I have an all-powerful junk email filter.
Not much gets past it, as long as it's in English. If my inbox doesn't recognize you, and you come from a major web-based email domain, well, you're probably not getting into my inbox. And so your email will spill into junk mail.
Which presents its own problem, in that I end up with tons of junk mail. I normally go through it every 2 weeks or so. But during the divorce, I hadn't checked it for months. I had been otherwise occupied with treading water until D moved out, and until the divorce could be finalized.
On November 16, I sent D an important email regarding some legal paperwork with respect to Little One. I needed his feedback before I could have my lawyer issue a revised parenting plan. And so I had emailed him. He was usually pretty good about responding, however this time around, I didn't hear back from him. One hour stretched into two, and then three. I suppose I could have called him, honestly. But my brain suddenly thought, hey, he's using a pretty new email address, and I'm not sure he's ever emailed me at work with it. I should probably check my junk mail.
And so I clicked on the Junk Email folder in my inbox, and sorted the items there - thousands of them, thanks to my lack of attention for months - by sender. Then I hit "d" to see if I could find an email from D.
Well, there was an email from D. But, presumably, it was not from him. Because upon opening it, here's what I found:
From: d_is_having_an_affair [husbandishavinganaffair@gmail.com]
Sent: Sunday, September 13 8:18 AM
To: Penelope
Subject: Re: this is difficult to say
but i know you, and i know d. he is having an affair. he is using you.
Wait.
What?
You have got to be shitting me.
Who the hell would create an email account called "husbandishavinganaffair@gmail.com"? The possibilities flooded my head. D himself? Sally, scorned by D's rejection in light of our agreement that we not date anyone until after he moved out? Sally's husband, who was apparently quite a dickhead (to hear D talk about him)? A concerned co-friend of me and D? Gasp - a total stranger?
Creepy. Who thought my husband was having an affair? Who would have the knowledge of something like that?
Then I noticed that this email was dated September 13. Nearly two months ago.
And then I figured - aha! This is someone who knows about the text message thing from late August, and wanted to tell me. How nice of them. But seeing as how D and I had already worked out that Sally was out of the picture until he moved out, and this email was sent well after that, well, this was obviously irrelevant, dated information. And so, therefore, wrong.
So I figured I'd write back, with forced nonchalance, and say, Thanks, whatever:
From: Penelope
Sent: Monday, November 16 11:26 AM
To: d_is_having_an_affair [husbandishavinganaffair@gmail.com]
Subject: RE: this is difficult to say
Um…thanks. Not sure who you are, but I just found this now. The divorce papers were filed at the end of September. Either way, I appreciate your letting me know, and this is not a surprise. :-)
But I was shaking as I hit "Send." What if, I thought. What if?
Now I wanted to know who this person was, who would take it upon themselves to send me an email like this, and what their motivation could possibly be. But, I reasoned, it had been more than two months since I'd actually received the email. Certainly, by now, the person who had sent it had given up on me responding. What if my response languished out there on the cloud for months, too? I had to figure out a way to let them know I'd responded.
So I went into gmail.com, and I attempted to log in to the husbandishavinganaffair account. When it didn't let me, I told it I wanted it to generate a new password for me. It said it would send the new password to my primary email account on file - a separate account set up by the email's creator, and used as the "mother account" on Google. So I hit "Send email."
Ping.
There, I thought. That ought to get their attention. Who might they be? This person emailed me at my work email. That's only known to...oh yeah, everyone in the not very small company I work for. Crap, that was a dead end. But it did at least narrow the playing field a bit, since not many people outside of work had that email address.
But then it occurred to me that I might be opening a giant can of worms.
What if this person knew a lot...a lot that I don't know if I want to know?
Oh God. What if I had been wrong the entire time? What if D actually was that duplicitous?
Oh, shit.
Initiate nausea sequence in 5...4...3...2...
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
10. The Taming of the Screw-up
About a month after we'd decided to divorce, the big blow-out screaming affair happened. It was the last fight - to date - we would have about our marriage, for one very important reason which you'll see below.
D was a lover of melodrama. He thrived on conflict. Always one to pick a fight when he was younger, he could hardly resist the chance to disagree with you. He wasn't self-righteous, he'd tell you: he was right. About everything, from government policy, to the foibles of our friends, to just about everything we did. It was like living with a teeny, tiny dictator for 7 years, and having our third of an acre be his only domain. It was sad, and maddening.
D was also really enjoying his nights out, at bars, at pool halls, AA, whatever. All I knew was, for several weeks now, he'd been out 4 to 5 nights a week till at least 2am. This would not have bothered me except that Loud n Dusty, the pickup truck I'd bought for him, was notably loud in our quiet, idyllic suburban neighborhood, and struggled to stay quiet particularly on hills. By which we are surrounded. So there wasn't much I could do about the fact that Loud n Dusty would wake me up, every night. (I didn't dare wear earplugs, since I wanted to make sure I could hear Little One if anything was needed.)
This, our last fight, occurred one Friday afternoon when D picked me up at the bus station. After several weeks of being woken up in the middle of the night, and not being able to go back to sleep, I was, how you say, over it, and just bitchy-ass tired.
"Sorry I'm late," he said when I got in the car. "I just got back from downtown."
I didn't notice that he was late. What I did notice, however, was that he was driving what used to be our car, but had been my car for about a month now - ever since he'd bought Loud n Dusty. It was odd, I thought, that I'd given him $3,000 for a truck which he was now not driving. This was not the first time he'd figured he could just take the family car wherever he wanted.
"Okay," I said. "Can I ask, what's wrong with your car?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well - if you're driving this car, then you're not driving your car. And if you're not driving your car, I am guessing that something happened to it? Is something wrong with it?"
I have to admit, I was passively-aggressively peeved at this point. But I was also using logic, which always unnerved him.
We pulled up to a red light. "Why the FUCK are you hassling me?" He yelled at me. "All I did was go DOWNTOWN and now so what if I'm FUCKING DRIVING YOUR CAR!" I mean, really - really? This was the reaction?
"You know what, bitch?" He continued. "Fuck this."
And with that rather eloquent pronouncement, D put the car in park, turned the key and pulled it out of the ignition, and got out of the car, which was still sitting at the red light. I sat in the passenger seat for about 3 seconds before remembering that I had my keys on me. I jumped out, ran around to the driver's side just as the light was turning green, turned the car back on, and drove past D as he stormed across the street, walking away.
I drove home, shaking. Terrified. I was wondering whether I should call the police, if I was in any physical danger. But you know what? I was really, really pissed off. For the first time, I was not only ready for battle, I was hungering after it. I craved it. I wanted to tell this motherfucker off for the first and last time, and that feeling of purpose gave me the backbone I so desperately needed.
So I called his cell phone, which I knew he had on him. He let it ring to voice mail. So I called back. And he let it ring to voice mail. So I called, four more times. Each time, the same result, except the last time.
Finally, he picked up. "What?" Belligerent, but not screaming; this was good.
"Where are you?"
He hung up.
So I drove down our long, winding hill, trying to see if I could find him. And there he was, walking at a heart-stopping pace up our hill. I did a u-turn and rolled down my window. "Want a ride?" I asked, not un-sweetly.
He got in, surprisingly, and the yelling started as we drove back up the hills. Most of the entire conversation happened in the front seat of the (my) car, parked in the driveway. I think the UPS lady even walked past us on her way to the front door. My, but what a sight we must have been.
Blah, blah, blah, went the fight. But this time, it was a down-and-out FIGHT. I was yelling back. And I have to tell you, it felt really, really good. We were re-hashing old territory, re-covering old ground which, given the current divorce track we were on, didn't really mean much anymore. It was simply a battle of wills, each of us trying to out-do the other with "I'm more hurt, no I'm more hurt" rhetoric. I'm not proud of it, but I had had enough, I was exhausted, and I needed to get it out of me. Much of it was venting, and in true "head in the sand" manner, I've forgotten most of it. Except for one line, which helped tremendously in the days and weeks ahead.
During the conversation, at some point, he took it upon himself to use the phrase, eyes all a-bulge, "If you come after me with this divorce, fuck you, I will BURY YOU."
Bury me. Bury me? Like, with a shovel, or with a lawyer? Either way, it was a conversation-stopper.
I stopped arguing with him and opened my eyes wide, as if to say, "Really? Did you just say that?" And I have to say, it was a little hard to do - I was actually enjoying being in the fray for once. But this crossed a line.
I looked at him calmly, took a deep breath, and said, "Let me be very clear about something here, D. If you threaten me again, ever, or if you ever make me feel threatened in any way, I will have you put in jail. By the way, what you just said, about burying me? That's your last chance. Are we clear?"
I could not have stopped him colder if I'd slapped him across the face.
The conversation took a dramatic turn after that, with his mea culpas and my "sure, okay, sure"s. If you could prick someone with a pin, and watch all of their aggression quickly vent out of them - that's what this looked like. He simply deflated in front of me.
