I've had another bad week. One of the things no one prepares you for is how annoying it is to go through a divorce. Not only are you emotionally bruised, battered, and financially girded by the actions of someone you love, but you are also expected to perform all matter of tasks that you were getting really good at putting off. For example, I hate moving. I hate picking up boxes, I hate fitting things into my little Yaris and I hate the constant bending and lifting and everything else that happens when a person has to relocate. This week, I had to go to the storage unit Gino and I have had most of our possessions stashed in for two years and extricate my things from his things, and while doing this try to locate our marriage certificate (which I know is in there) so that Gino can start the process of filing for divorce. I know I will sound like a brat no matter how well I phrase this, but I just fucking don't care any more if I do. I hate this and I cannot get out of doing it, so I did most of it, fitting everything I could fit into my hatchback and leaving the rest for another day that wasn't so humid. I got three bruises and a few scrapes out of it as well.
The other element that made my week (and, I suspect, next week will follow suit) difficult is the loneliness I cannot just get over or ignore. I have friends, great friends, who I could not exist without, but there is still that empty space in my chest that I cannot stop noticing.
I hate that I am having so much trouble being alone, that I cannot just exist without existing for someone else. I am also having trouble not having sex. I hate this even more because I always had a twisted kind of pride in my sexual history, or, rather, lack thereof. I did not enter into my relationship with Gino as a virgin, but it felt almost as if I was because I was so innocent. I had some practice, but not that much, and there was so much I still had left to learn about not just sex, but about being intimate, sleeping next to someone and not feeling that I should leave at 2 in the morning. Gino was so open compared to the boy I had just been involved with, so receptive and affectionate. I fell hard, and I was still falling hard until just recently.
Knowing that I might be tacking on more people to the short list of men I have been with is nervous-making for me. I really liked having sex with my husband, even though it was not always thrilling in the most recent months. He wasn't distant exactly, just selfish and impatient, and uncaring about it if I didn't get to come. It was such a fast turnaround from not even six months ago, when I had a broken fibula and my leg was in a cumbersome boot, and one afternoon he insisted that we had to have sex- NOW, and I was more than happy to oblige.
I wish it was no big deal for me to not know when I am going to have some kind of physical contact again, but it feels like not knowing when I am going to eat again. I know I can survive for a long time without it, but not forever. Even now, I feel twitchy and empty, like I do when I skip two meals and have too much coffee, but on a deeper level, below the skin, below the organs and bones that keep me together. I feel overly defensive when friends of mine try to dismiss it, in that Samantha Jones way that grates on my nerves, as, "You need to get laid." It's not just that. I have gone from having someone to talk to, eat meals with, have sex with, sleep next to, and who I was comfortable enough with that I could pee in front of them, and I don't know if I will ever even find that again. If all I needed was a penis in me, I could solve that in two seconds.
Tony and I were talking about how women are always branded as sluts, even if they only have sex with one person and then that person tells everyone. I just don't want to be labeled. I also don't know how to not be a slut. I've spent seven years being slutty for one man, and a lady to everyone else, because that's how I was comfortable. I am afraid of coming off as too forward when I do start dating again, because I don't have an accurate measuring stick. Subtlty is an art form that falls by the wayside in a long-term relationship. If you want something, you have to ask directly or you will not get it. Maybe this could give me an edge with men, because I won't be trying to throw hints and get them to pick up on cues. What I am afraid of, though, is that too much honesty can be threatening, and I will scare away anyone I try to get close to.
Maybe I am trying too hard to put out fires before they've even started because I am so determined to be happy after this horrible upset. I know this, and I know that I might fail at everything, but I need to remind myself that it won't be the end of the world if I do. So what if I end up having sex with someone who is really terrible at it? So what if I have sex with someone who is the best ever, but they won't answer a text? Or (god forbid) if I never have sex again? No one will die, after all, and I will still be alive. I need to remind myself of that all the time now.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Opportunities
Now that I am unattached, I am trying to take advantage of the opportunities that were closed to me before. I could not, for example, go to my (male) friend's house and brainstorm ideas for a twisted web video when I had a relationship to maintain. I could not entertain a daytime fantasy of a horribly cliched trip to Italy when I had to budget for two people. I could not take in extra side work as a stitcher at the theater company where I spent much of my late teens because of nagging concerns that Gino would need me for something. I cannot say that I would not happily give up doing all of this if he called me, told me let's call this off and move back in together as husband and wife, but it is nice to fill up my time with something other than eating Twizzlers and watching Snapped.
