I Walked Out of My Marriage and Into My Own Life

I never pictured myself alone at 29. I had grand visions of the perfect marriage, the perfect house, the perfect everything. No plans for how to get those things, but I had a vision. I knew what I wanted, and I figured that that was half the battle. But alone at nearly 30, that was never part of the goal.

Problem was, I never really created a picture of what I wanted of myself in all this. There was always some man that was going to fit the bill, some job that was going to be wildly lucrative, and some insane lifestyle that I had no idea how to fund. But for me? I never really did the work on me. I never really got to know me.

So when I got married and came to discover that I did have actual wants and needs that were quite different from those of my spouse, I was a tad surprised. For some reason, I had assumed that in all our time of dating and living together, that our key goals and personality traits had come out. That wasn't entirely the case.

So when 29 came, and I found myself standing on the edge of the desert looking out at my husband's car speeding away in a cloud of dust, I was mildly shocked. Mildly. I had, after all, kicked him out. The less mild experience was the grief.

The grief nearly swallowed me whole. That first night I crumpled to the floor in a heap and sobbed into the silence. That first night I found his pack of cigarettes laying on his desk, and I smoked every single one. That first night I drank a bottle of wine and laid on my back and stared at the stars, though the air was far too cold to be doing that. That first night, I didn't sleep, and it took many nights before I really did again.

The grief came in waves. I remember standing in the supermarket sobbing over a block of cheese because I had just been ready to call him to see if he wanted that type. I remember coming home to ask him what to make for dinner only to realize that the choice was entirely mine, and that realization launched yet another deluge of tears. There were smells to remember and learn to walk away from, colors that drew me in and made me hurt when I realized why I had noticed them, and times of year that were more dear to me than others.

People said that time would heal my wounds, but it wasn't time so much as choices. I learned which cheeses I liked on my own. I chose which dinners to make because I liked them, and I drastically reduced the amount of meat I was cooking (I'm now vegetarian).

I rebelled against doing the dishes for about three days, and then in a maddened cleaning frenzy washed everything and never did that again. I cut my hair shorter than it had ever been, and I marveled at how easy it was to get ready in the morning. I reclaimed my seasons, and made new memories on my own celebrating my move forward. They were small choices, many of them born out of pure contrariness, but they were mine.

I went from finding solitude exhausting to finding it exhilarating. I cherished my newfound opportunities to challenge myself and break my boundaries. I lost weight, I started learning a new language, and I confess that I rewatched Eat, Pray, Love more times than any sane woman really ought to have.

However, I found my peace through being alone. I had never allowed myself to break so thoroughly before, or to rebuild myself so completely. I wasn't unmarked by the journey. I just learned to walk with it. I learned to wear my scars rather than nurse my wounds.

Loneliness can be so debilitating, but I found my strength in it. Like these footprints left behind by some lone wanderer, it was my isolation that made it so that I could weather the storm and survive. Had I had others with me, some of what has become my will and my fortitude might have crumbled. I might have changed to make others happy, but for the first time in my life, I am entirely my own.