I was riled, but attempting to reign it in. I had to go pick up Little One at daycare, and besides, everything that had been said - with the exception of the "bury you" comment - had been said before. There was nothing new to learn there.
But I now had a very important tool in my arsenal: I could, and now would, yell back. And, as it turned out, that was indicative of the fact that I was learning how to be un-afraid of him. As someone who had spent much of the relationship a little (or a lot) afraid of her own husband, this was a monumental shifting of the sands beneath me.
And it felt good.
After that, I notified my parents, and one other friend, about what D had said to me (the burying comment), so that they would be able to help me document what had happened. Before, I'd just wanted to get legal. And I had; I had a good divorce lawyer, who had helped me file joint divorce papers with D, and she was a wealth of information. She had even recommended a good lawyer for D, but he had as of yet not called the lawyer, telling me he would, eventually.
But now, I was mad. D was running me for money, a car, an apartment, alimony, and not even looking for a job of his own. He wasn't taking care of Little One, who was still in full-time daycare. He was staying out most nights now, with zero compassion for its effects on me (still the breadwinner in our household), and zero desire to compromise over it.
Things went on like this for another few weeks, until I finally found an apartment for him. He was utterly incapable of doing this sort of thing on his own and had asked for my help.
On November 1, he moved out, his cousin helping him move and pack all of his stuff. It was about 2 months and a week after The Text Message. My mother was visiting, to help me coordinate (and cope). Little One was still oblivious, being too young to really get what was happening.
We established an early parenting plan. Although he was supposed to start paying childcare as soon as we had filed the divorce papers (late September), I took pity on him, since he had no income.
For the first two weeks, Little One would trade off between our house and his apartment, always for just a few hours at a time. I was adamant that she would not spend the night at his apartment until he had a place for our child to stay - an actual bed, a room. He barely batted an eye agreeing with me.
Ah, dear reader, here's where it really gets interesting. Because on November 16, I found an email which would utterly change not just the course of this divorce: It would force me to change in ways I could never have imagined.
D was a lover of melodrama. He thrived on conflict. Always one to pick a fight when he was younger, he could hardly resist the chance to disagree with you. He wasn't self-righteous, he'd tell you: he was right. About everything, from government policy, to the foibles of our friends, to just about everything we did. It was like living with a teeny, tiny dictator for 7 years, and having our third of an acre be his only domain. It was sad, and maddening.
D was also really enjoying his nights out, at bars, at pool halls, AA, whatever. All I knew was, for several weeks now, he'd been out 4 to 5 nights a week till at least 2am. This would not have bothered me except that Loud n Dusty, the pickup truck I'd bought for him, was notably loud in our quiet, idyllic suburban neighborhood, and struggled to stay quiet particularly on hills. By which we are surrounded. So there wasn't much I could do about the fact that Loud n Dusty would wake me up, every night. (I didn't dare wear earplugs, since I wanted to make sure I could hear Little One if anything was needed.)
This, our last fight, occurred one Friday afternoon when D picked me up at the bus station. After several weeks of being woken up in the middle of the night, and not being able to go back to sleep, I was, how you say, over it, and just bitchy-ass tired.
"Sorry I'm late," he said when I got in the car. "I just got back from downtown."
I didn't notice that he was late. What I did notice, however, was that he was driving what used to be our car, but had been my car for about a month now - ever since he'd bought Loud n Dusty. It was odd, I thought, that I'd given him $3,000 for a truck which he was now not driving. This was not the first time he'd figured he could just take the family car wherever he wanted.
"Okay," I said. "Can I ask, what's wrong with your car?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well - if you're driving this car, then you're not driving your car. And if you're not driving your car, I am guessing that something happened to it? Is something wrong with it?"
I have to admit, I was passively-aggressively peeved at this point. But I was also using logic, which always unnerved him.
We pulled up to a red light. "Why the FUCK are you hassling me?" He yelled at me. "All I did was go DOWNTOWN and now so what if I'm FUCKING DRIVING YOUR CAR!" I mean, really - really? This was the reaction?
"You know what, bitch?" He continued. "Fuck this."
And with that rather eloquent pronouncement, D put the car in park, turned the key and pulled it out of the ignition, and got out of the car, which was still sitting at the red light. I sat in the passenger seat for about 3 seconds before remembering that I had my keys on me. I jumped out, ran around to the driver's side just as the light was turning green, turned the car back on, and drove past D as he stormed across the street, walking away.
I drove home, shaking. Terrified. I was wondering whether I should call the police, if I was in any physical danger. But you know what? I was really, really pissed off. For the first time, I was not only ready for battle, I was hungering after it. I craved it. I wanted to tell this motherfucker off for the first and last time, and that feeling of purpose gave me the backbone I so desperately needed.
So I called his cell phone, which I knew he had on him. He let it ring to voice mail. So I called back. And he let it ring to voice mail. So I called, four more times. Each time, the same result, except the last time.
Finally, he picked up. "What?" Belligerent, but not screaming; this was good.
"Where are you?"
He hung up.
So I drove down our long, winding hill, trying to see if I could find him. And there he was, walking at a heart-stopping pace up our hill. I did a u-turn and rolled down my window. "Want a ride?" I asked, not un-sweetly.
He got in, surprisingly, and the yelling started as we drove back up the hills. Most of the entire conversation happened in the front seat of the (my) car, parked in the driveway. I think the UPS lady even walked past us on her way to the front door. My, but what a sight we must have been.
Blah, blah, blah, went the fight. But this time, it was a down-and-out FIGHT. I was yelling back. And I have to tell you, it felt really, really good. We were re-hashing old territory, re-covering old ground which, given the current divorce track we were on, didn't really mean much anymore. It was simply a battle of wills, each of us trying to out-do the other with "I'm more hurt, no I'm more hurt" rhetoric. I'm not proud of it, but I had had enough, I was exhausted, and I needed to get it out of me. Much of it was venting, and in true "head in the sand" manner, I've forgotten most of it. Except for one line, which helped tremendously in the days and weeks ahead.
During the conversation, at some point, he took it upon himself to use the phrase, eyes all a-bulge, "If you come after me with this divorce, fuck you, I will BURY YOU."
Bury me. Bury me? Like, with a shovel, or with a lawyer? Either way, it was a conversation-stopper.
I stopped arguing with him and opened my eyes wide, as if to say, "Really? Did you just say that?" And I have to say, it was a little hard to do - I was actually enjoying being in the fray for once. But this crossed a line.
I looked at him calmly, took a deep breath, and said, "Let me be very clear about something here, D. If you threaten me again, ever, or if you ever make me feel threatened in any way, I will have you put in jail. By the way, what you just said, about burying me? That's your last chance. Are we clear?"
I could not have stopped him colder if I'd slapped him across the face.
The conversation took a dramatic turn after that, with his mea culpas and my "sure, okay, sure"s. If you could prick someone with a pin, and watch all of their aggression quickly vent out of them - that's what this looked like. He simply deflated in front of me.
I was riled, but attempting to reign it in. I had to go pick up Little One at daycare, and besides, everything that had been said - with the exception of the "bury you" comment - had been said before. There was nothing new to learn there.
But I now had a very important tool in my arsenal: I could, and now would, yell back. And, as it turned out, that was indicative of the fact that I was learning how to be un-afraid of him. As someone who had spent much of the relationship a little (or a lot) afraid of her own husband, this was a monumental shifting of the sands beneath me.
And it felt good.
After that, I notified my parents, and one other friend, about what D had said to me (the burying comment), so that they would be able to help me document what had happened. Before, I'd just wanted to get legal. And I had; I had a good divorce lawyer, who had helped me file joint divorce papers with D, and she was a wealth of information. She had even recommended a good lawyer for D, but he had as of yet not called the lawyer, telling me he would, eventually.
But now, I was mad. D was running me for money, a car, an apartment, alimony, and not even looking for a job of his own. He wasn't taking care of Little One, who was still in full-time daycare. He was staying out most nights now, with zero compassion for its effects on me (still the breadwinner in our household), and zero desire to compromise over it.
Things went on like this for another few weeks, until I finally found an apartment for him. He was utterly incapable of doing this sort of thing on his own and had asked for my help.
On November 1, he moved out, his cousin helping him move and pack all of his stuff. It was about 2 months and a week after The Text Message. My mother was visiting, to help me coordinate (and cope). Little One was still oblivious, being too young to really get what was happening.
We established an early parenting plan. Although he was supposed to start paying childcare as soon as we had filed the divorce papers (late September), I took pity on him, since he had no income.
For the first two weeks, Little One would trade off between our house and his apartment, always for just a few hours at a time. I was adamant that she would not spend the night at his apartment until he had a place for our child to stay - an actual bed, a room. He barely batted an eye agreeing with me.
Ah, dear reader, here's where it really gets interesting. Because on November 16, I found an email which would utterly change not just the course of this divorce: It would force me to change in ways I could never have imagined.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
9. On the corner of Bittersweet and Main Street
I felt like such a fool.