Dating is an opportunity I am not really that jazzed about, truthfully, and it seems to be the only one that most people think of, not counting my close friends. My best friend Najwa asked me what I want the other day. -As in, out of life? I asked.
-Yeah, like, what do you want to do now?
Who knows what I want out of life? I don't even know if I want to eat dinner later or if I just want to drink bourbon and watch Alien again. I have a few short-term goals, but that is as far ahead as I can think right now. One thing I want is for my stomach to stop feeling like it is full of needles. Then I want to get comfortable with not having anyone to answer to and no one to take care of. Then I want my own place to live. Then, just maybe, I might date.
My co-worker friend Christina said to me the other day, -You were born to be a mother. You know you want to meet someone to have babies with.
I do, but what if I don't? I have seen so many supergirls, women who should be treated like queens and who have achieved far more than the idiots who overlook them, get passed over for one arbitrary reason or another. What hope do I have, with my okay looks and my jokes that are only funny to some and the emotional weight of a failed relationship hanging from my neck like a cement block? I might never find the right person or have children, and that won't be the end of the world. I will do other things. I will be happy no matter what happens, and I know that is true. Even if Gino had not decided to end our marriage, we might never have had children. He was not ready, at 31, to give over as much as a person needs to give over when a child is brought into a marriage. He still would need, I imagined, to be the most important person, the only brand that matters, in the relationship. I opined that he would be ready when he was around 50 years old, that being an old dad would be much better for him than trying to force himself to be a young dad. I, on the other hand, feel more than ready for children. I have felt ready for a while, despite knowing all that I now know from girlfriends about what having a new baby is really like. I was even, I am ashamed to admit, contemplating trying to get pregnant soon. I had brought it up with Gino over Valentine's Day, and he pouted and slouched like a teenager. This made what I had suspected abundantly clear: he was not mature enough to give me what I wanted, and this meant we might never have children. I was coming around to this reality when Gino told me it was over.
I feel relieved by these truths just as often as I feel sad and angry about everything else. Gino had released me, from an uncertain future that probably would meet a dead end eventually, and a marriage that was skewing one-sided. Once I was by myself again, I wasn't yearning for how things had been recently, but how things were during the good years, when we were not dependent on anyone else and we were so in love it hardly made sense to us. That kind of love is unrealistic even when it really exists. I loved him so much, was so taken with him, that being away from him for a few days was agonizing. I had never felt this strongly about anyone, it was an intensity of feeling I could not look at for too long or else it would burn my retinas. I longed to be back there, with my 22-year-old self, falling in love with him. I did not want to go back to how things had been just recently, with no concrete plan for the future, no projection of how long we would be living with his parents, and no motivation.
He seems motivated as all-get-out now that I am out of the picture, and that gives me an ache in my guts like nothing else. What hurts is seeing him look happy, appear as if he is ten pounds lighter and three inches taller just because he has gotten me out of his life. I tell everyone that I want him to be happy, and I do, but not yet. I want him to be miserable and hate himself, to feel the full weight of being unloved. I am not above wanting him to suffer just a little more than I am. If I was a better person, I would be able to let go of this, but I am not, and I realize that now. For now, I just want to imagine that he feels worse than I do, and that he regrets letting me go. I know it's not true, but it could be.
The truth that is staring me right in the face is that this is going to be much, much harder for me than it is for him. Of course it is. Loving someone who doesn't love you is, if not the hardest thing, to live with, then it is at least in the top five. He will, of course, have an easier time recovering because he has already fallen out of love with me. I have not gotten there yet. He can already go out and have sex with someone else and not feel so twisted up and sad that he wants to hide inside of his own skin, because he won't be trying to replace me with someone else. I can't move on yet because my love for him is not dead yet. Love is like a plant when it is well-tended. If I have kept it thriving for seven years, it won't just die because I ignore it for a few days. It needs to be locked up in a dark closet, watered with bleach, set on fire and then abandoned until it shrivels and fades. I haven't been able to kill it yet.
