I am a divorcee. I never expected to say that– my marriage was a mistake from the get-go, but I am stubborn, and I intended to stick it out, come what may. I did, for a very long time– 13 years, 4 months, and 20 days, to be precise. In this day and age, that’s an eternity. But in the end, my sense of self-preservation– and, all right, selfishness– won out over even my stubborn streak. On December 22, 2008, I became a single woman again– at least, on paper.
Can a marriage ever truly be over, once children are involved? I think the answer is no, not really. I divorced my children’s father, but he is still their father, and always will be. Therefore he is family– and always will be. It’s… surreal, in a way. I came home from court that Tuesday, unmarried by a judge’s order– and what had changed? Nothing. My ex is still living in the house. My children are still unmanageable little hellions. My home is still a study in entropy. What difference does a decree make?
In some ways, not very much– my day-to-day life has not changed appreciably. In other, intangible ways– tons. My attitude has changed; I feel a sense of freedom, of lightness of spirit that I don’t recall ever feeling before. At the same time, there’s a vague sense of… melancholy, I suppose. It’s bittersweet, like one might feel at the death of a loved one who finally succumbs to a terminal illness.
When I was young, it was hammered into my brain that divorce was the worst possible thing that could befall a family. Children from “broken homes” were to be pitied but avoided. They were marked… branded… damaged. Consequently, when my parents did divorce, it sent me into a tailspin. I was completely gobsmacked– how could this happen? Who was I now? Was I damaged, even ruined, now that my previously perfect family was destroyed?
When I got married, I was far too young, and far too emotionally immature, to understand what I was doing. I was in love– with the man or with the drama? I still don’t know– and it was the only way I knew to convince my mother that I was an adult. (Yes, I’m aware of the intrinsic irony in that statement.) I knew, almost before the ink was dry on the marriage license, that I had made a colossal mistake, but I was too proud– and too stubborn– to admit it. I was determined, come hell or high water, that I would succeed where my mother had failed. I would never get a divorce!
It was the most dreaded word in my vocabulary. Barely six months into my marriage, my husband and I were having a screaming fight, and it came hurtling, unbidden, from my mouth: I want a divorce!! We both froze– I don’t know who was more shocked, him or me. We quickly made up. Us? Divorce? Unthinkable!
Over the years, that furious phrase– I want a divorce!– featured in our arguments so often that it ceased to have any meaning. He never took me seriously when I said it; I rarely did. It was just… something to say, something that meant “I’m really, really angry with you!” By the time the children came along, by the time we passed the decade mark, by the time we’d weathered countless storms and conflicts… it seemed unlikely that we would ever separate. And yet… I did mean it… more and more, I truly did mean it. I said it less and less… and thought about it much more.
I think my now-ex-husband was in denial, even after I actually filed the papers– I think he didn’t believe I would go through with it. For years he’d been telling me, “You’re overreacting. You’re making a big deal out of nothing. You would never do it.” He’d convinced himself of the same. It came as something of a shock when I came home with two copies of the decree– I handed him one and said, “Congratulations. You’re single.”
The saddest part of all of it, I think, is that it wasn’t a lack of love that killed our marriage. It was a lack of trust. From the very start, he did things that strained at my ability to trust him, but I rationalised, made excuses, tried to accept or justify his behaviours. Little things added up to big things; a final huge thing was the proverbial straw that broke this camel’s back. It ws so glaringly gigantic that even I could no longer explain it away, though I did try, and very, very hard. It’s clear to me now– though I wore blinders for so very long– that although he loved me, in his fashion, he resented me… and he uses that as an excuse for engaging in some unsavoury and ultimately unacceptable activities.
Nonetheless, I did– and do– care for him. Whatever romantic feelings I had for him withered and died a long time ago; it’s hard now for me to remember that once I was head-over-heels in love with him, or believed I was. I feel… compassion for him, pity even, because I honestly don’t know what will become of him. He’s been out of the workforce for seven years now; he doesn’t have a spectacular history to fall back on. He has no job, few prospects, nowhere to go, even. I’ve given him housespace for a month past the divorce; it’s time for him– and for me– to move on.
Now that I’m wearing the Scarlet D, I’m not sure how to feel about myself. I don’t think I’m ruined; I don’t believe my children will be damaged for life. Scarred? Sadly, yes; I’m afraid that’s inevitable. It’s hard to explain to them why Daddy has to move out, or why Mommy has been going back and forth to the courthouse. They don’t need to know the specifics of how the marriage broke down. They just need to know that we both love them, and always will.
My life is not over; it’s barely begun. I’m opening a new chapter. It’s like Dot sings in Sunday in the Park With George: “I chose and my world was shaken– so what? The choice may have been mistaken– the choosing was not. You have to move on!”
I have to move on. And I’m moving on with head held high.
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