I had tried so hard to forgive D for the names he'd called me throughout our marriage, for the drunken swearing and need for mothering, all of which I knew came from a childhood pockmarked by the live grenades of a severely unhinged mother. (Seriously. The woman is odd, even now.) She had her own demons, too, which she'd handed down to her children. At times, when D would stand in front of me and call me vicious names, names no one had ever called me in my life, I would realize that he wasn't even talking to me anymore, that he was yelling at his mother. So that insight made me stand firmer in my resolve to help him cross the barrier from the dark side he inhabited. I desperately believed I could do this for him, since he also begged me to help him, said he so wanted to be a better man.
Now, there were plenty of times he was just yelling at me, and only me. The longer our marriage wore on, the more I saw that side of him. He was always remorseful afterward, occasionally crying, telling me he didn't understand why he got that way. It broke my heart because I loved him so much, and wanted to somehow figure out a way to take that pain away.
And I kept on trying to mother him, to provide him with the stability and unconditional love and acceptance that he needed, and seemingly had never had. But even I had my limits, and I had gathered up a healthy dose of resentment over the years. This bled into our marriage slowly. I wouldn't normally fight or yell back - in fact, I can count the number of times on two hands that I actually did, they stick out so much - but I would exact my revenge in passive-aggressiveness, in the meandering, sweet way that I didn't give D what he said he needed from me. I said I would do it, but then he'd go on one of his rants again, about me, or my family, or how I didn't really love him. And I'd sit there and take it, all the while thinking, Fucker. You are a fucking loser. Stupid ass. I was so angry. And I had absolutely no outlet for it. (Fortunately, I turned it inward on myself instead of ever letting my Little One see it. For that, at least, I'm grateful, even if its effects on my health were startling to see after the years.)
If he wasn't willing to take all the other stuff I was offering, I reasoned, then surely he didn't get to tell me who to be. I was sort of right, but in the context of a marriage, it was like a small wound that we'd re-open over and over again. Eventually all we could see was the wound.
And so it went, until now, when we'd finally figured out we had to divorce. And for the first week or two, things were extremely civil. I gave up control in the marriage, gave him the space he needed to go out to his AA meetings, to stay out till 2 or 3 every other night, or sometimes every night, playing pool, hanging out at bars where he said he wasn't drinking. And at this time, he was under court mandate not to drink, so I had to believe him. Another story, another time.
And then Little One and I embarked on a trip to DisneyWorld that had been on the schedule for months and months. I, a complete and total Disney-phile, had made the arrangements earlier that year, thrilled to finally be able to bring my own child and my husband (a DisneyWorld virgin, as my mom would call him), to one of my favorite childhood haunts. But considering that the date we would be leaving was about 2 weeks after The Text Message, there was no way in hell I was bringing D along. So I uninvited him. He seemed both relieved and hurt.
Suffice it to say, the trip embodied the definition of bittersweet. Having my Little One on Main Street, cavorting with the characters (of whom Little One was completely unafraid), riding on the Teacups, Dumbo, watching her experience for the first time a place that held so much meaning and childhood memories for me - it was the first glimpse I had into what my future without D might be like. It was both terrifying and exhilarating. Surrounded by my immediate family, who tread carefully around me, worried I might break (and I did, a few times, but not in front of them), it was the worst best trip of my life.
And we did the iChat with Daddy almost every night, lest Little One (who was mostly oblivious to his absence) miss him. Even a continent away, I didn't get the respite I was hoping for. But I was determined not to separate him from Little One anymore than I already had.
And yet, there was this streak in me that was starting to form through all of this, the Mama Bear instinct. It was raging to the surface, enabled both by D's daily absence and my increasing awareness of the 18-year-old he was fast becoming. And so, two days before I left for my trip, unknown to D, I found a divorce lawyer, and set up an appointment with her for the day after I returned from my trip.
I was girding myself for battle. Why? Because I knew that, given the chance, D would intimidate and manipulate me into doing everything he needed from me. And the only thing that I knew he was more afraid of than anything else was The Law.
So I didn't get mad. I got legal.
I had tried so hard to forgive D for the names he'd called me throughout our marriage, for the drunken swearing and need for mothering, all of which I knew came from a childhood pockmarked by the live grenades of a severely unhinged mother. (Seriously. The woman is odd, even now.) She had her own demons, too, which she'd handed down to her children. At times, when D would stand in front of me and call me vicious names, names no one had ever called me in my life, I would realize that he wasn't even talking to me anymore, that he was yelling at his mother. So that insight made me stand firmer in my resolve to help him cross the barrier from the dark side he inhabited. I desperately believed I could do this for him, since he also begged me to help him, said he so wanted to be a better man.
Now, there were plenty of times he was just yelling at me, and only me. The longer our marriage wore on, the more I saw that side of him. He was always remorseful afterward, occasionally crying, telling me he didn't understand why he got that way. It broke my heart because I loved him so much, and wanted to somehow figure out a way to take that pain away.
And I kept on trying to mother him, to provide him with the stability and unconditional love and acceptance that he needed, and seemingly had never had. But even I had my limits, and I had gathered up a healthy dose of resentment over the years. This bled into our marriage slowly. I wouldn't normally fight or yell back - in fact, I can count the number of times on two hands that I actually did, they stick out so much - but I would exact my revenge in passive-aggressiveness, in the meandering, sweet way that I didn't give D what he said he needed from me. I said I would do it, but then he'd go on one of his rants again, about me, or my family, or how I didn't really love him. And I'd sit there and take it, all the while thinking, Fucker. You are a fucking loser. Stupid ass. I was so angry. And I had absolutely no outlet for it. (Fortunately, I turned it inward on myself instead of ever letting my Little One see it. For that, at least, I'm grateful, even if its effects on my health were startling to see after the years.)
If he wasn't willing to take all the other stuff I was offering, I reasoned, then surely he didn't get to tell me who to be. I was sort of right, but in the context of a marriage, it was like a small wound that we'd re-open over and over again. Eventually all we could see was the wound.
And so it went, until now, when we'd finally figured out we had to divorce. And for the first week or two, things were extremely civil. I gave up control in the marriage, gave him the space he needed to go out to his AA meetings, to stay out till 2 or 3 every other night, or sometimes every night, playing pool, hanging out at bars where he said he wasn't drinking. And at this time, he was under court mandate not to drink, so I had to believe him. Another story, another time.
And then Little One and I embarked on a trip to DisneyWorld that had been on the schedule for months and months. I, a complete and total Disney-phile, had made the arrangements earlier that year, thrilled to finally be able to bring my own child and my husband (a DisneyWorld virgin, as my mom would call him), to one of my favorite childhood haunts. But considering that the date we would be leaving was about 2 weeks after The Text Message, there was no way in hell I was bringing D along. So I uninvited him. He seemed both relieved and hurt.
Suffice it to say, the trip embodied the definition of bittersweet. Having my Little One on Main Street, cavorting with the characters (of whom Little One was completely unafraid), riding on the Teacups, Dumbo, watching her experience for the first time a place that held so much meaning and childhood memories for me - it was the first glimpse I had into what my future without D might be like. It was both terrifying and exhilarating. Surrounded by my immediate family, who tread carefully around me, worried I might break (and I did, a few times, but not in front of them), it was the worst best trip of my life.
And we did the iChat with Daddy almost every night, lest Little One (who was mostly oblivious to his absence) miss him. Even a continent away, I didn't get the respite I was hoping for. But I was determined not to separate him from Little One anymore than I already had.
And yet, there was this streak in me that was starting to form through all of this, the Mama Bear instinct. It was raging to the surface, enabled both by D's daily absence and my increasing awareness of the 18-year-old he was fast becoming. And so, two days before I left for my trip, unknown to D, I found a divorce lawyer, and set up an appointment with her for the day after I returned from my trip.
I was girding myself for battle. Why? Because I knew that, given the chance, D would intimidate and manipulate me into doing everything he needed from me. And the only thing that I knew he was more afraid of than anything else was The Law.
So I didn't get mad. I got legal.
8. What are those five stages of grief again?
And so I mourned. I mourned the loss of my marriage, and my ideals. I mourned that I would now have the "Divorced Stamp" across my forehead. I mourned that D had never stepped up, and had become (always been?) a giant, freeloading moron. I mourned that I was such a fool as to have believed that he had my back.
But mostly, I mourned the loss of my second child, the child I would now never know, the child who would have been Little One's little brother or sister, who would be there for Little One in good times and bad. I had always wanted to have two children, and to not let Little One go too long without the prospect of a sibling. I had been 7 when my parents had my sibling, and I had always wished it had been sooner.
Even though I knew that being married to D was hard, and even though I knew that it was certainly not going to get better if things became more challenging or complicated, all I had thought about since having Little One was providing a little brother or sister. I was ready - I thought - because Little One was 2, and wasn't that just the perfect age difference?
In these early days after making the decision to divorce, I mourned this unborn child like I already knew him or her. Perhaps I did, because I was so in love with Little One. But now I knew that this child would never, ever exist.
