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.
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