Dating is an opportunity I am not really that jazzed about, truthfully, and it seems to be the only one that most people think of, not counting my close friends. My best friend Najwa asked me what I want the other day. -As in, out of life? I asked.
-Yeah, like, what do you want to do now?
Who knows what I want out of life? I don't even know if I want to eat dinner later or if I just want to drink bourbon and watch Alien again. I have a few short-term goals, but that is as far ahead as I can think right now. One thing I want is for my stomach to stop feeling like it is full of needles. Then I want to get comfortable with not having anyone to answer to and no one to take care of. Then I want my own place to live. Then, just maybe, I might date.
My co-worker friend Christina said to me the other day, -You were born to be a mother. You know you want to meet someone to have babies with.
I do, but what if I don't? I have seen so many supergirls, women who should be treated like queens and who have achieved far more than the idiots who overlook them, get passed over for one arbitrary reason or another. What hope do I have, with my okay looks and my jokes that are only funny to some and the emotional weight of a failed relationship hanging from my neck like a cement block? I might never find the right person or have children, and that won't be the end of the world. I will do other things. I will be happy no matter what happens, and I know that is true. Even if Gino had not decided to end our marriage, we might never have had children. He was not ready, at 31, to give over as much as a person needs to give over when a child is brought into a marriage. He still would need, I imagined, to be the most important person, the only brand that matters, in the relationship. I opined that he would be ready when he was around 50 years old, that being an old dad would be much better for him than trying to force himself to be a young dad. I, on the other hand, feel more than ready for children. I have felt ready for a while, despite knowing all that I now know from girlfriends about what having a new baby is really like. I was even, I am ashamed to admit, contemplating trying to get pregnant soon. I had brought it up with Gino over Valentine's Day, and he pouted and slouched like a teenager. This made what I had suspected abundantly clear: he was not mature enough to give me what I wanted, and this meant we might never have children. I was coming around to this reality when Gino told me it was over.
I feel relieved by these truths just as often as I feel sad and angry about everything else. Gino had released me, from an uncertain future that probably would meet a dead end eventually, and a marriage that was skewing one-sided. Once I was by myself again, I wasn't yearning for how things had been recently, but how things were during the good years, when we were not dependent on anyone else and we were so in love it hardly made sense to us. That kind of love is unrealistic even when it really exists. I loved him so much, was so taken with him, that being away from him for a few days was agonizing. I had never felt this strongly about anyone, it was an intensity of feeling I could not look at for too long or else it would burn my retinas. I longed to be back there, with my 22-year-old self, falling in love with him. I did not want to go back to how things had been just recently, with no concrete plan for the future, no projection of how long we would be living with his parents, and no motivation.
He seems motivated as all-get-out now that I am out of the picture, and that gives me an ache in my guts like nothing else. What hurts is seeing him look happy, appear as if he is ten pounds lighter and three inches taller just because he has gotten me out of his life. I tell everyone that I want him to be happy, and I do, but not yet. I want him to be miserable and hate himself, to feel the full weight of being unloved. I am not above wanting him to suffer just a little more than I am. If I was a better person, I would be able to let go of this, but I am not, and I realize that now. For now, I just want to imagine that he feels worse than I do, and that he regrets letting me go. I know it's not true, but it could be.
