Difficult

The hard part in writing about my marriage and divorce is not sharing what my ex-husband did or how he treated me. The hard part is exposing my response. The fact that I continued to allow it. That I did not pack my bags and leave immediately. Or after a month or two. Or year. Or ever, really. I never did leave. I stayed.

Why?

I can't even begin to answer the question that is most often asked. When I finally began to share the truth with my friends and family, none could understand why I had stayed. Why I didn't demand more respect from him. Why I didn't stand up for myself.

I don't know the answer.

I have a few contributing factors to blame. This was my second marriage, and I didn't want to be twice divorced. I sure as all hell did not want to be twice divorced at 32, which is something I repeated over and over (I made it to 34). That had a bigger effect on me than some might guess-- I was really fearful of being that woman. Another, I suppose, was laziness. Damned if I wanted to go out there and have to find someone new. Loneliness, too. Especially after we moved out here to Colorado. At the time, I did have friends, but not really good ones. I was terrified that I would be completely alone. ALONE. Alone, alone, alone. I was like Jerry Maguire. Interestingly, this did not become a problem because when he left I found myself taken in by a new circle of friends that are my family now.

I have a pattern of staying with men that give me less than I desserve, mostly because I'd rather that than being alone. I think I've finally learned my lesson on that one. But we'll see.

Aftermath

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Continued from this entry...

And there you are on your knees

Begging for forgiveness, begging for me

Just like I always wanted

But I'm so sorry...

I'm not a princess.

This ain't a fairy tale.

I'm gonna find someone someday

Who might actually treat me well...

--Taylor Swift, "White Horse"

So it was over.

After nineteen months of refusing to give up and walk away, he had done it for me. I had held on by the tips of my fingertips for so long... my immediate reaction was relief.

And then anger.

P, because she is a good friend, immediately took over. She took me to her apartment, dressed me up in a boob shirt, and took me to Aspen to shake my booty. We were hanging out with a bunch of guys from the golf club where we worked, and they, being caddies, were flush with the cash heaped upon them by rich golfers. We drank, we danced...

And then there was the desperation.

What was I doing? I don't know how to do this! I snuck away to find a quiet corner to call my husband. He, of course, was at her house. But he wasn't sure he had done the right thing. He wanted to come home.

"Come get me," I said. "We'll talk about it."

But no. He was mad at me for being out (and not sitting at home, crying and waiting, I suppose). And something in that attitude finally (FINALLY!) flipped a switch in my brain. And I realized... that I most certainly DO know how to do this.

And I did. I knew how to dance, and flirt, and accept drinks from cute guys. I also apparently remembered how to make out in a back seat. And the front seat. Of my husband's truck (note to ex-husband if he's reading: I actually had sex in your truck four times before I gave it back to you. You're welcome for that piece of information).

A week later, he came to the house that had been ours to help me complete my move out. He had on his sad face. He boxed and cleaned and looked at me with hangdog eyes. He begged. He said he was wrong. He wanted me back. There was nothing he wouldn't do to get me back. I should give him another chance. I started to feel bad. I wasn't giving in, but I did feel sorry for him.

And then, while taking a load to the car, I saw her. Sitting in the truck. Waiting for him. He had brought her along, and she was outside waiting for him while he groveled for forgiveness.

I laughed. Out loud. He was unbelievable.

But there were more conversations. He continued asking for more chances. He left presents, one a week, on my doorstep (which creeped out my roommate to no end). He called. We met for lunch and he cried. He made promises. And when I told him I'd consider it if he'd 1) move out of her house (hello!) and 2) get counseling, I knew that neither would happen.

And it didn't.

Beginning

My memory is cruel

I'm queen of attention to details

Defending intentions if he fails

Until now, he told me her name

It sounded familiar in a way

I could have sworn I'd heard him say it ten thousand times

If only I had been listening

-Sara Bareilles, "Between the Lines"

It all started with a text message.

It was October. I was standing next to him while he was looking at his phone, and saw a text that said "I miss you." I wasn't snooping- had no reason to. Just happened to be there. I asked him about it, and he said some of the women he worked with were out that night, and they were just messing with him. What a horrible cover. Anyway, I took that story for the truth for the moment, but the hairs on the back of neck sure didn't believe it. They were standing at attention from that moment forward.