And it was sometimes just too much to bear. I'd be going about my day, working, or being the homemaker, or taking care of Little One, and I'd literally lose my breath and just have to sit down and cry for a few minutes. The grief was occasionally overwhelming, especially against the backdrop of everything else that had happened. It was a weight that would squeeze my heart and nearly collapse me with the littlest of warning.
I apologized to that little life that would never be, the one that I had been so excited to meet for so long. I was so sorry that I hadn't figured out how to be a better wife, so that I could have made D happier and kept things at least at an even keel.
In my heart, I also apologized to Little One for allowing such a wreck of a man to be Little One's dad, and realized that Little One v.2 would have suffered the same fate. When I remembered D's stellar track record as a parent so far, it almost seemed the most humane thing to do, not to have another child with this man.
I was mourning the death of the future I'd thought I would have, the only one I'd been able to see for years. It truly was like mourning the death of a loved one. This life that I had committed to had broken apart, and I could not tell how to put the pieces back together in a new way. It was...gone. Simply, irretrievably gone. And so I mourned, staring into the black hole that had replaced the future I was planning on.
In the process of some late-night googling, I came upon this quote by Joseph Campbell:
"We must let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the one that is waiting for us."
Other people have felt this way! I thought. I'm not alone, even Joseph Campbell figured this shit out!
I felt like I was going through at least 5 stages of grief, all at once, with about an extra 4 or 5 thrown in. (Shame, humiliation, vengeance, you name it.) Then D informed me that he was going to start going out late at night with his new truck, and wouldn't be home until 2 or 3 most nights. He was going to go to AA and then go play pool. Play pool? I thought. Sure, buddy, whatever floats your boat. I'll be here taking care of everything, like I always do.
Oh, it was about to get so much worse.
But mostly, I mourned the loss of my second child, the child I would now never know, the child who would have been Little One's little brother or sister, who would be there for Little One in good times and bad. I had always wanted to have two children, and to not let Little One go too long without the prospect of a sibling. I had been 7 when my parents had my sibling, and I had always wished it had been sooner.
Even though I knew that being married to D was hard, and even though I knew that it was certainly not going to get better if things became more challenging or complicated, all I had thought about since having Little One was providing a little brother or sister. I was ready - I thought - because Little One was 2, and wasn't that just the perfect age difference?
In these early days after making the decision to divorce, I mourned this unborn child like I already knew him or her. Perhaps I did, because I was so in love with Little One. But now I knew that this child would never, ever exist.
And it was sometimes just too much to bear. I'd be going about my day, working, or being the homemaker, or taking care of Little One, and I'd literally lose my breath and just have to sit down and cry for a few minutes. The grief was occasionally overwhelming, especially against the backdrop of everything else that had happened. It was a weight that would squeeze my heart and nearly collapse me with the littlest of warning.
I apologized to that little life that would never be, the one that I had been so excited to meet for so long. I was so sorry that I hadn't figured out how to be a better wife, so that I could have made D happier and kept things at least at an even keel.
In my heart, I also apologized to Little One for allowing such a wreck of a man to be Little One's dad, and realized that Little One v.2 would have suffered the same fate. When I remembered D's stellar track record as a parent so far, it almost seemed the most humane thing to do, not to have another child with this man.
I was mourning the death of the future I'd thought I would have, the only one I'd been able to see for years. It truly was like mourning the death of a loved one. This life that I had committed to had broken apart, and I could not tell how to put the pieces back together in a new way. It was...gone. Simply, irretrievably gone. And so I mourned, staring into the black hole that had replaced the future I was planning on.
In the process of some late-night googling, I came upon this quote by Joseph Campbell:
"We must let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the one that is waiting for us."
Other people have felt this way! I thought. I'm not alone, even Joseph Campbell figured this shit out!
I felt like I was going through at least 5 stages of grief, all at once, with about an extra 4 or 5 thrown in. (Shame, humiliation, vengeance, you name it.) Then D informed me that he was going to start going out late at night with his new truck, and wouldn't be home until 2 or 3 most nights. He was going to go to AA and then go play pool. Play pool? I thought. Sure, buddy, whatever floats your boat. I'll be here taking care of everything, like I always do.
Oh, it was about to get so much worse.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
7. And so the story (really) begins...
Things started amicably enough. D and I, though still doing the tiptoe-on-eggshells dance, were at least dancing far enough apart that we didn't bump into one another. There was a certain sense of relief, mingled with the fear of whatever might be around the corner. Little One was fine, doing great - and I kept reminding myself, that was what it was all about. I didn't want Little One growing up and seeing Momma treated the way that D treated me. That was simply not a thing to teach a child.
Sidebar. D was a bully. Alternately charming and fiendish, he was the sort of tortured artist with the deep blue eyes that made you feel like you could really help him, make him see the best in people. And he reveled in the power I let him have over me, finding my weak spots in the darkest of places. He pushed those buttons over and over again, manipulatively, gleefully. If you'd asked him why he did it, he'd say it wasn't him, it was me. And for a long time, I believed him. I believed that I really was the source of his unhappiness, and that I was the reason he drank and smoked dope. It was easier for me to believe that, because in believing that, it gave me some control to change it (potentially). It was so much easier than the harsh reality, which was that I had married a man who was, on his best days, a dark shadow of the man I'd thought I was marrying.
My bad.
Two days after I had told D that I was done, I launched what was the biggest project of my career back at work. Barely able to string a sentence of words together, I alternately focused on the project and on Facebook, where D's presence was now my laser focus. Sally would occasionally chime in on his posts; I could hardly contain myself from shooting back something snide. D had told me that they were now just friends, and that he was committed to doing whatever he needed to do to support me and Little One during the divorce. I, for one, could not comprehend why she thought this behavior was all right. Then again, this was a woman who had thought hip-bone-belly texts to someone else's husband were acceptable ways to interact, so I suppose I had to consider things with some relativity. ("She feels really bad about the texts," D had told me. "She's really unhappy in her marriage. They haven't slept together in 7 years and he's really awful to her." Huh, I thought at the time. Where did her three-year-old come from, then?)
But after a few days of Facebook exchanges between them, I asked D to lighten up on the commenting with Sally on Facebook. It was really hurtful to me, and he and I had a long way to go. And since they were just friends anyway, couldn't he just back off? He agreed. "Of course," he said. "Sorry."
The next day I tried to establish some boundaries. "When do you think you'll be able to move out?" I asked casually.
"I don't know. Are you going to pay me alimony, do you think?" It was a nicely laid-out, shotgun of a question. D excelled at these.
Deep breath. I'd done some homework on my home state's divorce laws. "You'll get half the equity in the house," I said. "But beyond that, it's up to us to determine what you're entitled to. There's nothing that states it has to be 50/50, legally speaking."
"Well, how am I going to support myself?" Again, politely stated, pointy words.
I don't know, pimp yourself out to more old friends and take their husbands' money? I thought. "I don't know," I replied, out loud. "We need to start looking at apartments. Have you looked into getting a car?"
"Yes," he said. "So I'll need some money for that. And an apartment, I need to find one."
"How long do you think you'll be living here?" I asked, as nicely as I could.
"I don't see how I can move out before the end of next month," he said. It was early September, and he was going to be here for another 8 weeks?!
I thought it through quickly. "We'll work on it," I said. "In the meantime, let's just establish that neither one of us will get involved in a relationship with someone else. It's going to be hard enough just living together the next 8 weeks."
"Of course," he said. "Okay."
Sidebar. D was a bully. Alternately charming and fiendish, he was the sort of tortured artist with the deep blue eyes that made you feel like you could really help him, make him see the best in people. And he reveled in the power I let him have over me, finding my weak spots in the darkest of places. He pushed those buttons over and over again, manipulatively, gleefully. If you'd asked him why he did it, he'd say it wasn't him, it was me. And for a long time, I believed him. I believed that I really was the source of his unhappiness, and that I was the reason he drank and smoked dope. It was easier for me to believe that, because in believing that, it gave me some control to change it (potentially). It was so much easier than the harsh reality, which was that I had married a man who was, on his best days, a dark shadow of the man I'd thought I was marrying.
My bad.
Two days after I had told D that I was done, I launched what was the biggest project of my career back at work. Barely able to string a sentence of words together, I alternately focused on the project and on Facebook, where D's presence was now my laser focus. Sally would occasionally chime in on his posts; I could hardly contain myself from shooting back something snide. D had told me that they were now just friends, and that he was committed to doing whatever he needed to do to support me and Little One during the divorce. I, for one, could not comprehend why she thought this behavior was all right. Then again, this was a woman who had thought hip-bone-belly texts to someone else's husband were acceptable ways to interact, so I suppose I had to consider things with some relativity. ("She feels really bad about the texts," D had told me. "She's really unhappy in her marriage. They haven't slept together in 7 years and he's really awful to her." Huh, I thought at the time. Where did her three-year-old come from, then?)