The truth that is staring me right in the face is that this is going to be much, much harder for me than it is for him. Of course it is. Loving someone who doesn't love you is, if not the hardest thing, to live with, then it is at least in the top five. He will, of course, have an easier time recovering because he has already fallen out of love with me. I have not gotten there yet. He can already go out and have sex with someone else and not feel so twisted up and sad that he wants to hide inside of his own skin, because he won't be trying to replace me with someone else. I can't move on yet because my love for him is not dead yet. Love is like a plant when it is well-tended. If I have kept it thriving for seven years, it won't just die because I ignore it for a few days. It needs to be locked up in a dark closet, watered with bleach, set on fire and then abandoned until it shrivels and fades. I haven't been able to kill it yet.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Rejection of the Day
I came to work today in a slightly fragile state- a five-hour-long stitching session last night (at Shakespeare and Company, where I am currently temping) immediately following a full day of work at my day job, no dinner, and a pounding headache. My fingertips are all ripped up from stitching together sofa cushions and I did not even have the pride of having created something because I did not finish the project. I stayed until 11 pm, at which point I looked at the clock and realized I had to get up for work the following morning in 7 hours, and I left. I slept badly, because after dealing with the headache for what has now been five days, on and off, I resorted to taking an Excedrin and it woke me up intermittently throughout the night.
I made it to work on time and mostly put together, which changed when I was halfway in from the parking lot (the walk from the parking lot at my place of work is a trek) and the strap on my cheap Old Navy flip-flop decided it had enough of me and broke. Mid-sentence with my friend Matt, I slipped both shoes off and carried them in my hand, then threw them out once I got to my desk and put on my work shoes.
Everything was going fine for a little while- I checked guests in for their appointments (I work in a health resort, minding the desk of the wellness department), went off to pick up the mail delivery, looked for some old medical charts, and then when 12 rolled around, I was hoping to go to a fitness class during my lunch break. There is a new class they just started offering that combines ballet, pilates, and strength training. I have taken it twice already and I am hooked. When I showed up, however, something seemed off. Ever since Black Swan, every white girl I know is obsessed with getting Natalie Portman's near-death, barely-held-together body. This class, of course, has been packed the two other times they have offered it. I took my weights and found what I thought would be an okay spot, out of the way, not even on one of the ballet barres (which were crowded), but on a towel rack, far away from any guests who I might have inconvenienced.
I had just placed my hand on the barre (towel bar, mind you) when the assistant instructor came up to me looking so guilty and whispered, "This class really should have a limit of fifteen. I don't think we can even allow employees to take it if it's going to be this popular."
I let go of the bar. "Okay, do you want me to sneak out?"
"Yeah, if you don't mind. I'm sorry," she said.
I slunk away, close to the wall, thankfully remembering to grab my water bottle on my way out. Walking away through the employee tunnel that runs beneath the guest areas (think Disney World with no costumes) I felt tears threatening to bubble up and give me away. I knew that if I started crying, it would all be over and I would not stop crying for at least twenty minutes. I reserve tears over time, and if something tips me over, I can't hold back the flood. I hadn't cried over my marriage for weeks, and if I started crying about this insignificant embarrassment, I would humiliate myself at work, which I am terrified of doing. I held it together, incredibly, and ate my lunch miserably while other employees noisily talked to each other around me.
I should have looked at the number of women who turned up for the class and excused myself before I was asked to, but I didn't. I had changed my clothes and committed to doing it because getting in shape is my one of my only obligations now, and I have transferred all of the energy I used to expend on making Gino happy into making myself feel better. It's not a noble goal, but it's the only one I have right now. I had hoped that just this once, they would overlook the fact that the class was over capacity and just let me stay. Playing devil's advocate with myself, I wondered if they would have asked another employee, one they were more friendly with, to leave, but dismissed that because I am trying not to allow myself to become a victim in my mind. I am trying as hard as I can to not take a victim's stance, become bitter, listen to too much Adele or Carole King, gain too much weight or lose to much weight, drink too much, or watch too many episodes of Snapped. I am trying so hard to "do" this divorce right that I might not be dealing with it at all. Maybe instead of trying so hard, I should just let myself go on a few fronts because I know that the worst that can happen is that people will have a different opinion of me, and I have no idea what their current opinion even is.
I had a really shitty day. I know this is not even close to my last shitty day, nor is it probably the shittiest day I will have. I have a lot of shitty days ahead of me, but at least this one is mostly behind me.
I made it to work on time and mostly put together, which changed when I was halfway in from the parking lot (the walk from the parking lot at my place of work is a trek) and the strap on my cheap Old Navy flip-flop decided it had enough of me and broke. Mid-sentence with my friend Matt, I slipped both shoes off and carried them in my hand, then threw them out once I got to my desk and put on my work shoes.
