A Week Out

I've been doing mostly OK since the divorce. I have felt wistful at times, even a little anxious, but not nearly what I was prepared for - I (and others) fully expected a full nervous breakdown. My doctor even asked if it was necessary if I attend the actual court proceedings.

I spent the 45 minutes before the hearing wondering if my husband would show up, and if I really wanted him to, and what the hell would I say to him if he DID show, wishing he would because I really needed him there - and ultimately - he didn't. I don't know why. I could guess, but - honestly - I have been guessing and second-guessing his behavior for years, and I am too tired now to mess with it.

I do feel sad about it. We never really talked about why he left - other than he was miserable... miserable how? Miserable in what way? Miserable-how-the-hell-can-I-do-anything-about-the-problem-if-you-won't-talk-to-me? We never really talked about him moving out. He announced he was doing it and *poof* he was gone. We never really talked about his affair. He said he was having an emotional affair with her the day he moved out. That he needed space and time to work on things. We never talked about that deception. We never talked about anything really.

I guess, ultimately, I'm not really surprised he didn't show up for the divorce.

And I was pretty much OK until tonight. Tonight, I came home and the apartment dumpster was empty. I thought, "Oh! Now would be a good time to dump the mattress! It would be on the bottom, and wouldn't take up a lot of room that way!" I even went so far as to thinking about how silly it would look to have a friend and her son help us get it into the dumpster. This mattress set is old - and neither I nor ex-Mr are small people. My folks are giving me a spare set from their place to replace it, so this really seemed like a good idea.

And then all hell broke loose - a figurative emotional hell. Not quite histrionics, but definitely in the snotting on the shirt because Kleenexes just aren't going to cut it category.

I realized I'm not ready to give my bed up. It is my marriage bed. It is my bed. It was our bed. My husband held me in that bed. He loved me - as best as he was able - in that bed. I slept beside him and felt safe in that bed. Our dog chewed a hole in the mattress and bled on it when he tried to go through the bedroom window after the postman. We tickled our kids in that bed. It still holds the depression of his body. He read to me in that space. I grieved for him, and for our marriage, in that space. I still wake up reaching for him in the night expecting him to be there - and he isn't.

I understand the sacredness of that space is lost on him. I know (now) that he was sleeping with her whilst he was sleeping with me in that bed. I wonder, sometimes, if he was thinking of her while he was sleeping with me. There were times I knew something was wrong - but I couldn't figure it out. So, on one hand, my marriage bed has been violated and must go! On the other hand, it is the last real part of my marriage and all the hopes I had for it. It is the last bit of him I have.

In another time, in another space, I think I would have been OK burning the bed - cleansing by flame with water and wine and bread and salt - healing, purification, closure. I don't want to return it to him - because I'm really not OK with sharing our bed with other people. But, throwing it in the garbage seems so .... sacrilegious? Ungrateful? Sad. Mostly sad - incredibly, heartbreaking, damnthisreallyishurtingtonight kinds of sad.

I could never bring anyone else into that bed. Right now, that isn't a big deal. I can't imagine taking anyone else to bed - this bed, or any bed. I'm sure that will change as I heal, but I don't think I am there yet. Just another something missing in our society. No one in our society would question a widow wanting to keep her bed. She would receive understanding and compassion, and support. In our society, a divorcee is expected to toss the mattress or have as many people in it as possible.

I honestly don't know what to do. I don't regret divorcing ex-Mr. That was a healthy and necessary choice. That was the right thing to do, for me, for my son, and ultimately - for ex-Mr. I hate the choice I made, but I would make the same choice again without hesitation. THAT part, I'm OK with. It is sorting through the detritus of my marriage that is hurting tonight - the unhooking, the shredding remnants of something precious to me, the biding farewell to wishes and hopes and dreams, the letting myself just feel and grieve.

This is a process (so sayth the Therapist). There will be fits and starts and some days will be better than others. Grief isn't a one-direction trip. Healing doesn't happen in a straight line. I am going to handle this in my own way and in my own time and I will be stronger and healthier at the end of it all.

Yeah. If I repeat that often enough, I might believe it one day.

Right now, I just wish it done.

Still.

I wish I could burn it.

June, Wakes, and Zombies

June has been a time of transition for the last several years. I'm not sure why everything seems to happen during this month. End of the school year? As good a time as any to turn lives upside down?

This June is no exception.

This Thursday, I will be divorcing my husband. 

I feel like I should have a wake or some such, and punted the idea to some friends. They aren't Irish, so the main idea of wakes that they have includes large amounts of alcohol. That isn't exactly what I needed. I need a wake. 

I needed to tell the story of the good times in our marriage. Right now, they are hard to recall. There is a lot of pain in the way. In order to heal and to grieve, I have to remember that there was more than pain and betrayal in my marriage.