But after a few days of Facebook exchanges between them, I asked D to lighten up on the commenting with Sally on Facebook. It was really hurtful to me, and he and I had a long way to go. And since they were just friends anyway, couldn't he just back off? He agreed. "Of course," he said. "Sorry."
The next day I tried to establish some boundaries. "When do you think you'll be able to move out?" I asked casually.
"I don't know. Are you going to pay me alimony, do you think?" It was a nicely laid-out, shotgun of a question. D excelled at these.
Deep breath. I'd done some homework on my home state's divorce laws. "You'll get half the equity in the house," I said. "But beyond that, it's up to us to determine what you're entitled to. There's nothing that states it has to be 50/50, legally speaking."
"Well, how am I going to support myself?" Again, politely stated, pointy words.
I don't know, pimp yourself out to more old friends and take their husbands' money? I thought. "I don't know," I replied, out loud. "We need to start looking at apartments. Have you looked into getting a car?"
"Yes," he said. "So I'll need some money for that. And an apartment, I need to find one."
"How long do you think you'll be living here?" I asked, as nicely as I could.
"I don't see how I can move out before the end of next month," he said. It was early September, and he was going to be here for another 8 weeks?!
I thought it through quickly. "We'll work on it," I said. "In the meantime, let's just establish that neither one of us will get involved in a relationship with someone else. It's going to be hard enough just living together the next 8 weeks."
"Of course," he said. "Okay."
Friday, July 23, 2010
6. Stick a fork in me.
I am nothing if not a woman of occasional 180-degree turns.
After having yelled at my mother that morning for asking me if I was going to file for divorce, I was now realizing that she was asking the only question that there was left to ask.
I'd repeatedly asked D to stop talking to Sally. He had not, when he said he had; now, he flat-out wouldn't. I told him he could either stop talking to her, and work with me on our marriage, or not. He chose not to choose: he wouldn't answer me when I posed these kinds of questions.
And for my part, I was readying the lifeboats, but still desperately clinging to the idea that the ship wasn't really sinking. I was still terrified of being "divorced."
That afternoon, D and I were playing with Little One in her room, somewhat quietly. My proclamation came out of the blue, even to me.
Keeping my voice friendly and even, so Little One wouldn't be upset, I said calmly, "So, I think I'm done."
D looked up, confused. "Huh?"
I looked him in the eye and said, as if I was saying "nice weather, ain't it, hon?":
"I'm done. We should figure out how to separate. I'll help you find another place to live, and will get the divorce started."
There, I had said it out loud. I don't even remember his immediate reaction, other than saying something like "okay," simply because I was too shocked at what I'd just managed to finally come out and say. I was done. All of a sudden, just like that. I don't know at what point I had crossed the line from terror to reality, but I had, sitting on the floor of Little One's room on a lovely summer afternoon, politely stating what I wanted.
We put Little One down for a nap, and I walked downstairs and outside, holding a phone. I dialed my mother's number. I didn't dawdle.
"So, we're getting divorced," I said.
My mom took in a quick breath and paused. "Let me get your father on the line, too, honey," she said. And that's when I started to cry.
After having yelled at my mother that morning for asking me if I was going to file for divorce, I was now realizing that she was asking the only question that there was left to ask.
I'd repeatedly asked D to stop talking to Sally. He had not, when he said he had; now, he flat-out wouldn't. I told him he could either stop talking to her, and work with me on our marriage, or not. He chose not to choose: he wouldn't answer me when I posed these kinds of questions.
And for my part, I was readying the lifeboats, but still desperately clinging to the idea that the ship wasn't really sinking. I was still terrified of being "divorced."
That afternoon, D and I were playing with Little One in her room, somewhat quietly. My proclamation came out of the blue, even to me.
Keeping my voice friendly and even, so Little One wouldn't be upset, I said calmly, "So, I think I'm done."
D looked up, confused. "Huh?"
I looked him in the eye and said, as if I was saying "nice weather, ain't it, hon?":
"I'm done. We should figure out how to separate. I'll help you find another place to live, and will get the divorce started."
There, I had said it out loud. I don't even remember his immediate reaction, other than saying something like "okay," simply because I was too shocked at what I'd just managed to finally come out and say. I was done. All of a sudden, just like that. I don't know at what point I had crossed the line from terror to reality, but I had, sitting on the floor of Little One's room on a lovely summer afternoon, politely stating what I wanted.
We put Little One down for a nap, and I walked downstairs and outside, holding a phone. I dialed my mother's number. I didn't dawdle.
"So, we're getting divorced," I said.
My mom took in a quick breath and paused. "Let me get your father on the line, too, honey," she said. And that's when I started to cry.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
5. Does this stamp make me look divorced?
For another 24 hours, I wrestled with what I should do. In moments of supreme clarity, it was no surprise that the marriage wasn't going to work. For months, years, even, I'd known a divorce was going to happen. It wasn't if, it was when. And so now I was faced with the very really possibility that my "when" had come, in the most heinous visage of a middle-aged bellydancer. (I couldn't help but giggle, somewhat maniacally.)
But then, I'd swing back, feeling victimized. How did I get here? I wondered. I felt like I was going to be a piece of paper, one of those applications with "DENIED" stamped diagonally across the top. Only mine would be a big red stamp that said "DIVORCED" and it would appear, smudged and permanent, on my forehead, and would define me and mold me and make me a pariah. Who would love me with that label on me? How could I live with that? And I'm sorry, but red ink is so not my color.
What would people think of me? This wasn't me. This wasn't supposed to be me. I was the golden child, the one that everyone else believed had it going on, had it together. If you had asked me at this moment what I was most scared of, it wasn't being alone, or having to raise Little One without anyone's help. (Admittedly, I'd already been raising Little One with minimal assistance from D, anyway, but if he was gone, who'd take out the trash and water the plants?) I was most disturbed and frightened by the concept of being divorced and what people would think of me. And most importantly, what I would think of me.
I didn't intend to get divorced when I got married. Obviously, I mean; I took vows before everyone I cared about. I made a promise, and come hell or high water, I was going to keep that promise. Damn it.
But as a friend of mine told me, "No one thinks it's gonna happen to them when they get married. Even though the odds are so high, you never get married thinking it's gonna be you in that statistic of divorce." This from someone who'd had a similar situation arise years before.
Nonetheless, fear led the way. For a little more than a day, I convinced myself that I could somehow figure out a way through this, somehow piece my marriage back together. My parents, now back on the other coast, monitored me with phone calls every few hours. My two only friends checked in via Facebook and emails and text messages. My therapist was on call. My co-workers knew absolutely nothing. No one had noticed the omission of the rings on my finger - not even D himself. Or if he did, he didn't mention it.
It was now a Saturday, 9 days after Text Message Day. I was talking to my mom on my cell phone as I ran some errands. She had begun using the D-word and I was mad about it.
"Mom, I am going to figure out a way to make this work! I will not get a divorce!" I yelled into the phone. (I'm not generally a yeller. Poor Mom.) "I made a promise. I can't just walk away and I won't." I was emphatic. I drove home, convinced that I would make this happen. D politely greeted me from across the living room, then looked away.
And I SAW him. I saw everything he'd done over the years to convince me that I was the problem. I realized I could have something more by having less. Without him in my life, what might my life look like? Was it better - could it be?
Then it hit me: sure, I could "fix" the marriage. But I could never "fix" D. I couldn't help him with his substance abuse. I couldn't help him get a job. I could not fix him and make him someone who would treat me well, the majority of the time. I could try and fix the marriage, but I'd be dragging him along behind me.
Oh my God, I realized. There was nothing there to fix. Fixing means that something has broken which was once the way you wanted it.
There wasn't a "good" to go back to. Shit, I thought. Now what?
But then, I'd swing back, feeling victimized. How did I get here? I wondered. I felt like I was going to be a piece of paper, one of those applications with "DENIED" stamped diagonally across the top. Only mine would be a big red stamp that said "DIVORCED" and it would appear, smudged and permanent, on my forehead, and would define me and mold me and make me a pariah. Who would love me with that label on me? How could I live with that? And I'm sorry, but red ink is so not my color.
What would people think of me? This wasn't me. This wasn't supposed to be me. I was the golden child, the one that everyone else believed had it going on, had it together. If you had asked me at this moment what I was most scared of, it wasn't being alone, or having to raise Little One without anyone's help. (Admittedly, I'd already been raising Little One with minimal assistance from D, anyway, but if he was gone, who'd take out the trash and water the plants?) I was most disturbed and frightened by the concept of being divorced and what people would think of me. And most importantly, what I would think of me.
I didn't intend to get divorced when I got married. Obviously, I mean; I took vows before everyone I cared about. I made a promise, and come hell or high water, I was going to keep that promise. Damn it.
But as a friend of mine told me, "No one thinks it's gonna happen to them when they get married. Even though the odds are so high, you never get married thinking it's gonna be you in that statistic of divorce." This from someone who'd had a similar situation arise years before.
