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?
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