 I remember going for car rides in the snow. The stillness of the whole Earth as he drove through the night - just watching the flakes fall in the headlights of the car. Sharing stories while the kids slept in the back seat. I remember the very well meaning application of capsaicin creme on a damaged knee... and the resulting screaming when I had a bad reaction to it (that sounds like a "bad" thing - but he was very contrite, and had no way to know I was sensitive to it.. *I* didn't know - now - ten years later, it is funny. Then, not so much.) I remember him taking me to see Beauty and the Beast at a local dinner theater, and his compassion when some of the scenes were a little too close to personal. 

I remember sitting on the front porch wrapped in a blanket watching it storm. I remember running the laptop's power cord through the window so we could sit outside and watch the IT Crowd and Gordon Ramsey after the kids had gone to bed. I remember the blue of the sky through the open windows of the chapel at our church on our wedding day. I remember my mother saying that I looked genuinely happy. I remember him staying with me during my knee surgery, and feeling terrified. He said that I didn't have to stay, and that I could leave, and he would take me home, but that my knee would still hurt, and it wouldn't get any better - ultimately though, it was my decision. I remember sitting in the dark watching the Christmas tree lights. 

I remember sleeping with the balcony door open and camping in the living room. I remember listening to him lector at our parish, and how special it was to receive communion when he was the LEM. I remember driving around after Mass and listening to NPR and watching the leaves change color. I remember how he saved Kiddo's life by coming to get him when I found out the child had swiped my mother's ring and broke it - and instead of bringing the parts home, he threw away a platinum and sapphire ring... and the husband called my folks to talk me off the crazy cliff. I remember his hunting down a local yarn store - and going in - to get me a present. I remember him introducing me as his wife. 

I remember him plastering the ceiling of my office because I couldn't reach it. If you only knew how much he hated home improvements or projects like that, you would understand the depth of his sacrifice. I remember him trying to teach me to drive on the snow. I remember him stopping in a random gas station and picking up a sheep magnet for me - because I might enjoy it. I remember him taking me back to the store to get the puppy I had cried over - and he is right - we really should have named the dog Lunchbox. I remember watching Buffy and Angel - back to back episodes in a marathon of awesome. I remember the shared fear we have of a root cellar in our basement. In nine years, we have opened that door maybe three times. I remember getting lost while house hunting, and finding our home by accident. It wasn't on the list that the realtor had given us - but we knew at first sight that it was perfect. 

I remember the diamond tennis bracelet he bought me for graduation. I had always resented my dad buying one for a cousin who graduated high school. The husband remembered, and bought me one when I graduated college. I remember how he went out the way to buy me books for Christmas. I remember getting for real mail from him. 

Much like a wake, this also brings to mind the sadder things.. like how I knew something was going on with our marriage when the mail stopped. Or how hurt I was when there weren't any books this year. 

Sometimes, I think it would be easier if my husband had died. Then I could remember him as he was in my head. I would be able to cling to my delusions, and grant him hero status. I wouldn't have to face reality. I wouldn't have to wonder how much of what we had was real, if any of it was real. I wouldn't have to wonder how long my marriage had been dead before I clued in. I wouldn't have to hear about the horrible things he has said about me to people we know - because people won't speak ill of the dead, and they sure wouldn't tell his grieving widow of his faults. 

In a divorce, I don't have the same social protection as a widow, but my loss, and the damage done to our family is just as great. Maybe that's why we don't have wakes for a divorce. Everyone seems to be glad I "have come to my senses" and am "finally divorcing the SOB." No one seems to understand (care?) that this decision is killing me. 

At a wake, folks sit with the body of their loved one - letting the soul out, keeping watch, guarding the body until the physical remains can be returned to the Earth. They share stories. They keep the memory of their kin and friends alive through the sharing, through community. They remember. It hurts - hence the whiskey. Laughter cauterizes the wounds of death. There isn't anyone that will stand watch with me, not in the way that I need. That - perhaps - is the hardest part of this divorce. The person who would have watched with me, who would have poured the whiskey and handed me the salt - is the person I am divorcing. 

My marriage is dead. It has been dead for a really long time. Like the widow at the wake, I've been clinging to the coffin and refusing to let them take it to the church yard. Keening my grief, denying reality, demanding accounting from God. What is inside the coffin no longer resembles my love, my marriage, or my husband - it is rank with decay, and soiled with betrayal. I understand that on Thursday, I am not killing anything, as the marriage is already dead. I am just letting them bury the body. 

I just wish - like any widow - that my husband would be here to hold my hand, to comfort me, to share my grief.  My husband is dead, and has been. The person walking around in his skin is not my husband.

Fuck - I read too many books. I seriously just wondered if that was what was going on - if STBX was a changeling, or a doppleganger, or a zombie.... and my copy of The Zombie Survival Guide is at home. 

Wednesday, my friends and I will drink the last of the mead made for my wedding. My mother will go with me to the court house. My doctor has given me medication to help me cope. And I will rebuild my life without my best friend. 

And never again will I sit a wake sober. This is awful. Just saying.