Something more important than fear

"Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the assessment that something else is more important than fear." - Franklin D. Roosevelt

I told the Addict today that I want to move forward with divorce. 

It's something I have been resisting, because parts of me don't want to do it. It's so hard to let go of everything—the past and the future I thought I had and that I wanted. It's terrifying, but it's the next rational step, and all I've been doing is putting it off. The Addict has shown so much disregard for me, my health, my emotional and psychological well-being, my explicitly stated boundaries and my anguished pleas to him to just not lie to me again. There's no universe in which it makes sense for me to give him ANOTHER chance. The avenue of repair has been exhausted. Nothing can change what he has done to our relationship. I pray often for the serenity to accept what I cannot change and courage to change what I can. This is that. This is both of those things, no matter how painful it is. 

People treat you the way you let them treat you. He has crossed so many boundaries so many times that there is just no going back, no matter how many parts of me want it not to be true. I have to take responsibility for finding myself where I am. I don't regret the choices I made, but I also cannot make the same choices again, because I don't want the same result.

I'm also terrified that Son will never forgive me. He doesn't know the details, which I've kept from him on purpose. I don't want to damage his relationship with his father by giving him intimate information that really doesn't involve him. (Mental health experts have also advised this.) The Addict is still a good father, and I believe he'll continue to be a good father, no matter how short he has fallen as a husband, partner and friend. But I think Son will see this outcome as a result of me not being willing to work on making things better. He said as much when I admitted to him—after he asked—that I was dating. "I guess Dad has more faith than you," he said, or something like that. I hope someday he'll understand that I did everything I could and more. But I can't give up my self and my self-respect by giving the Addict yet another chance when he's shown willing disregard for me on so many levels over decades. I know this is the better way for both me and Son, but I don't know if or when he'll see it that way.

My gut is churning and my heart is breaking. This is not what I wanted for my life. Not what I wanted for my son. Not what I wanted for my family. I didn't choose this and I didn't cause this. But I have to deal with the fallout.

But I guess this kind of unexpected turn of events is part of life. My situation is not unique. Finding out you have a terminal illness, getting killed or paralyzed in a car accident, losing your child: so many things one cannot control can and do happen. Our opportunity is to face them head-on with a calm, open heart, being present to life as it is—including the pain, sadness and anguish—and finding peace, serenity and happiness in the fleeting and groundless reality of human existence.

What is important? That is the question it forces. 

I have this moment. I can face each moment and sit in any discomfort and choose to be and to feel and to experience and to love instead of reacting to escape the discomfort, retreating into whatever will numb, dull or deflect the pain that is part of my whole human experience. 

Why do that? 

I'm not entirely sure. But I think it has something to do with the profound experience of being present. Being present in the fullness of the moment, with all the pain and joy and confusion and fear that can be there, feels like the best gift I can give. It's the most vulnerable I can be, and also the most powerful at the same time. Submitting to the reality of what it means to be alive means I can more fully experience life. I think.

I guess I'll find out. 

I am strong. I am grateful for so many things. I'm grateful to be alive, grateful for Son, for my family and friends, and even for the Addict, who provided so much that was good for so long, in spite of whatever else he was doing. I'm grateful for my life experiences, for the ability to support myself, for my house, for my job, for my electric car, for my health, for being born in this country and this moment in history. The list of things I can feel gratitude for is long. I am lucky. I am alive and I am loved. I'm a human being in this moment in time in the fleeting instant that humanity represents against the billions of years that is the lifetime of the universe. Maybe the "reward" for being present to it all is the experience of grasping for a moment how precious it all is.