divorce

Came across these tonight while I was cleaning.  I haven’t worn them since I was pregnant and my sausage fingers became too fat to fit in them.

Now that they fit me I no longer want to wear them.  But they are pretty, so if they end up missing, at least I have this picture to remember.

Am I angry because I am jealous that he’s getting laid and I’m not?

Or is it because I think it’s damaging to my son that he’s having sleepovers when he’s there?

Or is it because he can have a fucking party every other fucking weekend when my son is not there?

And let’s just assume it’s jealousy.  Because I think that’s likely it.  What the hell am I jealous of?  He’s dating a girl who was totally married when they met.  The relationship can’t be all that awesome/healthy/good.  And if it is?  I should just be happy that he’s happy.  I’ll work on that.

A year ago tomorrow he kicked me out.

We had been in therapy since late the year before.  When I said I was serious this time, I wasn’t happy, I was ready to leave, we went to therapy.  He made me promise to go to ten sessions.  I promised.

I went to those sessions.  I was honest.  It was hard and I came clean about the crush and the feelings and about my past.  I hate therapy.  Does anyone like it?  It looks so easy on tv.  In Ally McBeal I thought it would be nice to have someone guide me and tell me that I needed a theme song.  But this therapist wanted me to tell her why I liked a boy.  What he made me feel like.  Why I liked talking to him more than I liked talking to my husband.  She made me tell my husband that I needed space.  She tried to help us communicate to each other what we needed, the motivation behind that, and when we chose to ignore the needs of the other person, she tried AGAIN to help us to tell each other why exactly we need the things we do.

We had some fights in that room.  That room with the walls that were so close to the door and the couch, where I could never drink enough water.  Where I had to pee after every single session.  That room where I left any emotions I was willing to let out.  That room where I realized that being a single mom might not be The Worst Thing in The World.

Some weeks were good, some were bad.  Mostly though they were good.  I dreaded going in and almost always felt better coming out.

I kept a list of the dates.  So when week ten rolled around, I knew damn well that it had arrived.  And I didn’t know what was going to happen.  I spent the day unsure about it.  Going back and forth on what I’d say.  Do I just go in, pretend not to know that it’s session number ten?  Do I go in and pretend that everything is good, that I think we can work things out, that I’d like to continue with the sessions because they really are making a positive impact on our relationship?  Or do I go in and admit that I have been keeping track of the dates, that I know that this is the session, the last one that I had committed to, and that I had made up my mind and was done.

Ultimately I told the truth.  Near the start of the session I admitted that I had kept track of the sessions and that I knew that this was number ten.  I let on that I was done.  That not only was I still unconvinced that this was going to go anywhere, but that I was ready to move on to the next phase, where we figure out what living apart was going to look like.

And then the therapist kicked me out of the room.

I never did get to talk to her about it after that.  I never got to hear her say that she was glad that I made the decision and that she was proud of me for finding the strength and the voice to articulate it.  When she brought me back into the room it was only to give him the chance to tell me to go home, pack my bags, and find someplace else to stay.

He kicked me out.  I had to say goodbye to my two year old child and find someplace to sleep.  And the next day I had to go to work.  I don’t remember what those days were like.  I remember where I stayed, the smells, the drive to that house.  I remember the music that I listened to, and everytime I hear Regina Spektor I’m right there again, those feelings come back.  I remember being a mess.  Talking online to the crush.  Telling him about how much I missed my son.  I remember him being supportive.  But he was careful back then.  He didn’t call me.  It was all too soon and he knew I was vulnerable and sad and easily taken advantage of.

The first year is behind us.  I am relieved.  I am sad.  I am hopeful.

Expectations are tricky.  I had to see the ex today to drop off my son’s stuff.  On trade off days we either meet at daycare or one of us drives to the other at lunchtime.  Since the crush had a lunch event today with not me, I decided to drop my son’s stuff off with his father.  I’ve let go of stuff like the expectation that he will remember my birthday, or the expectation that he will say something nice.  Because he doesn’t.  And now that he’s seeing someone else, he’s even more careful.  I remember he used to tell me that I was sexy.  That he would always think that.  Now I wonder if he still thinks it.  If I have any sort of power over him.  I doubt it.  And that feeds into my self talk where I don’t believe the nice things people say to me, because look, as it turns out, what he told me?  No longer true.

