Excerpted from Chapter 5:
THE “VOICE” Santa Rosa, Ca. Spring 1985
I yearned for a child. I longed to sleep with another man. Both seemed impossible. Weekly, I went to see Michael, the therapist. He helped me comprehend some of the bigger issues. Of course, there was the baby issue. That was by far the greatest question, but there were also others like Bob’s need for regimentation and my need for spontaneity. I’d return home and share with Bob the best I could, still without indulging my secret desire. Occasionally, he would join me, but not regularly. He viewed it as my problem. It was.
Letting the cat out of the bag regarding the baby issue was massive. Now my repression of anger, frustration, and sadness could be openly expressed. In the previous six years, my asthma had reinstated itself—after a ten-year lapse. I was attempting to hold down the emotional distress. It had to seep out. That was where asthma was my friend. It expressed my fears, angers, frustrations, and other uncomfortable emotions that I was too good to show. Repression and denial can only cover up for so long. Something will erupt to leak out the emotions held down. This is true with every good girl. My way was asthma.
That summer was one of the longest in my life. I’d gone to Tassajara as usual. I’d stopped and saw Larry on the way out of town. He handed me a pink rose, which I put in the trunk after arriving at Tassajara. Upon returning, Bob assisted me with the luggage. He opened the trunk and observed the wilted rose. He said nothing. Nothing! He didn’t get mad, sad, or inquisitive. He showed no emotion and acted as if nothing unusual had happened. I left the rose in the trunk unconsciously to see if Bob cared. I required some kind of reaction instead of his flat-lined behavior. Some emotion. Any emotion would do. I longed to be married to someone who was alive inside. Bob wasn’t and had never been. It had taken me this long to notice I was the one maintaining the energy.
Several years earlier, I’d said to him that I felt we had a superficial relationship. There wasn’t depth or intimacy. I had no idea how to inject those aspects into the relationship. At least I was trying. From the time of Bob’s father’s death, I’d begun a habit of voraciously reading self-help books, attempting to discover a better, happier way to live. They all contained good information. Many had ideas and strategies that worked. For a little while. But the issues were deeper than a self-help book could address.
Now I required counseling because I was scared and lost. I was angry at myself that it had taken so long to escape my goody-two-shoes consciousness. Good girls don’t get angry, so I would turn it into hurt. I did this well. It was a painful summer. We talked more than we had in the previous fifteen years. It wasn’t enough. We focused on the kid issue, which was paramount. There were other issues deeply buried that would come out years later.
I was feeling the pressure of my biological clock at age thirty-five. Today it’s a different story. In the eighties, having children past age forty was considered dangerous. Bob and I chose a date, six months away, which would cause a major life change either way. I wasn’t backing down this time. Though I loved international travel, it wasn’t a substitute for having a child. I was assertive and I yearned for a baby. Bob was equally forceful in this realm. Our agreement was if he said “no kid,” we’d get a divorce. That summer he took a week off (finally). We flew to Hawaii and cruised around the islands with my mom, her husband, George, and Bob’s mother. It was almost a family reunion.
That was a challenging trip. I was required to do what I’d done my whole life—maintain a happy face while aching inside. I was familiar with this territory. It was second nature. After opening up the can of worms several months earlier, discovering how to express my truth, it was demanding to put the lid back on. I endured. However, when I view photos of that trip, I detect anguish in my face. My father was remarried later that summer. The same pained countenance is there. I was in deeper sorrow than I’d ever recalled. I realized then, unconsciously, that my marriage was over.
- - -
When September 8th came (our D-date), Bob said, “No kids.” The next day I contacted our lawyer and began the finale—finding a place to live first. I didn’t want to cling to the house. I recognized I couldn’t afford to buy him out. Apartment hunting was depressing. I could barely manage anything on my solitary salary. I kept looking, even bringing Bob along at times. It was an awkward week. We acted as though everything was normal. It wasn’t. Repression and denial to the bitter end.
