Sorry Sorrow

I haven't bothered to keep count of all the divorce supporters who wrote me off as ___insert preferred yaddahs here____ for not divorcing my husband some of the abuses he has heaped on me over the decades we have been working through our respective psychopations. The divorce supporters somehow make me feel like pure victim and. . . Sorry Charlie. . . I can't go there with you. I'm glad it's working for you. Excuse me while I go sort my own.

The Titty Bar Preacher who performed our nuptuals tried to talk us out of it. He knew of my child sex trafficking herstory and the long, hard recovery curve I had ahead of me. He held our pre-nuptual counseling sessions in his favorite titty bar to help my husband gain a clearer perspective of what he was taking on. "She ain't ever gonna be the sorority girl your parents conditioned you for. Don't confuse your fantasies of sliding off the silver platter with the harsh realities of life beneath that platter."

Obviously he failed to talk us out of it. "It be yours to sort," he shrugged. "Let God lead the Dance." After the ritual, he plopped down beside me in the still going post-ritual hubub and said, "Let me know when you're available again, my Sweet. I'm always in the market for a good woman."

By some miracle, 38 years later, we are still a works in progress. Yes, we could have skipped the pain, but we'd have had to miss The Dance. In recent years, we have taken to call those still developing works, "Learning new steps to The Dance. Practice, practice, practice. Don't *cure* it. Perfect ^it^."

This morning's coffee found us on the verge of the domestic Tit for Tat which is our meanest marital dysfunction. It appears we are getting pretty good with the Sorry Step we deliberately inserted in place of the Tit for Tat. The Sorry Step is an improvement over kicking one another's hearts and dreams up and down the playing field, but the improvement is still far from a graceful step. We have agreed to ply "Radical Acceptance" exercises to those Sorry spots. It takes more than sorrow to heal a wounded heart.

Testing, one, two, three. . .

And it's back to the farm for me in the wounded vehicle we loaned to our youngest son for the sake of the grandchildren. Think I'll let that be a different thread. For now, I've bandaged the vehicle with enough duct tape to get it safely (I pray) to the farm and the spot I have visualized as the mechanic's bay. Another testing, one, two, three. Prayers in progress. At worst, it'll be a comfotable spot to fight my way through the accumulated crud from the parental neglect. That young gelding has been rode hard and put away wet too many times in it's short 2 years on the road. His interior has a smell that makes his tail pipe smell non-toxic.