There has been no greater tragedy in my life than the divorce of my parents when I was eleven, and the unraveling of my family that followed it. For the first ten years of my life, I was blindingly, incandescently, beautifully happy. I never questioned that it could change, and was unaware that it would. Unbeknownst to me, my father had committed an act of betrayal that so hurt my mother that she became sick with mania and had to be hospitalized when I was ten years old. She was diagnosed with bi-polar (also known as manic-depressive illness). She recovered and attempted to hold it together for the sake of my brothers and I, but after two years decided she could bear the weight of it no longer and asked my father for a divorce.I don’t remember feeling the stirrings of trouble at the time, and I believe it was my joy at life combined with naivete that kept me from detecting any. i know that for some, divorce is merely a blip in the radar; a pothole in the road of life. Unfortunate, surely, but no great cause for despair. To me, however, it is something that broke my heart, and continues to break it whenever I am made aware of the pain it has caused each member of my family that I love so dearly.
I cannot imagine a greater happiness than the idea of my parents together, the five of us sitting down for dinner together, laughing and sharing our lives together.