

The only doubts in my mind about the mucus method are two: first, it’s too freakin’ easy. Nothing to prescribe, nothing to insert, no side effects. Why don’t more people do this? Maybe it’s the fact that there’s nothing to purchase, nothing to sell. I mean really, even the stirrups on the exam table in the doctor’s office carry drug company advertisements for birth control pills (as if THAT’S a positive association for a product!). Free birth control seems so, well, anti-capitalist. Is it so radical to know when you’re fertile? Do we really trust a company to control our fertility more than we trust ourselves?

Which brings up the second doubt: do I trust myself to understand my fertility? If it doesn’t work, if my earth-mother, radical feminist tendencies prove wrong, the result is pregnancy. While not a complete disaster in my situation, it could never be considered a desired outcome.

Happily, after asking her questions and listening to my explanations, my physician offered to prescribe a backup, a failsafe, an alternative. I was completely unprepared for it. I had just forgot that it was an option. But now, after hearing about it in the news, listening to people imagine its misuse, and supporting it from afar, I have it. Take the first pill within 72 hours after the “event,” then take the second pill 12 hours later. That’s it.

My Plan A remains solidly in place. I check mucus daily, and my dedication to the NNFWF method grows every bloody month. But it is helpful to know, reassuring in fact, to have a real, workable, actual, Plan B (generic of course).

For more info see:

Planned Parenthood

or

Our Bodies Ourselves

Silly. Dating in your 40s is so different from dating as a teenager or in your 20s. I don’t know what it would have been like in my 30s–I was married by then–but I’m sure it too would have had it’s own special flavor. I’m just pleased to be where I am finally. It’s so much easier to be older (in some ways).

There are no rules to relationships post-divorce, post-adolescent, post-trauma. Every situation is distinct and everyone I know is making it up as we go. What else can you do?

40s+ friends dilemmas include: a divorced mother of 1 dating a widower with 2 kids; a widow dating her boss; and a single woman dating a man who is divorcing months after they got pregnant on one drunken night, she aborted the pregnancy, stopped talking to him, then he finally left his wife. And I just met two more women: a single woman living with a divorced man with 3 kids, dealing with his ex-wife who has substance-abuse problems; and a divorced mother of 3 who has been dating a widower with 3 daughters for 1 year, and his eldest daughter is getting married. Then there’s my friend who started this story, living abroad and having (ending?) an international affair with a married, globe-trotting banker. And me of course, divorced woman with a house, job, and cat, helping my boyfriend (is that what he is now?) through his own divorce.

I am so grateful for my friends. Their complicated emotional lives show the incredible capacity of our hearts. Who cares about rules when we are able to love so much?

post-divorce relationship–if that’s actually what it is, of course it is, has it been a couple of months now? he is different: older, with kids, separated, divorce-in-process. don’t let it mean too much? just enjoy it for what it is? but what is it, exactly?

it is what it is. connection. fun. interesting. good sex (yahoo!). a distraction? great food. an education. a challenge. nice. healing.

it’s good to heal and move along.

And now, after maybe 5 years of chopping and swinging a machete wildly to clear enough space to see, I stand surrounded by dead branches and broken twigs, dripping sweat as leaves still make their way to the ground. And I still can’t see. But at least I can stop hacking away for a while and catch my breath. Time to relax, listen, and figure out what to do next.

Grief, happiness, confusion, loss, relief all happening too. And hope, that darned hope that won’t go away despite all attempts to live in the present. Looking forward to the new country of post-divorce, hopeful that it will be a better place, where I fit. And of course a place where I can think beyond my own head. It will be nice to move beyond the narrow emotional space of surviving.

And a date date would be nice, could be interesting. Am I ready? Maybe I should get through the divorce first. That’s enough to keep me busy this week. I’ll think about dating next year

The other morning for breakfast was a chapter titled “Hopelessness and Death,” a cheerful way to start the day, no? It’s still causing my brain to twist, in a good way, about the idea of hope and recognizing that it comes out of lacking, missing, need. At its source hope is always wishing for something other than what we have. So the idea is to get to a state of complete hopelessness, to be with out hope, which would mean that you are with the moment, experiencing what is real rather than what is desired.

I have some issues with this. Hope is an important concept these days, not one to be tossed away lightly. It has also been very motivating for me throughout my life, and having it has allowed me to create and move forward. But, on solely an emotional level, I see that it would be healthier for me to focus on what I have, rather than what I don’t have. Doing that has cleared my head a bit (for today at least!).

For example I’ve been obsessing over men I’ve recently met. They are not my friends, not really, not yet. They’re just guys that have come into my life. I keep trying to use them to fill in something that’s missing, the role my husband used to play? But there really isn’t anything missing. I’m OK on my own, maybe a little sad and lonely, but pretty much OK. And if these acquaintances want to be my friends, then those friendships will develop, but they need to grow naturally, not forced out of my desperation.

The other helpful buddhist read lately is Thich Nhat Hanh, a monk. In a chapter called Aimlessness he says “don’t just do something, sit there.” I laughed out loud when I read this. I try so hard, too hard, so often. All out of desperation. Sometimes it IS better to relax with it, sit back, and let things happen. Most often it is NOTHING that happens, but that can be a good thing too. Much less stressful.

