Cleaning out my home office, I stumbled across the journal of my ex-wife, who died several years ago due to the ravages of alcoholism. I spent a few minutes scanning the handful of pages she’d written out, hoping I’d at last uncover some clues into the mysterious suffering that had for so long plagued her.

During our turbulent marriage, the sources of my own misery and shitty behavior were many and obvious. Seven failed marriages between my parents, cases of abandonment, familial suicides and attempted suicides, teen pregnancies – we had it all and more.

In contract, my ex hailed from a tight-knit clan with strong multi-generational connections, zero divorces, and a deep religious faith.

All of which is why, barely 30 minutes into our first ever appointment with a marriage counselor, it was agreed by everyone present that it was I who needed the help, wife could and should be recused. The black sheep needed some serious one-on-one counseling if there was any hope of saving the union.

Little did any of us know.

Why Me?

The words in the journal spoke of a newly divorced woman eager to build a new life for herself and her children. They also painted a portrait I knew all too-well, that of a woman teeming with anxieties and insecurities.

On the first page she began with these words: “I’ve begun writing in a journal again with the hope that it will be a constant reminder of and encouragement for the strong, secure woman I have vowed to become. You go girl!”

On the next page she bulleted out a laundry list of To Do’s she was committed to accomplishing, positive alternatives to the person she’d long pictured herself to be. “Instead of weak, I will be strong; Instead of passive, I will be assertive; instead of anger I will feel joy;” and so on.

For many years I struggled with guilt, first from our failed marriage, later from her death. Why had I survived and rebuilt my life while she’d disintegrated? If there was any logic in the world I’d have been the one locked in the death-spiral of addiction.

Years after her death, I’d finally stumble on the truth. They were in the words of a 20th-century mystic, reminding us of why we’ll never truly overcome our suffering outside of God.

“With honest and straightforward simplicity, I am here to tell you that you can never be free of personal trials and tribulations until you make your own discovery of Reality, God. You will never find more than the most temporal, ephemeral happiness until you make a personal discovery of God, Isness – until you get off your soft sofa and actually make your own determination of Reality, of Truth, of Fact. You will never permanently rid yourself of the grind and grate in the pit of your stomach nor find yourself free of that feeling of impending doom until you make your own, individual determination of exactly what God is to you!”

Seeking God, Truth, Peace

More than one psychotherapist has told me of the industry’s frustration with sufferers who aren’t really interested in getting to the root of their suffering; instead they just want the pain to go away. Inevitably these same individuals return for help, or a new medication, or perhaps a new job or mate, hoping that this time they’ll get it right.

I’ve come to believe that’s why my ex and I experienced different fates. Where I’d abandoned everything I’d known to ‘start from scratch,’ my ex did what she could to back into the same game, again and again.

When she returned from her longest, priciest, and most intensive stint in rehab, she looked great and I held out real hope that she was at last going to turn a corner.

I took her to lunch, listened as she spoke excitedly and optimistically about a fresh start. But then, in the parking lot as we prepared to go our separate ways, came the words that raised the hair on the back of my neck: “I just can’t wait to get back to my old life.”

And she did.

Every sage has pointed out that we aren’t in charge of these lives, that far from living a life we instead are a life being lived. Science is pretty much arriving at the same conclusion, though I doubt they’ll ever come right out and say it.

When talked up by his followers and friends, Jesus took pains to point out (and I paraphrase since I’m no biblical scholar: I can do nothing. The One that sent me, God, the Father, It is running the show. I’m merely an instrument. Stop worshipping me and find that Truth inside yourself.

In 2006 I was granted a grace, a gift, that urged me to shed all the old skin. I was terrified, miserable, quasi-suicidal, but so very very tired of a lifetime of misery.

Ultimately, perhaps that’s why my ex and I chose different paths. A lifetime of chaos and misery had literally driven me to my knee. In contrast, her more modest life and the expectations that came with it, told her that her suffering was merely an aberration, a temporary blip on the way to the American dream.

There are times that I wish my ex was still alive. I’d encourage her to explore these same teachings, the ones that have fundamentally altered my existence. But another voice tells me that each of us must arrive at that decision on our own.