Everything was going fine for a little while- I checked guests in for their appointments (I work in a health resort, minding the desk of the wellness department), went off to pick up the mail delivery, looked for some old medical charts, and then when 12 rolled around, I was hoping to go to a fitness class during my lunch break. There is a new class they just started offering that combines ballet, pilates, and strength training. I have taken it twice already and I am hooked. When I showed up, however, something seemed off. Ever since Black Swan, every white girl I know is obsessed with getting Natalie Portman's near-death, barely-held-together body. This class, of course, has been packed the two other times they have offered it. I took my weights and found what I thought would be an okay spot, out of the way, not even on one of the ballet barres (which were crowded), but on a towel rack, far away from any guests who I might have inconvenienced.
I had just placed my hand on the barre (towel bar, mind you) when the assistant instructor came up to me looking so guilty and whispered, "This class really should have a limit of fifteen. I don't think we can even allow employees to take it if it's going to be this popular."
I let go of the bar. "Okay, do you want me to sneak out?"
"Yeah, if you don't mind. I'm sorry," she said.
I slunk away, close to the wall, thankfully remembering to grab my water bottle on my way out. Walking away through the employee tunnel that runs beneath the guest areas (think Disney World with no costumes) I felt tears threatening to bubble up and give me away. I knew that if I started crying, it would all be over and I would not stop crying for at least twenty minutes. I reserve tears over time, and if something tips me over, I can't hold back the flood. I hadn't cried over my marriage for weeks, and if I started crying about this insignificant embarrassment, I would humiliate myself at work, which I am terrified of doing. I held it together, incredibly, and ate my lunch miserably while other employees noisily talked to each other around me.
I should have looked at the number of women who turned up for the class and excused myself before I was asked to, but I didn't. I had changed my clothes and committed to doing it because getting in shape is my one of my only obligations now, and I have transferred all of the energy I used to expend on making Gino happy into making myself feel better. It's not a noble goal, but it's the only one I have right now. I had hoped that just this once, they would overlook the fact that the class was over capacity and just let me stay. Playing devil's advocate with myself, I wondered if they would have asked another employee, one they were more friendly with, to leave, but dismissed that because I am trying not to allow myself to become a victim in my mind. I am trying as hard as I can to not take a victim's stance, become bitter, listen to too much Adele or Carole King, gain too much weight or lose to much weight, drink too much, or watch too many episodes of Snapped. I am trying so hard to "do" this divorce right that I might not be dealing with it at all. Maybe instead of trying so hard, I should just let myself go on a few fronts because I know that the worst that can happen is that people will have a different opinion of me, and I have no idea what their current opinion even is.
I had a really shitty day. I know this is not even close to my last shitty day, nor is it probably the shittiest day I will have. I have a lot of shitty days ahead of me, but at least this one is mostly behind me.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Oversensitivity Training
I went out to dinner two nights ago with my best friend (and temporary roommate) Tony, plus our other friends Shauna, Adam and Jake. We went out for Indian food and I knew I would not be the best dinner companion that night near the beginning. Everyone else was happy and hungry and I was cranky and couldn't find a way to sit that felt natural. There was an aggressively loud conversation going on behind us, filled to the brim with pop culture references that were just a little behind in their relevance. Our own conversation turned to loud drunks. Adam offered that he was a loud drunk, and I turned to Shauna and told her, "You're a screamer when you get drunk."
"You're a loud drunk, too," Tony remarked, "But then you turn into a silent drunk at a certain point. But if anyone calls you out on being a loud drunk, you get really snotty, like, 'So?'"
I knew it was just my mid-divorce over-sensitivity talking, but this really cut deep for me. I have spent weeks telling myself that the things Gino is telling me, himself, and various other people are not true, and that his assessment of my character is completely off. I am not doing a very good job of this, I am beginning to realize. I tell myself that I was a good wife to him, that I was patient enough and did plenty of things to make him feel special, but I believe these things theoretically. I have to have done something, I figure, to make Gino hate me this much, because it feels like he does. Having a major character flaw like being a loud, obnoxious drinker is more than I can handle right now.