Nonetheless, fear led the way. For a little more than a day, I convinced myself that I could somehow figure out a way through this, somehow piece my marriage back together. My parents, now back on the other coast, monitored me with phone calls every few hours. My two only friends checked in via Facebook and emails and text messages. My therapist was on call. My co-workers knew absolutely nothing. No one had noticed the omission of the rings on my finger - not even D himself. Or if he did, he didn't mention it.
It was now a Saturday, 9 days after Text Message Day. I was talking to my mom on my cell phone as I ran some errands. She had begun using the D-word and I was mad about it.
"Mom, I am going to figure out a way to make this work! I will not get a divorce!" I yelled into the phone. (I'm not generally a yeller. Poor Mom.) "I made a promise. I can't just walk away and I won't." I was emphatic. I drove home, convinced that I would make this happen. D politely greeted me from across the living room, then looked away.
And I SAW him. I saw everything he'd done over the years to convince me that I was the problem. I realized I could have something more by having less. Without him in my life, what might my life look like? Was it better - could it be?
Then it hit me: sure, I could "fix" the marriage. But I could never "fix" D. I couldn't help him with his substance abuse. I couldn't help him get a job. I could not fix him and make him someone who would treat me well, the majority of the time. I could try and fix the marriage, but I'd be dragging him along behind me.
Oh my God, I realized. There was nothing there to fix. Fixing means that something has broken which was once the way you wanted it.
There wasn't a "good" to go back to. Shit, I thought. Now what?
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
4. What – that elephant, over there? No, that’s just an 800-pound gorilla.
The weekend was awful. I mean, in that elephant-in-the-room sort of way where you can chat politely about other stuff, but mostly you know you’re all thinking about the same thing and not talking about it because it’s just too much. And I was having a hard time having D in the hotel. The first morning after he was there – this is now only Friday! – I had asked him to suspend talking to Sally until he and I could figure out how to cope with what he was doing and what I wanted. He had agreed, saying that he was sorry, that he respected my need for space, and that he wanted to make sure he got to spend some time with our little one.
Sidebar. Aye, the little one. That’s the rub in all of this. See, Little One knew Daddy, and liked Daddy, but when Little One really needed anything, Little One only had eyes for Momma. This was primarily because Daddy had never been around much during little one’s short life. Sure, he was around as in “in the same house” – but he was either holed up in his office, playing video games, or wandering aimlessly around our yard, weeding and pruning and muttering to himself. So Little One had come to rely on Mommy for everything. Given that Daddy had a tendency to drink and smoke weed until he was barely there anyway, I was okay with this deal, since it meant that I knew Little One would be taken care of – because I was always around to do it. The truly tragic part of this is that Daddy never actually figured any of this out. [Sidebar fini.]
So his request to spend time with little one was quite a surprise, since he didn’t seem to want much time before. I invited him to come along on a couple of obliquely painful outings that weekend, as a result – a local farm/amusement park, dinner out. All the while trying to pretend that things could possibly be “normal.” All the while, impressing upon my parents the urge for normalcy that I was so desperately fulfilling.
I was assuming that the marriage was important to him.
The weekend passed; my parents played their interactions with him like the professionals they are. But I knew they would have smacked some sense into him, given the chance. We were all on a low simmer. I was glad they were there, and terrified for them to leave, since it meant I’d have to either live with stasis or somehow find momentum. Neither direction was appealing.
After they were gone, D came home. We talked and talked, disagreeing about the meaning of what I was now calling his "emotional affair." I asked him if he had talked to Sally lately, and he said he had chatted with her to tell her what was going on, and that they were not talking anymore. Phew! I thought. He’s getting it. Maybe we’re on the beginning of the right track here.
Three days went by, three days where I focused all my love on Little One, saw my therapist, wrote in my journal, talked to the only two friends I’d managed to keep during my marriage, and generally pondered my lackadaisical existence. D and I were careful around one another, walking on eggshells, lest one of us might break this uncomfortable detante.
During those days, I read the book “Happy for No Reason” by Marci Shimoff, and I had a revelation. I suddenly realized that my happiness did not depend on D’s opinion of me, or his general well-being, or my ability to be a good, dedicated, loving wife or mother. My happiness was mine – I owned it. What a concept!
That realization made what was hiding around the corner a little easier.
One night, exactly one week after the text message heard round the world, while D was out at a court-mandated AA session (a sidebar for another time), I was talking to my best friend Athena. During this conversation, a few things happened:
1) I started to feel empowered. Not sure why, but I did. (She does have that effect on me, when I let her.)
2) I began to think straighter and more clearly than I had in years.
3) It occurred to me that perhaps D wasn’t telling me the truth.
4) I opened our Verizon Wireless bill.
5) I saw…everything.
I don’t normally go through every line of a Verizon Wireless bill. In fact, as long as I’m not over on minutes or texts, I barely even read the damn thing. But something was nagging at me. I had to look.
The bill was pages long. It was thoroughly, irrevocably detailed. Times, dates, phone numbers. Duration. Quantity.
It had recorded not tens, not scores, but hundreds of text messages, back and forth, between D and the number I now knew to be Sally’s. Over the course of not days, but weeks, weeks which stretched beyond the bill I was looking at, back in time, beyond the day that I had visited Sally's home and been treated to that lovely tour.
The bill had also recorded hours of conversation between the two of them. Not just hours. Hours every day.
And on the day, the weekend, where D and I had agreed he would no longer talk to her – you know what I found?
The texts and the phone calls had nearly doubled. Every day since Text Message Day, multiple hours of calls, multiple texts. Dozens per day.
Athena was on the phone with me while this dramedy played out. "Oh, sweetie, I'm so, so sorry," she said.
"Thanks," I replied hazily. The letters on the pages and pages of my Verizon Wireless bill were starting to fuzz, blend, blur.
"You win either way," she said suddenly.
"How so?" I asked, not really hearing her, focused on the same phone number showing up on D's bill over and over and over again.
"Either you get the marriage you deserve, or you get the independence you earned," Athena said. "As miserable as it may feel, I think you've put yourself in a really good place."
I thought about that. Independence. What might that feel like? It seemed intangible, impossible, the stuff of science fiction movies and teen fantasy novels. I could barely remember myself as independent.
When D returned from AA that night, I calmly, quietly showed him the Verizon Wireless bill. I presented him with what I knew to be the truth.
He immediately went on the defensive, and blurted out, “Well, who else was I going to talk to? I needed someone to help me.”
I let him know he'd need to find another place in the house to sleep for a while.
It had only been 7 days since I'd found the text message. I could feel and taste and remember every waking minute of those 7 days. They felt very, very strange and long to me.
The next morning I woke up from a dark, awful night of fitful sleeping, and I walked over to the dresser in what was now my bedroom. I opened up the jewelry box I kept on that dresser. I took off my wedding ring and engagement ring and placed them on opposite sides of the jewelry box tray. I closed the jewelry box, got myself and Little One dressed, and went to work.
Sidebar. Aye, the little one. That’s the rub in all of this. See, Little One knew Daddy, and liked Daddy, but when Little One really needed anything, Little One only had eyes for Momma. This was primarily because Daddy had never been around much during little one’s short life. Sure, he was around as in “in the same house” – but he was either holed up in his office, playing video games, or wandering aimlessly around our yard, weeding and pruning and muttering to himself. So Little One had come to rely on Mommy for everything. Given that Daddy had a tendency to drink and smoke weed until he was barely there anyway, I was okay with this deal, since it meant that I knew Little One would be taken care of – because I was always around to do it. The truly tragic part of this is that Daddy never actually figured any of this out. [Sidebar fini.]
So his request to spend time with little one was quite a surprise, since he didn’t seem to want much time before. I invited him to come along on a couple of obliquely painful outings that weekend, as a result – a local farm/amusement park, dinner out. All the while trying to pretend that things could possibly be “normal.” All the while, impressing upon my parents the urge for normalcy that I was so desperately fulfilling.
I was assuming that the marriage was important to him.
The weekend passed; my parents played their interactions with him like the professionals they are. But I knew they would have smacked some sense into him, given the chance. We were all on a low simmer. I was glad they were there, and terrified for them to leave, since it meant I’d have to either live with stasis or somehow find momentum. Neither direction was appealing.
After they were gone, D came home. We talked and talked, disagreeing about the meaning of what I was now calling his "emotional affair." I asked him if he had talked to Sally lately, and he said he had chatted with her to tell her what was going on, and that they were not talking anymore. Phew! I thought. He’s getting it. Maybe we’re on the beginning of the right track here.
Three days went by, three days where I focused all my love on Little One, saw my therapist, wrote in my journal, talked to the only two friends I’d managed to keep during my marriage, and generally pondered my lackadaisical existence. D and I were careful around one another, walking on eggshells, lest one of us might break this uncomfortable detante.