So we stood there, in the rain and snow, and swapped out the carseat and two days of clothing.  And we talked about all those things parents talk about at trade off time.  Just about the kid.  Stuff he did, stuff he didn’t do, only about the kid.  I’ve let go of the expectation that he wants to know how I’m doing.  Because he never does.  I got cold and wet and it was lunchtime so I was hungry.

As I drove away I realized what it is that hurts me about this all:  I’m afraid that I’m the only one going through this pain this week.  He accused me so many times of being unsentimental.  Of not caring about honoring the past.  And this week, this thing that I’m going through is all about the past.  It’s about letting go and cherishing what was.  It’s about remembering that he was a good husband, that he wasn’t awful, that it was just *us* that was awful.  It hurts me that I don’t think he even knows.  And if he does, it’s certainly not affecting him the way it is me.

Did I mention the snowstorm going on out there?

The ex, he said he’d call Wed night, Friday night and tonight (Sunday) so I told him no, that’s too much.  Just call Wed and Sunday.  And then I emailed him to be super sure.  To make sure that what I heard and what he said were the same.  And he says he has email access in the hotels.

He could be dead.

More likely he’s just an asshole and forgot to call his son when he promised.

And I’m angry.  I want to make sure I’m not angry because he’s on a road trip with his gf.  A road trip that I will likely never get to make, because I dont have the kind of money that he does, and because I’m not sleeping with anyone in that oh-so-healthy way that he’s doing.  But who am I kidding?  Yes, I’m angry because he has let my kid down, and whether the kid realizes it or not, this is going to be the first of many disappointments from his dad.  And I’m angry because I would have loved to go on this trip.  But not with him.  But still I am human and jealous and even though his relationship has the worst chance of working out, ever, I am still envious of it.

I kind of hate him tonight.

It’s not the living together thing that bothers me, I knew that was going to happen eventually.  It was the fact that I was blindsided by my three year old.  a heads up from the father would have been considerate.  he can do what he wants w his private life, but once it has the potential to fuck up my son’s life, it becomes something that I have to deal with as well.  I never want my son to come face to face with the realization that he has information about one parent that the other doesn’t have, and have to question whether or not he should or shouldn’t tell the other.

Also for the record:  we discussed relationships not progressing at a healthy pace in therapy.

I’m not supposed to judge his relationships or his business, but I do not believe this is healthy and for fuck’s sake, my son will have to deal with the fallout when it falls to shit and his father is a mess again.

I spent the day having anxiety over this thing that I had to be at, where both of them were also going to be.  And a bunch of other people, many who were rather sympathetic to my cause.  Now I can kind of imagine what it’s like for people who live with anxiety disorders.  I spent the day worrying, the time leading up to the event unable to relax, completely on edge, ready to burst into tears at any second, and then after the thing that we all had to be at, which lasted around three hours, I tried to relax and let it go, but my mind went insane some more.

I kept it together but I did not sleep.  I woke up over and over again, each time removing myself from yet another dream that was directly related to the worrying that went on all day.

Important to note:  I did not start any fights.  I may have thrown a few dirty looks.  I may have departed from the drill and chased that bitch down.  (It’s roller derby so it’s kind of allowed.)  I looked good.  I walked away gracefully.

Or, the list of things I wish I had when I moved out of my ex husband’s house.

1.  Spice rack

2.  Salt and pepper shakers (akin to spice rack, but I dunno about you, in my world salt and pepper do not go on the same rack as oregano.

3.  Baking tins.  Muffin, loaf, cake, pie.  All of the above.

4.  Freezer containers.  Freezer bags.

5.  Meat thermometer.

6.  Furniture.  (This I got a LOT of, and I thank every last one of you who donated to my cause.)

Except for the last one, all these things are the kinds of stuff that I would have loved to receive in the breakup.  And I bet I’m not the only one who doesn’t want to spend money on this stuff.  I bought a salt and pepper shaker last week.  I’ve been in this apartment for eight months already.  Only tonight did I buy the peppercorns to go in it!

I’ve been absent, mostly because there is drama in my corner and I can’t write about it without looking like the biggest gossip on earth.  It’s not entirely my story to tell, too.