At the end of that tumultuous week, we dined at a local restaurant, one of our regular haunts. We began discussing our fifteen years together. Then came the shock. Leaning back in the booth, Bob crossed his arms over his chest and said, “Okay, Suzi, you can have your kid.” I almost fell over. What? A child was what I’d been adamant about for the last seven years. Now? Why now? Those were the thoughts running through my head. In hindsight, I realized his words were spoken out of fear. He hadn’t planned on my following through. Once I did, he grasped the reality.
There was nothing I desired more in my life. Now, I was being offered what I craved—after our mutually agreed upon deadline. My head and heart shouted, “Grab him. Take him home and make that baby.” Before I could articulate anything, this tiny voice spoke up inside and whispered, “Stay away, Suzi.” As soft as it was, it came through loud and clear. While I may not have been conscious of it being my intuition then, I realized soon enough to declare that our deal was done. I was compelled to leave. I had not only listened, but pursued the advice of “The Voice.”
That was one of the most difficult decisions I’ve ever had to make. I was being offered what I’d yearned for, and I turned it down. What was wrong with me anyway? That moment, when I realized I must abide by my intuition, was a major turning point in my life. I was transformed—not only in my marital status and living conditions—but in how I operated in the world. Somehow I knew that being consistent with my intuitive guidance was the only way to be. Though it took me several more years to recognize my gut messages completely, it was the beginning of my spiritual journey that didn’t formally start for another eighteen months. In the meantime, there was the reality of beginning a new life and new chapter.
- - -
My mother was a wise woman in many ways. Though I couldn’t count on her when all was well, she was there when I was down and out. She advised me that it was crucial to rent a place where I felt good. I would return home from school and feel depressed. She remembered, all too clearly, her early years after divorce. If I had gloomy surroundings, that would only create more problems. She offered financial support. This way, I could locate someplace appealing. I was grateful for her words, and her emotional and financial support. I drew upon them all.
Within the month, I’d moved out. Bob presented me with a final warning. He relayed that he’d scheduled a vasectomy in two months. Though those were his only words, the subtext was clear. I had sixty days to alter my decision. I had the freedom I desperately desired so I could pursue the liaison with Larry. He had recently separated also. I didn’t think I wanted the finality of divorce. I struggled with issues like “How can I leave such a good man? How can I hurt someone I love so much? What is wrong with me anyway?” These questions were constantly rummaging through my head and heart.
I would sit alone and weep at night in my new apartment, seeing the vision of my heart, frozen, with a sharp knife shaving slices off. I didn’t have a broken heart. I had a sliced up, diminished heart. I had missing sections. I was incomplete without my man. I thought they’d never be replaced. In every major transition or grand decision I’ve made, even when I was scared to death (which was most of the time), there was something that compelled me to go beyond my mind, my fears, and persist. I was frightened of my aloneness in those days—not just sleeping by myself. I’d done that when Bob would travel for two or three days on business trips in our early years. I mean afraid of being alone with me. This is typical of good girls. We rely on diversions to keep us from looking deeply inside. That would be way too scary.
I’m excellent at keeping busy. I was able to keep myself occupied with people, things, projects—anything to prevent me from feeling the pain. I kept busy to avoid sensing the immense fear of being on my own for the first time ever. And no one to support me. That’s what I experienced… being alone in my world. The truth is different, however. Not only did I have my mother’s support, I had women friends; unmarried women, women who’d gone through a divorce, or were unhappily married, and of successfully married women. They were all there. `
It was during my early divorced years that I realized how valuable my women friends were. When I was married, Bob was my best friend (as I believe partners should be). We had couple friends, but I had a few women friends. I didn’t feel connected. My life was full as it was. Getting divorced transformed my perspective and gave me the opportunity to open up a new world of friendship, which I rely on to this day.
What I’ve noticed about my dearest friends is that, even if we don’t talk (or email/see each other) for many months—sometimes years now—when we connect next, we drop down to a depth of sharing as if we’d never been apart. These friends were my foundation, getting me through the torturous months that were to come.
