The Deva Station

My last sharing was of Easter, of birth and joy.  That is one side of resurrection.  The other side is death and dying. 

A few months ago, my marriage died.  I realize now that it was on a lot of machinery to keep it alive.  Heart pumping machines and things that go "blip!"  But now its been laid to rest, like a cancer fighter, and we are all contemplating its death, meaning, and aftermath.

I'm a part of a group of several millions strong, as far as we can tell, of "straight spouses."  We are the heterosexual spouses of mixed-orientation marriages, whether the other spouse is gay, bisexual or transgender.  My ex-husband is bisexual, a thing we knew since before the beginning, before we were even friends.  And that is a kind of grace, really.  Having known from the beginning didn't help us stay together, but it does help with this aftermath, this devastation.

We knew for forever that my ex was attracted to men, but when we got married, that didn't matter.  The conservative Christian ex-gay movement was in full swing at the time, full of promises of overcoming and change, and we were in our 20s.  You know how the world looks when you're in your 20s; it's simply waiting for you to take it over.  And that's how we felt, then.  We would be unique, and we would be special.  We would be lucky and beat the odds.

I suppose we were indeed lucky and special, and we did beat the odds technically.  But we didn't beat reality.  The stories that many straight spouses tell are so often full of deceit, betrayal, disease, and cataclysmic denial / destruction.  Our story is less dramatic.  There was no betrayal, no dishonesty, no second life I didn't know about, no diseases that were precursors to uncovering the truth, no walking in on the spouse with someone else.  We have an awesome child together (and too bad we didn't push out a second one, because the DNA mixture turned out great!), and we don't hate each others' guts.  We still look out for each other, even now that we're dating other people.

But still.  It is de-va-sta-tion.  It's loss and a cause to question a lot of the past decade.   I'm 34, and supposed to be beginning that fore-mentioend world conquest.  But instead, I'm picking up pieces of a very large shattered vessel.  And cutting my fingers on the shards every now and then, while simultaneously trying to really live.

One thing I know.  This will NOT become a pity party.  I don't have time to be a diva.  This will simply be deva-station, not a diva-station.