I hate divorce. So, so much.

It is ugly.
It is cruel.
It is messy.
It is pain.
It reeks with hatred.

I spent so much of my childhood ignoring how I felt because it was better than being overly emotional. Once, when I was playing softball, I was hit in the nose by a ball. My nose bled, and all I remember was my dad telling me not to cry. Which was dad speak for “there’s no crying in baseball”. I couldn’t tell the difference, so I spent the rest of my life trying not to cry — about anything. I told myself, and everyone else, that everything was OK. That this burden wasn’t crushing. It wasn’t too heavy to bear. It wasn’t all consuming.

It was a lie.

The truth is — I hate weddings. I’m nowhere near getting married, but I’m dreading the day that comes around for me. If it does.

Truth is — I hate holidays. I’d rather go to work than choose which one of my parents I get to spend time with.

I hate divorce because there is collateral damage. How could there not be? At a time in my life when I needed security, consistency, and unconditional love — all that surrounded me was inconsistency and instability. In the midst of the chaos, I fell between the cracks. Words fell short.  Too soft to be heard, too insignificant to be noticed. So they stopped altogether.

The shockwave is worse than the explosion itself. Not because of the immediate damage, but the internal damage no one sees. The explosion is filled with shrapnel, but the shockwave presses against you like a vice. Unforgiving. Unstoppable. Invisible. All the while keeping up the appearance of “everything is OK”. Well. It wasn’t. And it still isn’t.

My story is still being written. I have no wisdom here, but to love others well.