I defended myself a bit more emphatically than is really necessary. I pointed out to Tony that he himself said that I turn silent at some point during a party, probably because someone (likely him) comments on my loudness and I become extra quiet to make up for it. If someone brings something to my attention, I usually try to correct it right away, before I annoy anyone else. I wonder how much this comment would bother me if I was not going through a divorce right now. It would definitely still bother me, but I might have held back a little more in terms of defending myself.
I long for a time in the future (hopefully near) when I will be able to just let things go again. I know that until recently, I was able to disregard a number of things that are intolerable to me right now. I was not always in full control of getting annoyed, but I was less prone to go back to it later and let it continue to annoy me. I feel like I have a low-grade fever all the time now. My skin feels warm to the touch even though my temperature is normal, and I have had a headache migrating around my head for five days. This is not nearly the worst I have felt because of this, though. For the first week after Gino asked me for a divorce, I felt as though my stomach was full of hot needles and I could not stay warm. I felt truly sick, and on top of this I could only sleep for a few hours at a time. This lasted at least two weeks, and I still had to be human, and a grown-up on top of that.
Getting divorced must be so much, dare I say it, easier for someone who does not work. Working through a trauma like this has its benefits, for example it is impossible to wallow in self-pity when you have to interact with guests at a health resort known for its exemplary customer service and make yourself look at least somewhat presentable each day. Even so, I cannot imagine how much more of a break I could potentially give myself if I had no where to be each day. I am not, of course, referring to any divorcees who have children. Being a mother, especially a single mother, is a tough job, much tougher than the world likes to acknowledge. I am talking about women who have no responsibility, whose needs are met to the fullest, who do not have to think about money, and who come out the other side of a separation a little bruised, but financially well-padded. I am not one of those women. I brought most of the money into the relationship, but I am not extremely well-paid, and currently my husband has not filed for divorce yet simply because he cannot afford the $255 dollar fee to do so. I will not be compensated for my time or for my emotional trauma. I will be rewarded with a bill from my own attorney, who is being more than kind and understanding with me, but who cannot represent me for free.
If Gino and I were super-wealthy, however, we might not be getting divorced at all. We might not have even met, in fact. If either one of us had made different choices and somehow become successful at our young ages, we might not be here because we might be on opposite ends of the country, or even the world. If Gino had gone through with his dreams and gone to school for video game design like I had hoped, he might have become a success and had no use for me anymore. Or, in another twist, I might have been the ambitious one, and found success in one of my creative endeavors, and had no use for him any longer, though I have a hard time imagining a reality where I fell out of love with someone as unique as him. I might be off-base completely in terms of imagining that more affluence would make going through heartbreak any easier. Having more things, more money and more material goods, just creates a list of things to squabble over, which Gino and I will not be doing because, after all, we have nothing.
In conclusion, my short-term goal is to find that place where I stop taking things so personally again. It's exhausting, and my friends don't need to worry about offending me. But, I will fully admit to one thing: I am a loud drunk. I am also loud when I am sober, so that should not surprise anyone who has met me. I am a loud laugher, a loud crier, and a loud singer, too.
"You're a loud drunk, too," Tony remarked, "But then you turn into a silent drunk at a certain point. But if anyone calls you out on being a loud drunk, you get really snotty, like, 'So?'"
I knew it was just my mid-divorce over-sensitivity talking, but this really cut deep for me. I have spent weeks telling myself that the things Gino is telling me, himself, and various other people are not true, and that his assessment of my character is completely off. I am not doing a very good job of this, I am beginning to realize. I tell myself that I was a good wife to him, that I was patient enough and did plenty of things to make him feel special, but I believe these things theoretically. I have to have done something, I figure, to make Gino hate me this much, because it feels like he does. Having a major character flaw like being a loud, obnoxious drinker is more than I can handle right now.
I defended myself a bit more emphatically than is really necessary. I pointed out to Tony that he himself said that I turn silent at some point during a party, probably because someone (likely him) comments on my loudness and I become extra quiet to make up for it. If someone brings something to my attention, I usually try to correct it right away, before I annoy anyone else. I wonder how much this comment would bother me if I was not going through a divorce right now. It would definitely still bother me, but I might have held back a little more in terms of defending myself.
