Getting [Un]Stuck

“Throw five things against the wall and see what sticks,” was the wisdom my always-wise, 70-something-year-old neighbor, Tom, a retired attorney, shared with me as I cried on his shoulder about my impending divorce and my decision to leave the practice of medicine after twenty years. I had no clear path—personal or professional — ahead of me.

Throw five things?

What five things?

(What kind of advice was that?)

A bit of backstory: When my husband of twenty years moved out for the fourth time in seven years, I knew the marriage “had to die” (to quote my therapist). I could no longer continue to play along with the charade, the parade of abuse. I was done playing “Polly Play-Along” and “Molly Mop-It-Up.” My husband had unconsciously repeated the relationship pattern of his parents. And now he and I were unconsciously teaching it to our three sons. Did I really want this dysfunctional behavior to be passed onto the next generation?

In a word… No.

Filing for divorce was for me a necessity, not a choice. This marriage had to die.

Unfortunately, I had also hit my threshold level of frustration with my work life as a physician. I knew I needed a break from medicine. Temporary? Permanent? I had no idea.

So, husbandless and careerless I found myself in Limboland, both personally and professionally. Yes, I could go back to both my marriage and my practice; both options were still open to me—options that were certain to suck the remaining life and soul out of me.

So… No.

“Throw five things…”

What five things?

Throw them where?

Ironically, I was the gal who had always had a plan. Yet here I was– with no plan.

It’s one thing to take the “road less traveled”—but I couldn’t even find the road. I was truly off-roading here.

So… I threw.

The target? I had no idea. (I suppose whatever stuck and wherever it stuck.)

I read. I signed up. I joined. I participated.

A weekend Psychology seminar on “Healing from Heartbreak?” Count me in. No-brainer here—this one had my name all over it. (Turns out the personal really is the universal. Duh.)

It stuck.

Another weekend seminar entitled “Exploring Creativity?” This one sounded fun. I vaguely recalled creativity—and fun. (I believe I was ten years old at the time.)

It stuck.

A weekend writing/self-exploration retreat: “Mythic Writing”—oh boy, this one was a deep, deep dive. I was submerged (and scared shitless) the entire time—and emerged with new-found insight and wisdom—and new-found, deep-diving, lifelong friends.

It stuck.

Art classes, writing classes, spiritual seminars, female empowerment retreats (“Engaging the Feminine Heroic”—hell, yeah—imagine, becoming the heroine of your own story!)

They all stuck.

I explored. I learned. I stretched. I threw. I grew.

And I made art. Lots of art.

Wacky, expressive, healing art.

I wrote.

I sucked at it, but I wrote.

“Voice?”

(What the fuck is “voice?”)

I found my voice.

They tell writers,“Show, don’t tell.”

Don’t tell?

I’m Jewish– I excel at “tell.”

I learned to “show.” (Sort of.)

I loved my new creative world, my newly created life. I really was becoming my own heroine. I was healing, I was thriving, I was having fun.

Yes, art stuck.

Writing stuck.

And got me unstuck.

And, yes, I’m still throwing… and still growing.

(Thank you, Tom.)