During those days, I read the book “Happy for No Reason” by Marci Shimoff, and I had a revelation. I suddenly realized that my happiness did not depend on D’s opinion of me, or his general well-being, or my ability to be a good, dedicated, loving wife or mother. My happiness was mine – I owned it. What a concept!
That realization made what was hiding around the corner a little easier.
One night, exactly one week after the text message heard round the world, while D was out at a court-mandated AA session (a sidebar for another time), I was talking to my best friend Athena. During this conversation, a few things happened:
1) I started to feel empowered. Not sure why, but I did. (She does have that effect on me, when I let her.)
2) I began to think straighter and more clearly than I had in years.
3) It occurred to me that perhaps D wasn’t telling me the truth.
4) I opened our Verizon Wireless bill.
5) I saw…everything.
I don’t normally go through every line of a Verizon Wireless bill. In fact, as long as I’m not over on minutes or texts, I barely even read the damn thing. But something was nagging at me. I had to look.
The bill was pages long. It was thoroughly, irrevocably detailed. Times, dates, phone numbers. Duration. Quantity.
It had recorded not tens, not scores, but hundreds of text messages, back and forth, between D and the number I now knew to be Sally’s. Over the course of not days, but weeks, weeks which stretched beyond the bill I was looking at, back in time, beyond the day that I had visited Sally's home and been treated to that lovely tour.
The bill had also recorded hours of conversation between the two of them. Not just hours. Hours every day.
And on the day, the weekend, where D and I had agreed he would no longer talk to her – you know what I found?
The texts and the phone calls had nearly doubled. Every day since Text Message Day, multiple hours of calls, multiple texts. Dozens per day.
Athena was on the phone with me while this dramedy played out. "Oh, sweetie, I'm so, so sorry," she said.
"Thanks," I replied hazily. The letters on the pages and pages of my Verizon Wireless bill were starting to fuzz, blend, blur.
"You win either way," she said suddenly.
"How so?" I asked, not really hearing her, focused on the same phone number showing up on D's bill over and over and over again.
"Either you get the marriage you deserve, or you get the independence you earned," Athena said. "As miserable as it may feel, I think you've put yourself in a really good place."
I thought about that. Independence. What might that feel like? It seemed intangible, impossible, the stuff of science fiction movies and teen fantasy novels. I could barely remember myself as independent.
When D returned from AA that night, I calmly, quietly showed him the Verizon Wireless bill. I presented him with what I knew to be the truth.
He immediately went on the defensive, and blurted out, “Well, who else was I going to talk to? I needed someone to help me.”
I let him know he'd need to find another place in the house to sleep for a while.
It had only been 7 days since I'd found the text message. I could feel and taste and remember every waking minute of those 7 days. They felt very, very strange and long to me.
The next morning I woke up from a dark, awful night of fitful sleeping, and I walked over to the dresser in what was now my bedroom. I opened up the jewelry box I kept on that dresser. I took off my wedding ring and engagement ring and placed them on opposite sides of the jewelry box tray. I closed the jewelry box, got myself and Little One dressed, and went to work.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
3. My parents have tremendously good poker faces
I don’t remember much about this day, but I do remember my parents’ reaction when I told them what had happened that morning. I also remember arriving at work after telling D that he had to find someplace else to live for a few days. Mercifully, he agreed, without much of an argument – something that was simply a relief then, but now seems like a “duh!” moment.
My parents had arrived around noon, and were waiting for me outside my building, in their rental car. I got in and may have said “hello,” I’m not sure, before launching into:
“I found a text message on D’s phone this morning. It was from a woman. A friend of his. And it was…” I can’t get through the sentence without starting to cry. It is my parents, after all, and if I can’t cry with them, then I can’t cry. At all. So I cry. All the while, my dad carefully navigates the rental car through downtown traffic. They say nothing, waiting for me to tell them what has upset me. I know that they're dying to hear what I have to say, but respect the fact that I'll get to it in time.
I breathe deeply after a bit, and try to continue. “…It was really, really obvious that it was inappropriate and it was just…” I couldn’t use the word “sexual” around my parents, not even in this moment. I was just so ashamed. “The text message was explicit and filled with innuendo.” There, I finally said it. Only I’m not yet really sure what it is I’m saying.
My dad, driving, stares straight ahead. My mom, in the backseat, visible through my passenger-side mirror, stares out the window. Neither of them say anything for half a minute. Then my mom speaks up, carefully, asking infinitely non-judgmental, clarifying questions. “Do you think that something bigger’s going on?” “Who is this woman?” “Where is D now?” “What about the little one?”
I answer, calmly and quickly, in line. No. She’s an old friend of his. He’s at a hotel in the next town. The little one is fine, playing at daycare.
Dad, still expertly maneuvering around mid-day traffic, chimes in. “Well, okay then. What do you want to do next?”
This thought, until now, really had not occurred to me. Even when I realized that Sally was my blessing wrapped in layers of defecation, I had not yet thought about what that would mean to my existence. After nearly a decade of being with D, I could hardly fathom how being away from him might make me less miserable than being with him. And at this point in the marriage, Miserable and I were old friends who knew way too much about each other.
The only thing I could think of was: “I think I need to eat something. I haven’t eaten yet today. I should try.” My stomach had no want of food, but I was getting jittery. Food would be something I could rely on to at least do what it was supposed to do, and feed me. If only physically. We ate, and then picked up my little one at daycare.
By the time we arrived at my house, D was gone. He had packed up what he needed in the duffel bag I’d given him to use. He had been remarkably agreeable, all the while paying close attention to whether the hotel he was going to (which I would be paying for) had wireless. He couldn’t go a night without playing his computer games, after all.
As I walked up to my front door and opened it, I looked inside my house, inhabited at that moment only by a skittish cat and two needy dogs. I wasn’t afraid to go in. I didn’t automatically feel depleted, knowing D was inside. It occurred to me then that the energy in the house had shifted, and that, if I wanted it to, this was what my life could look like. I could be mistress of my own domain, just my little one and me, with no D around to tell me how I was messing up or what I was lacking or how I was responsible for his alcoholism and unhappiness. Again.
My parents, standing behind me, figuratively and literally, ever stoic, were determined to help. They offered to stay with me, in case I was worried about being in the house all alone with just the dogs, the little one, and the cat. (I was, but I didn’t want them to be concerned about it.) I told them I’d be fine, and resolved that I would be, as fine as I could be. Given the absurd circumstances, of course.
At this moment, though, sadly, I just wanted him back in the house. And I wanted Sally to disappear. I wanted to believe that this was all just a one-time occurrence, and that the little voice in my head really had been wrong when it told me that this all mattered, gravely.
I really wanted to believe that it was just flirting. I really thought being miserable together would be better than the unknown quantity of being alone. But then I got the phone bill.
My parents had arrived around noon, and were waiting for me outside my building, in their rental car. I got in and may have said “hello,” I’m not sure, before launching into:
“I found a text message on D’s phone this morning. It was from a woman. A friend of his. And it was…” I can’t get through the sentence without starting to cry. It is my parents, after all, and if I can’t cry with them, then I can’t cry. At all. So I cry. All the while, my dad carefully navigates the rental car through downtown traffic. They say nothing, waiting for me to tell them what has upset me. I know that they're dying to hear what I have to say, but respect the fact that I'll get to it in time.
I breathe deeply after a bit, and try to continue. “…It was really, really obvious that it was inappropriate and it was just…” I couldn’t use the word “sexual” around my parents, not even in this moment. I was just so ashamed. “The text message was explicit and filled with innuendo.” There, I finally said it. Only I’m not yet really sure what it is I’m saying.
My dad, driving, stares straight ahead. My mom, in the backseat, visible through my passenger-side mirror, stares out the window. Neither of them say anything for half a minute. Then my mom speaks up, carefully, asking infinitely non-judgmental, clarifying questions. “Do you think that something bigger’s going on?” “Who is this woman?” “Where is D now?” “What about the little one?”
I answer, calmly and quickly, in line. No. She’s an old friend of his. He’s at a hotel in the next town. The little one is fine, playing at daycare.
Dad, still expertly maneuvering around mid-day traffic, chimes in. “Well, okay then. What do you want to do next?”
This thought, until now, really had not occurred to me. Even when I realized that Sally was my blessing wrapped in layers of defecation, I had not yet thought about what that would mean to my existence. After nearly a decade of being with D, I could hardly fathom how being away from him might make me less miserable than being with him. And at this point in the marriage, Miserable and I were old friends who knew way too much about each other.
The only thing I could think of was: “I think I need to eat something. I haven’t eaten yet today. I should try.” My stomach had no want of food, but I was getting jittery. Food would be something I could rely on to at least do what it was supposed to do, and feed me. If only physically. We ate, and then picked up my little one at daycare.
By the time we arrived at my house, D was gone. He had packed up what he needed in the duffel bag I’d given him to use. He had been remarkably agreeable, all the while paying close attention to whether the hotel he was going to (which I would be paying for) had wireless. He couldn’t go a night without playing his computer games, after all.
