The struggles of divorce. Long after the papers are signed, it continues. It’s not a topic I write freely about. I talk freely to family and friends. Ask them. They have gotten earfuls. They sit with patience as I express my fears and concerns. They sit with understanding as I convey my frustrations and disappointments. They sit with tolerance as I release a string of bullsh*ts and motherf***kers. I mean, even my parents have managed to overlook the swearing in these moments…these are the same people who would give me discerning looks from the stands if they heard me say anything remotely colorful on the court. Lately though, I find myself wanting to write instead of talk. The stresses and challenges come in waves and right now, it’s a title wave. I would like to write…but I am caught. When I decided to start writing, I wanted to be honest. I wanted to reveal an authentic self, accurately capture the ups and downs of experiences good and bad. Writing provides an opportunity to organize my thoughts. It helps put things in perspective, make sense out of the absolute chaos that sometimes surrounds me. Writing also helps me help others. Because I am not the only one going through this.  If my words can provide support and care for someone going through the similar experiences – I want that too.

But I am caught. The words that I write…they are here to stay.  I can talk all I want. A sometimes-spirited conversation between me and someone else. Behind closed doors. In the privacy of my own space. Never in front of spectators. Never in front of Amichai. But writing…one day he will read my words.

I want Amichai to know me. There are many disturbing truths you must face when deciding it is time to leave a marriage. It is scary and unsettling to face the realities you just want someone – anyone – to take away. But the most frightening truth I had to face of all – a truth that I so desperately did not want to accept as real – was that Amichai did not know me. He did not know the me that was completely content and happy. He only knew someone who could not smile fully and freely. He did not know the me who was quiet but confident. He only knew someone whose voice was quickly diminishing. He did not know the me who was bitingly sarcastic. He only knew someone who found it hard to laugh with any conviction. He did not know the me that was secure and settled. He only knew someone who was just barely hanging on. He only knew a shadow; at best he would catch glimpses of the girl I used to be. I was sad and angry and nauseated by this truth. I was sad and angry and nauseated at myself. Where did I go? How could I let this happen? How could Amichai go through his life without knowing me? And even more – what if I went through my life without knowing Amichai?  I have a habit of beating myself up in my darkest moments. I know. But out of these moments usually comes resolve: He deserves better. He deserves the best. He deserves all of me. It was time to leave.

So we did.

More than anything, I was relieved. Relieved that I could start living again. Relieved that that there would be peace in our lives. Relieved that I could be me and he could be he. Amichai and I were now free to experience the best versions of ourselves. And we have. We know each other. Amichai knows what face I will make when he asks if he has to brush his teeth… how I glance over at him, eyebrows furrowed, a small amused but not that amused smirk – Are you serious? He thinks this is terribly funny and in return, I know what he will say next – make the face again Mommy. I’ll do it again and he will laugh. I know his laugh…head thrown back, an uncontrollable giggle that turns into a high-pitched shriek, ending with a satisfied sigh. There are thousands of moments we share – and every moment is an opportunity to learn more about who we are. My greatest hope is that Amichai and I will always strive towards understanding each other, toward knowing each other.

Still…I am caught. I hesitate to write. I want to write authentically. I want to be a genuine voice that shares, empathizes, and identifies and I want Amichai to know that voice. But I also want to be a shield. I want to protect Amichai. Not from the truth. He knows the truth – he’s known since he’s two. It was a truth I repeated to him over and over after we left so he would have a narrative to rely on, one that made sense: Some Mommies and Daddies live together, and some Mommies and Daddies decide its best to live a part. We decided it was best to live a part. This is ok. This is the best decision for us. You have two parents that care for you and love you very much. He’s lived this truth now for five years now. And as he gets older, more of that truth is revealed – not because I tell him (I always leave the door open to questions), but because his is simply growing up and aware. He sees, he feels, he internalizes. He understands more about me, more about his father, more about the structure of his family life. He understands and can recognize diverging approaches and perspectives, formulating his own thoughts that are appropriate for him. It is this process that I must protect.

A child of divorce faces a tall order– even in the best of situations. To feel a constant push and pull. To feel a split sense of loyalty and love. To feel a division in almost every aspect of your life. To feel a routine shift and shuffle between houses. Not easy. I can say with confidence that the alternative of staying would have yielded far worse consequences – that I do not hesitate to write. But still not easy. Amichai needs to go through his own processes and draw his own conclusions, something he has already started. At seven years old, I stand in awe of his perception and understanding. I will not interfere with that.  And when I think about it in this light, this is actually my authentic self  – assessing a hard situation, understanding the sensitivities involved, the risks at stake and taking what ever action I need to protect, help, and support the boy I love more than words.

This is what I want him to know.