Broken Glasses

My glasses are broken and battered. Before my arrest I wore contacts daily. I had a nice pair of glasses to wear occasionally. They were expensive designer frames. In here, I can get a pair of “Clark Kents” (black plastic frames) for $15.00. Eventually I’ll have to do that.



My glasses are scratched and scraped just from daily use. Everything in here is metal or concrete. My glasses are the only “non-DOC” issued item I have. I’m trying to keep them as long as I can. It’s my last physical reminder of my other, my free, life.


I looked at my broken, battered glasses and couldn’t help but think about my broken battered relationship with my ex-wife. We both had baggage, I’ve concluded; we both were scratched and marred a bit. I had always believed in her I had found love, and peace, and completeness. As I look back on us, with the prism of pain and failure removed, I still see and feel all the love. But I know I never felt complete and at peace.


Her family had an affect on her, scarred her from almost the moment we met. Her philandering father announced he was divorcing her mom just weeks after we met. I so much wanted to rescue her and be her hero.


At the same time, I was approaching college graduation. I was third in my class and found the academic exercise easy. I was trying to decide what direction I should follow. I wanted to be a lawyer but also was considering graduate programs.


Every decision I made was against the backdrop of well-meaning parents who reminded me (1) you haven’t accomplished anything yet; and (2) any additional education would be your personal responsibility (ironically my undergrad degree already had me $20,000 in debt; not a small sum in 1981).


And then, I was hopelessly in love with a girl whose father had betrayed the family (as soon as he announced the divorce, he moved in with his lover; his assistant from work) and who’s mother had major psychological hang ups. I found her whole family circumstance absurd. Her father, trying to be “hip”, took her to New York and Canada and gave her marijuana. He spoke openly to her about her mother’s sexual shortcomings.


As our relationship progressed quickly – we were talking about marrying within two months of beginning to date – I focused all my decisions on us!


After we became engaged things didn’t get any easier. Her father, who wouldn’t even communicate regularly with her, told her “you can go to college or get married. I’m not paying for both”. (She was on fully academic scholarship; he paid nothing for her college. He gave us $500 for our wedding).


Her mother obsessed on being alone. She met a despicable man whom (1) she stood up at the altar; then (2) married and refused to consummate the relationship, then (3) divorced. Every issue, every date, every bill, became a crisis for her mom and I was thrust into the middle of it all.


Her younger brother became a discipline problem and began heavy drug use. He suffered: his sister away and married, moved from his mom’s home to his dad’s after he threatened the mom with a baseball bat.


We were young, both in school, struggling financially, working our butts off. I loved my wife but she was a perfectionist and her family’s lunacy always interceded into our still forming marriage. Through that, we bonded.


I knew all her fears, all her disappointments, all her weaknesses. And, she knew mine.


I thought for a long time trying to understand why I lied. After all, there really was no excuse. I shouldn’t have lied to her. I didn’t have to lie about how I felt about her; I never wanted to cheat on her. I lied to be perfect, to have a perfect relationship, perfect family, perfect life. The more I lied, the more I resented my own weaknesses and her weakness; the more I resented her father’s behavior and her mother’s coldness. I felt adrift from her family our entire marriage. Her parents were so self absorbed I was made to feel like an interloper. As I lied I began to feel adrift from her.


In the aftermath of the divorce I began to heal. Funny how a broken heart gives you the ability to see clearly.


I realized that even in spite of all the hurt I loved her deeply. Even in spite of all the crap we both carried with us, we were good together; we created two beautiful, loving sons.


Could we have overcome my crime? I honestly believe we could have. It would have taken extraordinary love, patience, and commitment. Perhaps that’s too much to ask from anyone, especially one you love. I also wondered if I would have found healing and meaning in this struggle without going through the loss of her.


I know for a number of months I was deeply resentful and angry at her. I felt wronged. I had given so much for her and she abandoned and betrayed me. As I’ve healed I’ve found a deep sense of forgiveness, and love, for her. My anger at her pull toward self-preservation has faded. I’ve overcome my bitterness. I discovered a kinder, more patient and forgiving man through this trial. I realized that man was always there – he was the reason I stayed early in our marriage when she suffered from anorexia and depression and her family’s problems interfered regularly in our relationship.


I may not have found that man again if not for the loneliness and the despair and finding the will to overcome all of it on my own.


We are all broken is some way, scarred and battered. But even in that condition we can love, can hope, and can forgive. I put my glasses on. They are chipped and scratched, yet I still see clearly.