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Morning Coffee and Divorce With a Stranger

There’s so much written about getting a divorce these days that sometimes I end up just wanting to puke up my oatmeal and rain it down on my Vans. There must be 600 things a day dripping down my Facebook feed alone, enough to make my skull crack open so that every last ounce of rational thought I might have been storing up there comes streaming out.

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But not very long ago, I was eating that stuff up. And you know what? I think it really helped save me from myself. I mean look, I’m getting unhitched and it hasn’t been easy. It rarely is. And I was a mess inside of myself for quite a while this past year. Some might even say I’ve been the definitive sad, modern son-of-a-bitch looking for some cheap soul redemption in the damnedest places, and hey, I can’t argue with that.

Yet, there are mornings when I sip my first cup of coffee and shoot myself off into beautifully caffeinated cyberspace when all of a sudden I just know I can’t keep sucking on the same old titty. Call it "coming out the other side" or whatever the hell you want to call it, but there I am, leaning on the laptop again, when I’ll suddenly feel like I’m at this new and original point in my life. It's an unexpected point, where if I even make one more feeble attempt at quick-scanning another evergreen "Elephant Journal" article about the mega-spiritual upside of having your heart bashed into raw burger meat, my mind is going to pop.

And I mean pop, as in balloon exploding and 10,000 flying Wizard of Oz monkey thoughts streaming out into my kitchen and scaring the sh*t out of my poor kids.

It’s a conundrum, no doubt.

However, I’m here to tell you that there’s something really sexy about being dominated when you’re down. There’s something seriously hot about being spoon-fed an endless variety of ways you’re supposed to think when you’re moving through divorce in real time. There really is. That’s the magic of writing and you don’t have to be some sort of Hemingway or Dickens to use words to soothe a couple people out there in the world when they’re possibly hurting and maybe could use a couple sentences that reflect the fact that lots of other people have had their asses kicked by love before too, even if you feel like you’re the very first.

There’s a strange comfort to be had in this world, even when you least expect it.

And listen, I don’t care what anybody says, because check this out. I’ve just lived this thing and this little reading groove I found for me, picking up what other people were laying down. It’s very miss-able magic. Look, let me put it to you like this:

When you’re me and you’re simultaneously waking up, having a slash, sucking down fresh hot joe, microwaving pancakes for the three honey badgers in the other room AND scanning the feeds for something from the tight white veiny yoga-bodied blogger nation who exist in the parallel dimension of their own mindful life, simply so that they can speak directly to me flopping around over here in my funny farm one, this Twin Towers of a marriage collapsing down all over my head, that’s not the worst way to start your day.

It’s really not.

It’s odd, but there’s a strange comfort to be had in this world, even when you least expect it. Going through a divorce, or any kind of a love affair bust-up for that matter, that’s the stuff that holds you down for a long time. You end up with this bad breath dominatrix and that ruins the whole thing, really. Walking out of a love affair with a heavy heart, there’s very little to feel horny about; your own heartache wears that kinky leather mask, your own sadness ties you to your own mattress posts. The turn-ons are few and far between.

But I wanted that for myself, I think, even if it was mostly subconscious. I wanted to eat the pain and really live inside the moment-to-moment paralysis that seemed to come over me when I realized she was serious, that she wasn’t in love with me the same way anymore. And I wanted to try and figure out how to crush every reality happening in my world with an alternate one where I could maybe fix it or erase it or turn back to something beautiful and real.

It was all pretty noble stuff, but who am I to say? I mean, I was honorable in my desires to reinvent myself, and us, too, but, there’s an egg timer hung from every single star in the sky, like it or not, and burnout is coming even if it takes a trillion years, and so as this past summer waned, I started feeling like I was wasting my time, like I was maybe even creating more pain, more gasoline to pour all over the smoldering wreckage.

So slowly, I started looking for words to help me out. I kind of felt this overwhelming need to be dominated by total strangers, pain veterans and heartbreak hall of famers. And that’s how I came to start reading as many things as I could find about getting a divorce, and then bouncing back from one.

There’s a very modern beauty emerging before our eyes, and down in all of this Internet Facebook feed morning coffee skimming stuff, that’s where she lives and really breathes.

And I’ll be damned, but what a difference it made in my life; I wish I could have a beer with so many of the writers and bloggers I read who write about surviving the hard parts. Hell, I wish I could make out on my couch with probably half of them. I owe them that much, don’t you think? Let me dominate you for a little while, Ms Yogabutt.

Miss 7 Things I Learned From Love That Dies.

Ahhh, it’s easy to laugh at things, I think, now that we’ve called it quits and the "sinking in" has passed, while the "sunken in" is hanging around these parts more and more with each passing day. I don’t read as many of the self-help-y stuff anymore, but fair enough. It’s there for the next person in line. And there are plenty of us, trust me. But I still read a few here and there, just to remind myself of who I am and what I’ve been through.

Overall though, I’m good.

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You know, I think there’s a very modern beauty emerging before our eyes, and down in all of this Internet Facebook feed morning coffee skimming stuff, that’s where she lives and really breathes. It’s why I feel this dominating urge to write my own divorce shit now, hoping it might find that certain set of eyes, if that makes sense.

That certain set of eyes that must be out there skimming away — sad skimming eyes sliding down some feed somewhere, as the kids clack toys in the background while the 7 a.m. cartoons jam up the silence with the sound of the unstoppable living.

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