Of course this is all built on top of the foundation of compassion towards self, an attempt to forgive myself and not judge. It’s ok to feel desperate, lonely, and dysfunctional. There’s nothing wrong, that’s just how I am right now.

Anyway, a cliff’s notes version of what’s rolling around in my head. It’s been useful to clear out some of the frantic energy, the emotional debris. Although that may have been replaced with a more serious depression, so I don’t know which is better.

For example, at a recent party for my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary, I had the painfully difficult experience of being the only solo (unattached? single?) adult present. No husband, as that would have been weird we are in the midst of divorce, and not really a good party for a date, as I am still married. Plus I was reminded that my siblings will soon celebrate 25, 20, and 7 years of married life (OK, the 7 is a second time around). I am pleased for them all, parents, brothers and sister, happy for the longevity of their commitments. But I was shattered at the same time. My own marriage lasted 10 years, no small feat. But no one acknowledged the accomplishment of my marriage, the one that is broken. Marriages are only celebrated while they still function. Despite the continued friendship that exists between my husband and I, the longevity of our marriage is irrelevant, and it makes our ending disturbing for everyone close to us.

Then it was off to an interesting visit with an old friend in SF. It was great to see her. She hasn’t changed at all really, just aged a bit (haven’t we all). Her husband is kind of quiet, but I only saw him one night at dinner, so all I know of him is from her complaints. Next time I see her I’ll insist she say good things so there will be a chance I will like him. The thing that gets me is that she’s been a vegetarian for over 25 years, and he’s a guy who “doesn’t like vegetables.” Like, how does that work? He refuses to go to her favorite restaurant–holy shit, an awesome vegan place on Geary and Jones called Millenium, pricey but out of this world fantastic. And yet she will go to his favorite steakhouse on his birthday and actually claim to like it–apparently there are excellent side dishes at Ruth’s Chris. My response is “huh?” Is this what we do for love? Or companionship? Or to avoid what I’m experiencing these days? Guess I’m not in the best place to hear complaints of other people’s marriages. I’m leaving that country. Don’t know why anyone would stay if it’s so bad.

And then there are the good marriages. The ones that give me hope and break my heart at the same time. Cat-sitting for a co-worker and his wife, seeing their beautiful home, their shared spaces, the evidence of their happiness. How can I not feel an overwhelming sense of failure when I walk into their house? All the things my husband and I could not do, did not do. Of course what I don’t see is just as important as what’s visible. But I’m not planning to search their closets. I prefer to keep my illusion of their happiness intact, because despite the difficulties it uncovers in me, it also makes clear that other options exist. There are possibilities beyond my experience. Thank god.

I look forward to crossing the border, to becoming an alien, a foreigner again to married life. I don’t know what I’ll call myself–single, divorced, solo. But whatever it turns out to be, I’m looking forward to the journey. I’ll be truly happy to get on with it.

Do people actually celebrate after filing for divorce? It’s what I imagined I would do. Nice lunch, glass of wine, flirty waiter. Instead I left work abruptly, came home, and laid on the couch for 6 hours. There might have been beer involved, but definitely no flirting. I basically freaked out. My anxiety was completely unexpected.

It has to do with the split in my life, the chasm, the emotional freefall that has accompanied leaving my husband in a place where I have no support network. No one to catch me, hold me, comfort me, help me close what feels like a torn apart, gaping chest wound. The bleeding heart, the darkness of depression, the ugly process of ending a marriage.

This is where the divorce gurus come in. They reassure me that I will feel better. They tell me that it’s OK for me not to be ready to date yet, but that I will be someday. They acknowledge the confusion, accept it as normal, suggest it will recede. They start to heal the torn heart, they calm the splitting head, they put the feet back on the ground. Everyone needs a guru. Or two.

So now I wait for the state to determine a date for my marriage to be over. I wait for a judge who doesn’t know me to decide if I can keep my house or if it has to be sold to split its meager value with my husband. I wait for the time that I can hand over the wedding ring that belonged to his family. And I talk to my gurus. They are the only clear path that I can find.

rock me, sleeping in the sun

to an old place made new.

Orchards with apples red, heavy branches,

fields green and rolling.

Wind through trees

hair in my face as I climb

then look down

at waves and sand and water west to the horizon.

Take me back to Heart’s Desire

where we swam with jellyfish

in great white breeding grounds

Zen gardens by the sea.

History cut, snapped

Blood stopped, body fractured

Mind undone.

This is my state.

Sometimes though, on random days, less desperation slips through. I don’t know why. Maybe the guards are more fully staffed, the equipment all cleaned and in working order. Or maybe the anxiety that presses against the fence is less than usual, calmed, resting, on holiday. Could it really be because of the increased border patrol, at the ready? Or is the need actually lessened, better managed in its native land?

Can we look through the fence to see what is there, to identify the cause of the anxious refugee tide? Could there be fewer guards by lessening the need for the migration? By addressing the poverty and desperation at its source? By understanding the problem, and by dealing with it?

No wave crashing at the checkpoints, climbing the wall, becoming entangled on the barbed wire and caught on the shards of glass that crown the barriers. No fortified perimeter, no guards, no fear, no terror. Just a border that functions as the abstract boundary that it is, between here and there, in and out, a line in the desert.

My borders are so open these days.