Defining Barriers

I was reading an article that describes the alleged-three stages of dating after divorce; I found it on a website I most closely resemble stage one, which I suppose shouldn't surprise me as much as it does, considering my traumatic attempts to undertake dating again recently. However, the article got me thinking, why exactly is this whole dating thing so difficult this time? Non-divorced types (abbreviated hereafter as NDT's) seem to embrace, vicariously, my opportunity to find someone now as an older, wiser, seasoned, established woman, a "real" woman with real power to do things right. A. claims she sees how much I have to offer, and she yearns for me to find happiness with someone, as she seems to feel I am meant to do. Other NDT's seem almost envious of the chance to find real love, as though their intact marriages are somehow letdowns. As though my "opportunity" is one for which they themselves are ripe. Or as though my marriage was "sham love."

Understanding... still, I am searching for real understanding.

So, what are the barriers to finding happiness this time around? Can I establish understanding for myself, and then for the rampant NDT's?

1. Personal Commitment. On some level that I fear the NDT's won't support, I think my own sense of loyalty and commitment to my marriage is something of a barrier to finding a new, real relationship. I was supposed to be married forever. I am supposed to be married now. I made that promise, too, and not just to him, but also to myself. Yes, my husband ended the marriage, not I. On a cognitive level I know that there's no remaining obligation to him in any legal or moral sense (our marriage was a civil one, and he wasn't baptized; the religious morality is clear), but at the same time, I myself made a promise. I myself made a commitment. I myself meant to honor my word for the rest of my life. While the law, my religion, and the rest of the world are prepared for me to wipe that slate clean and move on, does doing so compromise my word? On some level, I feel like I'm betraying myself. Just because he opted out, it's hard for me to embrace the idea of finding a new love. He can live as though our marriage was a "thing" and not real, but to me it was, and to me, perhaps it's a bit of an issue.

2. Trust. This is easier for the NDT's to understand. My ex-husband betrayed me. He left without explanation or effort. The person who was supposed to love me forever, whom I trusted with not only my worldly goods but my heart and soul, whom I adored in all his flaws and imperfections, found it possible to get up and walk out of our life together without a backward glance. While I can tell myself that something broken within him had festered too long and too deeply to save our marriage, at the same time, knowing that such a thing can happen is deeply troubling, deeply frightening. I never believed it possible before, and now I know all-too-well how possible it is. How do I learn to trust another person again so fundamentally? My online friend C, a divorced-type, has supported me by saying anyone who's not scared after something like that is looney, not stunted. I appreciated the support. Yet, I want rigorously to believe I live in a world that can support such a love; to find it will be a huge act of courage for me that I accept as necessary and will take... when I am prepared to lose everything.

3. Loss. Those fortunate people like my parents, my aunt and uncle, my friend P and her husband, my brother and sister in law... most of the intact marriages that began in people's twenties... those people all found one another and threw themselves into marriage as relatively young adults. They began together and built their lives together, as my ex-husband and I did, largely. Now, beyond the disillusionment and conflict of promise, I recognize that I already have a life. This time-around, I'm not building so much as merging. I have baggage. I have a history. In all likelihood, so will the man with whom I decide to take a chance. That's uncomfortable... that's somehow frightening, actually. These aren't kids I'm dating like they were before, these are honest-to-God men... some are fathers, most are professionals, almost all are accomplished men in their own right with expectations that I have no idea if I can meet. Maybe I'm still emotionally the younger girl I was when I married in 1998; the men aren't. Frightening. And with a fairly good life of my own, I have something to lose this time... I have more to offer, perhaps, and more to lose. But I guess, so has he. And I'm stronger; I'm not that girl anymore. It's so hard to feel brave, when I feel very small.