As I walked up to my front door and opened it, I looked inside my house, inhabited at that moment only by a skittish cat and two needy dogs. I wasn’t afraid to go in. I didn’t automatically feel depleted, knowing D was inside. It occurred to me then that the energy in the house had shifted, and that, if I wanted it to, this was what my life could look like. I could be mistress of my own domain, just my little one and me, with no D around to tell me how I was messing up or what I was lacking or how I was responsible for his alcoholism and unhappiness. Again.
My parents, standing behind me, figuratively and literally, ever stoic, were determined to help. They offered to stay with me, in case I was worried about being in the house all alone with just the dogs, the little one, and the cat. (I was, but I didn’t want them to be concerned about it.) I told them I’d be fine, and resolved that I would be, as fine as I could be. Given the absurd circumstances, of course.
At this moment, though, sadly, I just wanted him back in the house. And I wanted Sally to disappear. I wanted to believe that this was all just a one-time occurrence, and that the little voice in my head really had been wrong when it told me that this all mattered, gravely.
I really wanted to believe that it was just flirting. I really thought being miserable together would be better than the unknown quantity of being alone. But then I got the phone bill.
2. The text message aftermath
After my bedside declaration re: The Text Message, my husband, D, had suddenly found the momentum to join us in the downstairs area and was now quite awake. He looked defensive and slightly befuddled. I'd only let him come as far as the bottom of the stairs; our little one was safely around the corner, playing with crayons.
"What the hell is going on between you two? Why is she writing to you like this?" I tried to demand. It was a hesitant balance of indignity and fearful pain. I had met Sally about a month before this. In fact, she'd given me a lovely tour of her lovely home, a home that my husband was working on for her. It was his first paying job in over two years. She had two kids and a husband and an exotic dance studio in her backyard. I'd thought she was "safe" because really, who on earth would want a married, mother-of-two, over-40 bellydancer? Who, praytell, who?
"It's just flirting," he threw back.
"Flirting? This is not flirting. This is cheating." When I said that word out loud, I couldn't believe how false and true it felt at the same time.
"It's not cheating!" D proclaimed. He actually sounded indignant. Priceless. "It's just flirting and it doesn't mean anything."
Inside my adrenalinized head, I could hear that little sing-songy voice starting to hum, "Oh, yes. it does. Oh, yes, it does. It means everything." I turned it off, one of many times that I would have such an interaction with that little voice.
Then I turned it back on again, and looked him in the eye. "Are you sleeping with her?" Each of those words hurt, almost physically, to say out loud.
He looked at me, only slightly less defensively than before. "No, I'm not sleeping with her."
"Have you had any physical interaction with her that could be in any way considered inappropriate?"
He actually started to look panicked. "No," he said, this time more quietly. The indignation was starting to wear, on both of us.
"How much of this texting have you been doing?" I said, more quietly too, now, as I saw out of the corner of my eye that our little one (too little, thank all that is holy, to really comprehend what was happening) had started to notice this particular exchange.
Sidebar. Our marriage had been unhappy for a long, long time. Looking back, I'm not sure it was ever what I would classify as a "happy marriage." The relationship was stressful. It was exhausting simply to navigate through a day within it. In fact, a mere few weeks before this, the Day of the Text Message, I had written in my journal:
"Why do I sometimes wish that SOMETHING, anything, would happen so we can finally break up? That you would cheat on me, or make enough money to get your own place, something like that." [And close Sidebar.]
I waited for him to respond. "I don't know," he said. "We chat a lot, and you know, Facebook and stuff."
"Wait - isn't Sally married?" I asked.
"Sure." At least now he has a shred of decency enough to be sheepish. "But they're really unhappy." Noticing the rapidly darkening expression on my face, he quickly added, "But that doesn't matter because nothing is going on. I swear."
I sighed, finding myself in a moment of objective clarity, realizing what I've just received from dear old married, mother-of-two, bellydancer Sally: a big old blessing, wrapped in a tremendous pile of shit.
And then I thought of my parents, who were, at that moment, somewhere over Texas. What the hell was I going to tell them when they arrived in Seattle, to a daughter's marriage having turned into something completely different while they were at 35,000 feet?
I was going to have to tell them the truth, finally. Oh dear.
"What the hell is going on between you two? Why is she writing to you like this?" I tried to demand. It was a hesitant balance of indignity and fearful pain. I had met Sally about a month before this. In fact, she'd given me a lovely tour of her lovely home, a home that my husband was working on for her. It was his first paying job in over two years. She had two kids and a husband and an exotic dance studio in her backyard. I'd thought she was "safe" because really, who on earth would want a married, mother-of-two, over-40 bellydancer? Who, praytell, who?
"It's just flirting," he threw back.
"Flirting? This is not flirting. This is cheating." When I said that word out loud, I couldn't believe how false and true it felt at the same time.
"It's not cheating!" D proclaimed. He actually sounded indignant. Priceless. "It's just flirting and it doesn't mean anything."
Inside my adrenalinized head, I could hear that little sing-songy voice starting to hum, "Oh, yes. it does. Oh, yes, it does. It means everything." I turned it off, one of many times that I would have such an interaction with that little voice.
Then I turned it back on again, and looked him in the eye. "Are you sleeping with her?" Each of those words hurt, almost physically, to say out loud.
He looked at me, only slightly less defensively than before. "No, I'm not sleeping with her."
"Have you had any physical interaction with her that could be in any way considered inappropriate?"
He actually started to look panicked. "No," he said, this time more quietly. The indignation was starting to wear, on both of us.
"How much of this texting have you been doing?" I said, more quietly too, now, as I saw out of the corner of my eye that our little one (too little, thank all that is holy, to really comprehend what was happening) had started to notice this particular exchange.
Sidebar. Our marriage had been unhappy for a long, long time. Looking back, I'm not sure it was ever what I would classify as a "happy marriage." The relationship was stressful. It was exhausting simply to navigate through a day within it. In fact, a mere few weeks before this, the Day of the Text Message, I had written in my journal:
"Why do I sometimes wish that SOMETHING, anything, would happen so we can finally break up? That you would cheat on me, or make enough money to get your own place, something like that." [And close Sidebar.]
I waited for him to respond. "I don't know," he said. "We chat a lot, and you know, Facebook and stuff."
"Wait - isn't Sally married?" I asked.
"Sure." At least now he has a shred of decency enough to be sheepish. "But they're really unhappy." Noticing the rapidly darkening expression on my face, he quickly added, "But that doesn't matter because nothing is going on. I swear."
I sighed, finding myself in a moment of objective clarity, realizing what I've just received from dear old married, mother-of-two, bellydancer Sally: a big old blessing, wrapped in a tremendous pile of shit.
And then I thought of my parents, who were, at that moment, somewhere over Texas. What the hell was I going to tell them when they arrived in Seattle, to a daughter's marriage having turned into something completely different while they were at 35,000 feet?
I was going to have to tell them the truth, finally. Oh dear.
1. Welcome to the insanity!
I am a woman with much ridiculousness to share.
It all started with a text message, found on my husband's cell phone. At 6:58am. On a Thursday. As per usual, my husband was upstairs in bed while I was downstairs with our little one.
BUZZ went D's phone, sitting on our worn kitchen countertop. BUZZ went my worry alarm. Surely, if someone was texting my husband at 6:58am, someone surely must have died. Or worse, it was his mother.
So opened it, I did. Opened the phone, saw a message from Sally, my husband's newly found old friend from college. (Score one for Facebook.) And what did I read there?
"morning sunshine. *rolls over and rubs hip bone and belly with yours*"
My heart is thumping as I type this. Much as it did when I, phone in hand, raced upstairs, stood above my husband, still lying in bed, and stated:
"You have received a text message from Sally, which we are going to have to talk about. Now."
I think the blood may have drained from his face but really, when one is turning on one's heel to leave a room with a flourish, one does not have time to watch the reaction of the flourishee.
Did I mention that my parents, at that very moment, were already on a plane flying cross-country to visit their darling daughter?
It all started with a text message, found on my husband's cell phone. At 6:58am. On a Thursday. As per usual, my husband was upstairs in bed while I was downstairs with our little one.
BUZZ went D's phone, sitting on our worn kitchen countertop. BUZZ went my worry alarm. Surely, if someone was texting my husband at 6:58am, someone surely must have died. Or worse, it was his mother.
So opened it, I did. Opened the phone, saw a message from Sally, my husband's newly found old friend from college. (Score one for Facebook.) And what did I read there?
"morning sunshine. *rolls over and rubs hip bone and belly with yours*"
My heart is thumping as I type this. Much as it did when I, phone in hand, raced upstairs, stood above my husband, still lying in bed, and stated:
"You have received a text message from Sally, which we are going to have to talk about. Now."
I think the blood may have drained from his face but really, when one is turning on one's heel to leave a room with a flourish, one does not have time to watch the reaction of the flourishee.
Did I mention that my parents, at that very moment, were already on a plane flying cross-country to visit their darling daughter?
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