ONE CHILLY NIGHT in mid-November, I woke up with a fluttery feeling in my chest. I struggled to catch my breath. I thought I was having a panic attack, but I felt like I was dying. My mind was racing: Should I call an ambulance? Drive myself to the ER? Or just wait it out? My pride trolled me: You’re a psychiatrist; you should know what to do. I took deep breaths, closed my eyes, and then stepped onto the patio for some fresh air. I felt helpless and stood there in the inky dark, wondering: What’s happening to me?
After I drove myself to the hospital, a triage nurse asked me if I had been feeling stressed recently. Um, yeah. I didn’t know where to begin. My marriage was unraveling, I was going through a divorce, and I hated admitting that, even to myself. So I hid it. From the outside, you would have thought that I was okay. Whether I was meeting a friend for coffee, working with a patient, or speaking at a conference, I would smile—as many men do—and pretend to be fine. But once a week, I was in the therapist’s office. Not as the one giving advice but as a patient, trying to learn new skills to keep myself from falling apart.
After my panic attack, I was reminded that grief can destroy even the best of us, both mentally and physically. I didn’t want the rest of my life to be defined by a divorce, fearing remarrying one day, or worrying if I’d ever start a family. I also did not want to lose hope and slide into a gloomy place as a consequence of my divorce, as so many men do. I knew that I had to change my perspective about my divorce to change my outlook.
I returned home a few hours before dawn and read my discharge summary: “Anticipatory anxiety.” While it’s not the kind of official diagnosis psychiatrists use, it wasn’t a bad way to describe my headspace: It’s when you’re so worried about the future that you get stuck in your thoughts. I was worried about everything: How others would perceive me, if my friends would abandon me, and if I would lose my mind in the process. I had never handled breakups well. The end of a relationship in my 20s sent me spiraling into a depression that I endured off and on for years. I assumed nothing good could come out of a divorce and braced myself for the worst.
No one expects a divorce. Even after eight years of being married, I didn’t. I knew our relationship wasn’t perfect, but I didn’t realize it was irretrievably broken until the end. We came from very different backgrounds and we just couldn’t agree on things we didn’t know were that important, like when to have children or where we should go to church. Despite having coached numerous patients through divorce—roughly 40 percent of first marriages in America end that way—I didn’t really understand the mental toll. For me, everyday, seemingly mundane occurrences drummed up a crippling nostalgia. Passing by a restaurant we used to visit or hearing a song we both loved made me feel like I was being divorced not only from my spouse but from my life as well. I was also worried that people in my life would assume—inaccurately—that my divorce wasn’t amicable or that we had been unfaithful to each other. Being afraid of other people’s assumptions can cause men to isolate, which increases their risk for depression or for developing unhealthy coping behaviors like heavy drinking. In the aftermath of a divorce, men are four times as likely as women to die by suicide. Finding the right people to talk to can help mitigate those risks.
Talking To a Pro Helps, But Talking to People Helps More
AS A THERAPIST, I of course think therapy is important. When I sat on someone else’s couch for a change, I was reminded of useful coping tactics like walking meditation, regular journaling, and deep-breathing protocols. But what was surprising to me was how important it was to talk to other men who had been divorced. One day, while scrolling through my phone, I came across the name of a friend I hadn’t spoken to in a while. I remembered that he had experienced a divorce. I reached out and let him know what was going on. I realized I knew other divorced guys, too. That led to phone calls, texts, and midweek lunches that helped me see that many of the guys I was speaking to were thriving and had gone on to have second marriages. That was encouraging because I had always imagined myself having a long marriage, and dreaded having to start over. Talking to a therapist is great because you learn how to get through a divorce, but talking to people who have actually been through a divorce lets you see what that actually looks like.
Get Outside of Yourself
AS YOU ARE going through a divorce, you might just want to be alone—I certainly did. For a while, I was staying in my house and trying to avoid anyone who might ask about my wife. Taking some “me time” can be a useful part of the grief process, but isolating for too long is also a risk factor for depression. There is no universal timeline for how long you should grieve, but getting up and getting out is really helpful. It reminds you that marriage is only one part of a life’s story. There’s so much more, like friends and family and new experiences.
During my divorce, I rekindled my love of art and joined a group that held meetups at museums and galleries. That added a social element to something I already enjoyed. At the first event at The Menil Collection, I didn’t really talk to anyone, but eventually I found my niche and began to see some familiar faces. It was easier to talk with people because we had common interests, so I didn’t need to start conversations from scratch. Any community that gives you a sense of belonging—run club, volunteer club, whatever you’re into—helps reinforce the idea that even on the toughest days, you are not alone.
Being Imperfect Makes You Human
ONE OF MY biggest fears about getting divorced was that my friends, my family, and even my patients would see me as flawed. My marriage had failed, and I felt like I had failed, too. Since my job often requires giving relationship advice, getting over the feeling of being an imposter was hard. That subsided with time and by talking with a fellow divorced psychiatrist. There was the assist from my dad, who reminded me that everyone is entitled to mistakes. “Your first marriage was a mistake, life is short, time to move on,” he said. Tough love, but it helped.
In my practice, I realized that my divorce actually made me a better therapist. I began to notice that when my patients were talking about their divorce, they appreciated those moments when I would reply, “I get it, because I’ve been there, too.” While I have always been mindful about how much personal information I share with my patients, some vulnerability can create an environment for good therapy, because it evokes a common bond.
Getting past the daily despair to a place where I could be fully present took me about a year. Finding new ways to think and live not only helped me through that; it also allowed me to be open to new people and new relationships. While I was happy to be solo for a while, the opportunity to work through what my divorce surfaced also seemed to help me develop stronger relationships. Especially with one person: I got married again this year.
