*Note that for the purposes of this post and all future posts, I will refer to my ex-husband as Darth.
The thing about divorce stories is that we all have our different versions. And they change. The story that I told four years ago is not the story that I told two years ago. And the story that I told two years ago is not the story that I tell today.
You may have heard it said that there is “his story, her story, and the real story.” In my case, there’s the story that I told my parents, the story that I told my friends, the story that I told my kids, the story that I told my coworkers. Then there are the stories that they have all told to other family, other friends, other kids.
I truly believe that our divorce story likely begins with our parents’ stories: mine who just celebrated a pivotal wedding anniversary, his who separated when he was young. But psychoanalysis and family history aside, so many things happened in our nine years of marriage that could have spelled disaster at any turn:
- Two whole house renovations
- Two whole new humans
- A boarder living with us for a year
- Both of us pursuing graduate degrees and working at the same time
- Losing my job
- Working five jobs between the two of us
- A cancer diagnosis
- Insufficient childcare
Any one of these can put a strain on the best marriage. We had them all. Both so spent that we couldn’t care for our marriage, we retreated into our separate corners. I should speak for myself. I retreated into my own corner.
All of this left me boundary-less and exhausted, a ship with no rudder, carried along by the wind, toppled by the surf.
I stopped speaking my feelings and acted them out instead: sadness, frustration, exhaustion, resentment. I resented my partner for his naps on the couch and the laughter he shared with Belle and Bugg while I was doing dishes and grading papers.
Every day I told myself, “I need to work on my marriage.” But I didn’t actually know what that meant, nor did I have the time or energy to fit it into the day. I didn’t know where to begin. I didn’t realize that working on my marriage was something that “I” couldn’t do. It was something “We” had to do.
Finally, we reached a breaking point. We were each completely alone in our marriage. Even when Darth and I were together, we didn’t connect. It wasn’t that there were fights; it was that there was so much distance. For my part, I wasn’t responding to him. And I was judging him for not responding to me. He asked for time apart.
I fully, wholly, completely, expected to get back together.
I devoted myself to weekly couples therapy.
I read every book on the list that Darth had given to me. He wanted to read them together so that we could learn from them.
I took nightly calls from Darth for the first few months we were separated.
I tried to give him the space he asked for, though at times I still stepped on his toes.
I begged for us to get back together.
I cried.
I wrote a sixteen page letter apologizing for the ways that I screwed up in our marriage, and read it aloud to Darth.
I worked outside of our home, picked up both kids after school, and made dinner for all four of us every night for the first year when he got a new job.
I started to ask for what I needed – like two nights a week to go running while he put the kids to bed.
I learned how to be a single parent without resentment and to have patience with myself and my kids.
And do you know what? None of it worked. None of it brought him back. None of it put our family back together. Our separation lasted two years before we filed for divorce. We tried mediation, but found it difficult to agree, so we got lawyers involved. That made things even more complicated. We communicated back and forth with our lawyers for over a year before the judge finally stamped the divorce decree.
I didn’t even go to the final hearing. I let my lawyer represent me. A part of me believed that if I wasn’t there, it wouldn’t happen. Afterward, the email came from my lawyer. The entire email contained only three words:
“You are divorced.”
So where are we today? Well, we’re literally on different sides of town. Here they are:
Her side. The South Side: I live in the same house that we purchased as a couple. The same house that he renovated while I lived at my parents’ house with a three-year-old and an infant, commuting an hour into the city for work when I had it, balancing being a mother and a child at the same time. I have redecorated, decluttered, changed out plates and cups and artwork. A room that was a theater became a playroom. The room that was Belle and Bugg’s bedroom became mine; the room that was mine and his became Belle and Bugg’s. Colors and stains have changed. But every once in awhile, I look at a piece of trim, I touch my hand to a faucet handle, I look up at a ceiling fan, and a strange twist in my stomach reminds me that it’s from him. He is the reason that I have the home that I do. It’s still the place that we made ours, the first and only home we bought as a married couple.
I still have my teaching job, a job that gives me enough flexibility to pick up my kids after school, to go on field trips and work at the book fair, to take them on vacations during summer break.
When I say “our family,” I’m referring to the people who live in my home – Belle, Bugg, Lily, me – that’s who’s on our holiday card. “Family” also means my siblings and parents and the rest of my family.
His side. The North Side: He moved to the other side of town. In ideal conditions, it’s a 30-minute drive from my home. But conditions are not usually ideal. Much of the time, like when he is driving the kids to or from school, it is nearly an hour. His significant other has moved in also, and the whole home is a renovation project.
He works from home and works on the home.
When he says “our family,” he means the four of them – him, her, Belle, Bugg.
I stumble over the word “family” every time I use it. I just can’t believe that Darth is no longer a part of mine. Every time I have to see him at a pickup or dropoff, my heart says, “That’s my husband.” The funny thing though, is that he’s actually someone else’s boyfriend.
Believe me, I know you can’t buy bread at the hardware store, and I can no longer expect to resurrect my marriage. But to grieve it is to honor it, and to accept that grief is to have compassion for myself.