I long for a time in the future (hopefully near) when I will be able to just let things go again. I know that until recently, I was able to disregard a number of things that are intolerable to me right now. I was not always in full control of getting annoyed, but I was less prone to go back to it later and let it continue to annoy me. I feel like I have a low-grade fever all the time now. My skin feels warm to the touch even though my temperature is normal, and I have had a headache migrating around my head for five days. This is not nearly the worst I have felt because of this, though. For the first week after Gino asked me for a divorce, I felt as though my stomach was full of hot needles and I could not stay warm. I felt truly sick, and on top of this I could only sleep for a few hours at a time. This lasted at least two weeks, and I still had to be human, and a grown-up on top of that.
Getting divorced must be so much, dare I say it, easier for someone who does not work. Working through a trauma like this has its benefits, for example it is impossible to wallow in self-pity when you have to interact with guests at a health resort known for its exemplary customer service and make yourself look at least somewhat presentable each day. Even so, I cannot imagine how much more of a break I could potentially give myself if I had no where to be each day. I am not, of course, referring to any divorcees who have children. Being a mother, especially a single mother, is a tough job, much tougher than the world likes to acknowledge. I am talking about women who have no responsibility, whose needs are met to the fullest, who do not have to think about money, and who come out the other side of a separation a little bruised, but financially well-padded. I am not one of those women. I brought most of the money into the relationship, but I am not extremely well-paid, and currently my husband has not filed for divorce yet simply because he cannot afford the $255 dollar fee to do so. I will not be compensated for my time or for my emotional trauma. I will be rewarded with a bill from my own attorney, who is being more than kind and understanding with me, but who cannot represent me for free.
If Gino and I were super-wealthy, however, we might not be getting divorced at all. We might not have even met, in fact. If either one of us had made different choices and somehow become successful at our young ages, we might not be here because we might be on opposite ends of the country, or even the world. If Gino had gone through with his dreams and gone to school for video game design like I had hoped, he might have become a success and had no use for me anymore. Or, in another twist, I might have been the ambitious one, and found success in one of my creative endeavors, and had no use for him any longer, though I have a hard time imagining a reality where I fell out of love with someone as unique as him. I might be off-base completely in terms of imagining that more affluence would make going through heartbreak any easier. Having more things, more money and more material goods, just creates a list of things to squabble over, which Gino and I will not be doing because, after all, we have nothing.
In conclusion, my short-term goal is to find that place where I stop taking things so personally again. It's exhausting, and my friends don't need to worry about offending me. But, I will fully admit to one thing: I am a loud drunk. I am also loud when I am sober, so that should not surprise anyone who has met me. I am a loud laugher, a loud crier, and a loud singer, too.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
No one ever imagines, when they get married, that they will get divorced one day. Especially not after only four short years. I was still getting used to being married, and working, always to elevate my husband, Gino, and myself out of the financial mire we had been stuck in, when he told me, voice thick with mucousy tears, that he didn't love me. I am 29, and I am single again, I thought. I am unloved by the one person I thought I could trust and depend on no matter the circumstances. I had actually joked with him just a few months earlier, while in the midst of a rare misunderstanding with my best friend, that the cliche about friendships enduring through all hardships and romantic relationships being unstable was not true for me, as I had more communication issues with the people who were supposed to be my best friends than I did with the best friend I was also married to. Gino had agreed with me, oddly, and added that he had the same difficulty because he could never spend time with his two best friends, one of whom was in New Hampshire, and the other of whom had a wife and child to occupy most of his time, but that I was always there for him. It seemed he had either lost his faith in those truths in the span of only a few months, or else he had been lying to me in an effort to not hurt me. All he managed to do by being kind was delay being cruel, and it hurt exponentially more to hear that he did not want to be married six years after we got engaged than it would have to hear it then, before we were legally bound to each other yet.
