Sometimes it just hurts. I was listening to Paul Simon’s Crazy Love (ignore the video and just listen), and when it got to the lyrics, “Well, I have no opinion about that / And I have no opinion about me,” I burst out crying.
The lyrics overall are pretty spot-on in their evocation of the grimmest, saddest parts of going through a divorce — the bewildered, deflated hopelessness, the resignation, but above all the uncertainty. And that’s why that one light hit so hard: even now, more than a year after moving out and starting my life over, I’m still unable to put the whole thing into a narrative that makes any sense to me. I know the facts of the case, more or less, but I don’t yet have enough distance to tell the story. I don’t know yet what to believe about me, or about her, or about us. And the dust cloud of the divorce hasn’t yet settled enough for me to be able to see beyond it, into the marriage itself, and understand what any of it was. Did we love each other? Was it doomed from the start? Where did it go off the rails, and why? What the hell happened?