The short version is this:  The tables have turned.  Call it karma or irony, or even ironic karma.  They say that you go through the stages of grief in a breakup, similar to a death.  I’m not sure all the rules apply to every situation, but you might say that I’m in the angry stage right now.  Except I had already made my way to “Acceptance,” since I’m pretty sure I started processing the divorce way before he did, so I was like three steps ahead all along.

But what happens when your stages are interrupted by outside factors?  Like you’re recovering from the breakup and you meet someone else.  I don’t think that allows you to really process the breakup.  It just distracts you and suspends your emotions/processing machine in space.  And you enter into a new relationship all kinds of fucked up.  Now let’s pretend you do that over and over again.  Every.  Single.  Relationship is entered into under false pretenses.

And *I* was the one who lied?

Pigeons in a box.  I have a crazy urge to kill the pigeons.

My company Christmas party is tons of fun.  Tons.  The boys wear suits, the girls wear high heels, and we all show up after work, like little kids who are playing dress-up in mom and dad’s closet, magically clean and unwrinkled.  With pants that are of an appropriate length.  (I work in a field where men are notorious for wearing their pants too short.)

We dance.  And we get drunk.

Last year I took my husband.  And The Crush.  It wasn’t planned.  Crushboy asked me at work that day if we could pick him up.  I said ok.  Husband said ok.  It was all ok.  Already my husband had reservations, because I told him how much I liked Crushboy.  I was trying to be honest.  Anyhow.  I got hammered.  Crushboy got hammered.  Crushboy and I danced a whole lot.  I may have touched his arm a little too much.  Husband was not impressed and although I had a great time dancing the night away, the flirting that went on did not go unnoticed.

This year was so, so different.  I went without a husband.  Crushboy did not go.  (For no good reason, he claimed that he didn’t know if he’d be in town.  He might have been lazy to get dressed up.  He might have been afraid that I’d hit on him.  He might have been afraid that he’d want to jump me.)  However, crushboy did offer to give me and the friends that I went with, a ride home, because taxis are not always easy to find in this city around Christmastime…  We did not take him up on the offer.

I got dressed up.  I looked good.  I wore heels.  I danced in the heels.  I drank lots of alcohol.  I did not get off the dance floor.  Not once did I have to worry about my date being happy, because check it, there was no date to worry about.  I was free to dance with whomever I chose.  (Last year I had to ask the husband if he was ok with me asking other people do dance.)

So a year later, I’m having more fun.  Feeling prettier.  Living better.

Often I have these thoughts that roll around in my head, and I make plans to turn then into journal entries, where the words fit together neatly and they make me feel like I know not only how to express my feelings, but exactly which feelings I want to express.

Most of the time those entries never make it to the computer.  I used to never leave the house without a notebook.  And I guess I’m still in that habit.  But originally it was so that I would never lose a thought.  It’s like never leaving the house without a camera.  Sometimes I have those fits too.  But now I just keep a notebook in my purse because I might have to make a shopping list, or remember to look something up later.  Nevermind that my phone can do that thinking for me.

But the point of this entry is simply this:  I want to remember this feeling I had tonight.  Wednesday is always drop off night.  Every other Wedsnesday, the drop off is just for two days, and I get him back on Friday for the weekend.  Tonight was  the alternating one, where I don’t see him again until Monday.  I enjoy my quiet weekends.  I get stuff done, and I have time to be alone; to re-center myself.  Parenting with my husband was a constant thing.  It was semi-on all the time.  We could all be at home and everyone would be involved.  There was little downtime, and when the downtime was with the ex, it still wasn’t true downtime.

Parenting alone is a different thing. There’s on and off. We meet at daycare and transfer the carseat and his stuff from my car to his van.  And since we were both there around the same time, we went inside together.  Because of the way things worked out, I left them in the daycare.

I kissed my son goodbye and walked out of daycare, a place where you only leave alone in the morning, alone.  And I felt it.  Not the expected “hm what will I do with this glorious time alone?” feeling, but the Lonely Single Mom who might feel shitty, and even though I am glad I don’t live anywhere near my family, I sure could use the company right now, and doesn’t the fact that it’s Christmastime make it a million times worse(?), feeling.