I am hoping that this does not become a forum for whining, for pity, or for me to demonize my soon-to-be-ex-husband. I still love him, after all, so why would I want to besmirch him? What I am hoping to do is blog my experience as a newly separated person. My divorce is somewhat unique, after all: we have no children, no assets to divide, no money at all, actually. We did not own a home and we had only one car, which I purchased before we got married. It is going to be as cut-and-dried as a separation can possibly be, except for the fact that I don't want a divorce at all. I am letting him have his way, and I am not fighting him because I know it will not help anything. We will only end up back here, even less happy than when we started this process.
It has been roughly four weeks since Gino told me that he does not love me and that he wants a divorce. A few things have happened in those four weeks. Time has become elastic- hours will go by like minutes and then drag. Something that happened a few days ago feels as though it happened months ago, and I have to keep checking the date to make sure I am not losing my mind. I have become quieter, less anxious to open my mouth and say anything, shy once more because I am afraid of running people off with too much personal information. I tend to overshare, so my only defense is to not really say anything if I can help it. A select few people are stuck listening to me, however. My best friend, who I called sobbing when Gino told me this and then had to ask if I could live with, is the rock I am trying not to cling to, but use as an emergency buoy if I feel like I might drown. My other best friend, Najwa, who lets me ramble for hours while she feeds her baby and only asks that I help her cook or watch How I Met Your Mother with her. My work friends, Christina, Matt, and Peg, are also subject to my prattling on about my marriage, but I have less trouble keeping the self-involved chatter to a minimum when I am bored, and my job is not overly stimulating.
My family is, as always, proving to be the element that keeps me from the self-pity, the self-blame, and the self-harm I would have resorted to if this had happened to a younger, less stable me. My father, a veteran of two divorces, calls at least three times a week to talk, and to let me talk. My aunt Laurie meets up with me for dinner and texts me most days with little messages of encouragement. My sister calls once or twice a week, sending help in the only way possible, through the phone all the way from Las Vegas. I have all of these people, as well as all of my satellite friends, looking out for my well-being. I am going to get through this. I kind of wish I knew when, but I can wait.
I am hoping that this does not become a forum for whining, for pity, or for me to demonize my soon-to-be-ex-husband. I still love him, after all, so why would I want to besmirch him? What I am hoping to do is blog my experience as a newly separated person. My divorce is somewhat unique, after all: we have no children, no assets to divide, no money at all, actually. We did not own a home and we had only one car, which I purchased before we got married. It is going to be as cut-and-dried as a separation can possibly be, except for the fact that I don't want a divorce at all. I am letting him have his way, and I am not fighting him because I know it will not help anything. We will only end up back here, even less happy than when we started this process.
It has been roughly four weeks since Gino told me that he does not love me and that he wants a divorce. A few things have happened in those four weeks. Time has become elastic- hours will go by like minutes and then drag. Something that happened a few days ago feels as though it happened months ago, and I have to keep checking the date to make sure I am not losing my mind. I have become quieter, less anxious to open my mouth and say anything, shy once more because I am afraid of running people off with too much personal information. I tend to overshare, so my only defense is to not really say anything if I can help it. A select few people are stuck listening to me, however. My best friend, who I called sobbing when Gino told me this and then had to ask if I could live with, is the rock I am trying not to cling to, but use as an emergency buoy if I feel like I might drown. My other best friend, Najwa, who lets me ramble for hours while she feeds her baby and only asks that I help her cook or watch How I Met Your Mother with her. My work friends, Christina, Matt, and Peg, are also subject to my prattling on about my marriage, but I have less trouble keeping the self-involved chatter to a minimum when I am bored, and my job is not overly stimulating.
My family is, as always, proving to be the element that keeps me from the self-pity, the self-blame, and the self-harm I would have resorted to if this had happened to a younger, less stable me. My father, a veteran of two divorces, calls at least three times a week to talk, and to let me talk. My aunt Laurie meets up with me for dinner and texts me most days with little messages of encouragement. My sister calls once or twice a week, sending help in the only way possible, through the phone all the way from Las Vegas. I have all of these people, as well as all of my satellite friends, looking out for my well-being. I am going to get through this. I kind of wish I knew when, but I can wait.
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