Surviving Mediation
If I told you that the night before our divorce mediation, I found myself in my ex’s bed, what would you think? Scandalous, right? The start of a bad soap opera.
Turns out, I’m not that exciting. And while I was in my ex’s bed co-sleeping with my son, the absolute last place I thought I’d be, there was no nefarious tryst involved. Just renovation drama preventing us from moving into the new house for another three months. James’ father, in an effort to minimize all the transitions for his son, generously offered for us to live in his home for a few months while he found a smaller unit to rent, until the renovations were complete.
Still, it was a very strange place to find myself, navigating his new house, his master bedroom (with the bed still unmade…some things will never change), his closet, his bathroom (with the remnants of his shave sprinkled around the sink). And yet, it was the start of a new partnership that we were now embarking upon; helping each other for James’ healthy and happiness.
The next morning, I dropped James off at school, walked the dog quickly, and then parked next to my ex’s car, and we walked upstairs into the mediator’s office together.
For the next seven hours I sat in a stark white room with my lawyer across the table from me, tapping away at her computer and addictively checking her phone. When the mediator, in a snug tailored navy suit walked in, I introduced myself, and then proceeded to listen to him chat with my lawyer about the previous weekend’s football score. They were at the proverbial “water cooler,” while I sat frozen in my chair, reminding myself to breathe, and wishing I had remembered to bring tissues. They swapped stories about their stepchildren and ex’s (both had been married three times, which made me question their overall judgment) as I listed the four terms of our post-nuptial agreement James’ father and I had discussed two days prior.
I understand that being a divorce lawyer and mediator is a business, and our discussion was routine for them, but their light-hearted banter was hard to witness at the time; it was like having a funeral at a deli counter.
“How would you like the rest of your life to be sliced? Thin? Thick? You want a pint of Christmas holidays to go with that order, or a quart?” This was our lives they were casually referencing, and it was hard not to be offended. Even though James’ father and I agreed on all the terms, it still took all day of the mediator going back and forth for a document to be drafted and signed. Afterwards, I sobbed in my car.
I don’t know what I expected to feel at the end of the legal process. Honestly, I anticipated it to last a lot longer, the marathon everyone tells you to prepare for emotionally. Perhaps I envisioned toasting champagne and singing John Baptiste’s “Freedom” song on the porch with girlfriends? Or praising the heavens above in relief, as Nicole Kidman did in the parking lot when her divorce from Tom Cruise was finalized.
But the reality brought such a mixture of emotions: grief that the marriage was dissolved, relief with the completion of the financial and legal arrangement, fear about being ‘out on my own’ now with James, a sense of overwhelm from the whip lash of legal decisions that had been made so quickly, and sadness for James’ father. I felt grateful that James’ father was taking care of us in this way, that in the end he repaired some of the trust that had ruptured in our relationship. But that also came with sorrow, for this generous act had come at the conclusion of the marriage.
I waited in my car in the parking lot, crying into an old beach towel I found in the trunk, until James’ father came outside. I wanted to see how he felt emotionally and process some of what just happened. He came out smiling, unflustered. We hugged and I thanked him. We talked about grabbing a drink and discussing everything, but in the end, we were both too exhausted from the day, and I still had to get to the Teeter for groceries before James came home. We decided on meeting for lunch the following day.
Then I proceeded to run errands around town, crying behind my sunglasses, wanting some place to go with community, some type of ceremony to process what transpired, someone to hold me and tell me it was all going to be ok. Instead, I walked the aisles of the grocery store, frigid in their over-airconditioned produce section, trying to keep it together while I picked out broccoli florets.
That night, I texted James’ father to thank him; his response made me laugh for the first time in days. He said, “I was thinking; I know I’d never win an award for best husband but perhaps I can aspire to be the best ex-husband:)”
I responded, “It’s good to have aspirations;)”
The following nights, however, I would find myself awake at 3 am, terrified about the future: finding a full-time job in time to make ends meet, being the only person on the “raft” with James, making everything happen by myself. Of course, this fear is irrational; we have support with family and friends, and James’ father is in the picture, but still this “it’s all on me” fear presided, encouraging my worries to spin out of control.
I tried to remind myself, I’ve been doing this on my own for a long time, and now I know the answers I needed on how we’re going to move forward. But still I felt a panic attack looming, and my lack of sleep certainly contributed to this fun combination of anxiety and dread.
We don’t know what life holds in store for us, Maggie Smith states in her Substack, “For Dear Life.” She explains that at times she envies other people’s security in life, whether through their partnership with a spouse or their lucrative job, but her therapist reminds her, “That security, you know, is an illusion.” There are no guarantees in life.
Smith continues about the uncertainty of the future from her book, Keep Moving:
What I mean is that the future is empty even though we tell ourselves we’ve already filled it. We plan as if somehow those mental blueprints fill the future. We have to imagine some control over the future so that we can bear going there, into “the great wild beyond,” but the truth is, it’s impossible to predict. The life you’ve lived for the past five, ten, or twenty years may not be the life you live five, ten, or twenty years from now. The partner you expect to be there may or may not be there. The work you do now may change. The money you’re saving, the house you’re paying down, the apartment you hope to keep, the children you’re raising . . .
You see what I mean. Is this freeing or heartbreaking? Comforting or terrifying? All of it, all at once?
When I was married, I’d thought of my future as being full….But the future had always been empty. The future is no less uncertain now.
On my walk the next morning, I listened to Martha Beck’s “The Gathering Room,” discuss what to do when you’re caught between hope and fear. She spoke of her favorite book, The Tao Te Ching, which states, “Hope is as hollow as fear. Whether you go up the ladder or down, your position is shaky. When you stand with your two feet on the ground, you will always keep your balance.”
“Get off the ladder,” Martha advised through my headphones, “ground yourself in the present moment. Right now, you’re ok. In this moment, here, oh there it was, yes, you’re ok.”
As I continued walking, I watched my feet hitting the sidewalk beneath me. I looked out to the Ashley River, the full tide glossy in the morning light, and I breathed. I’m ok, I thought, James and I are going to be ok.
What is the future?
Everything that hasn’t happened yet, the future
is tomorrow and next year and when you’re old
but also in a minute or two, when I’m through
answering. The future is nothing I imagined
as a child: no jet packs, no conveyor-belt sidewalks,
no bell-jarred cities at the bottom of the sea.
The trick of the future is that it’s empty,
a cup before you pour the water. The future
is a waiting cup, and for all it knows, you’ll fill it
with milk instead. You’re thirsty. Every minute
carries you forward, conveys you, into a space
you fill. I mean the future will be full of you.
It’s one step beyond the step you’re taking now.
What you’ll say next until you say it.