Things weren't even weird between us at the time. Everything seemed perfectly normal to me. We were still sleeping in the same bed (and would be, throughout the forthcoming year-and-a-half long debacle, until just before it was over). We were still laughing and cuddling and talking. I had no reason to suspect otherwise, or to doubt his lie. But those hairs on the back of my neck? They were smarter than I.

The next few weeks passed without incident, relationship-wise. I lost my job, he was very supportive and sweet about it. You can read about those fun times in my posts from November 2006. But then.

It was a Sunday afternoon, and he went for a run. This was entirely normal, we lived across the street from a major Memphis park and he ran there almost every day. I would later learn that a lot more than running was going down in Overton Park, but whatever. Anyway. That day, he was gone for a really long time. He didn't have his phone with him, and I was worried that he had gotten hurt on a trail inside the park and couldn't call for help.

Well, that's what I say I was thinking. And that's what I was consciously thinking. But those hairs on the back of my neck? They were thinking something else.

And something else is exactly what I found when I went to the park to look for him, and saw him kiss her goodbye.

I immediately knew who the woman was. When he had started his job three months before, he told me about the people he worked with, and one woman who told him a story about how she fooled around with a girl once. Come on. I told him that day, there's only one reason a straight woman tells a straight man a story like that. Whether it's true or not, the telling of that story has one purpose and one purpose alone. I told him to be careful with her. He said they were just friends, she was married. He had told her about my blog, she thought I was funny. Her friends read it too. I knew exactly who she was even though I'd never seen her before. And I was right.

He said he had ended it, that's why he was at the park. He said they had only kissed. He said it was over. He said he wouldn't see her again (except every day at work, where he was her boss, of course). Every bit of it? A lie.

And that was only the beginning.

Catharsis

Thank you to everyone for your kind words and votes on my previous entry. Based on the response, as well as the way I felt after writing it, I'm considering writing a series of posts to finish the story. Well, really, to start it, since that was the end.

Of course, I'll have to come up with an appropriate title... Crystal has The Crazy Chronicles, Pioneer Woman has Black Heels to Tractor Wheels, The Girl Who has Mormon to Married in Manhattan...

Although the title of this blog itself kinda covers it...

Ending

And I don't know,
This could break my heart or save me.
Nothing's real
until you let go completely...

And I don't know,
I could crash and burn, but maybe
At the end of this road
I might catch a glimpse of me...

Kelly Clarkson, "Sober"

I'm pulling out of the driveway on a Saturday morning, on my way to work, when my husband sticks his head out of the front door. He hollers for me to take his truck to work that day, as he wants to take mine to get a much-needed oil change. That's nice of him, I think. Considering.

For the past few days we have been trying to work out a time to Talk. I was unexpectedly called into work last night and we'd had to reschedule for tonight. I dread it. Our "talks" to date have been less than satisfying, always ending when neither of us can pull the trigger and say it's over. It's been a year and a half of aruging about it... and then pretending everything would be fine, him telling me he'd end it with her, me pretending to believe him. Our marriage has been a disaster, but something-- fear, insecurity, inertia-- has kept me in it. I don't know why he hasn't left yet, but he's always only said he wants to be with me. He's never once said he wants to leave me. Never once said he wants to be with her. Why should he, really. He's having his cake and eating her too.

Ahem.

After my shift ends I'm heading back home. Tired. Nervous. Wondering if I, if either of us, will have the guts to say what we both know needs to be said. We've run this thing, this marriage, into the ground and there's no saving it now. It's too late to quit while we're ahead, but at least we can quit while we're still breathing. At the same time... I don't know how to end it. Not only do I not know how to tell him it's over, I don't know how to tell my family and friends that I've been lying to them for so long every time I didn't say how things really were. I especially don't know how to walk away after I've put up with so much for so long... I feel it's like staying in a fight til the tenth round only to give up.

When I round the corner and the house is in sight, I see that my truck is not in the driveway. "Bastard." I mumble. "He's at the gym or something." Or more likely, he's with her... either way, it's not the plan.

I push my way through the door to the greetings of the dog. But something is weird. Something is off. Something is definitely not right.

I immediately notice the absence of the painting that faces the front door. I glance to my right and two chairs and a small table are missing. As I look around, I realize that at least half of our belongings are gone. In the time it took me to work one eight-hour shift, he has packed half of our house AND moved it out without a trace.

I look, but I don't find a note.

Seriously? SERIOUSLY?! No Talk. Nothing. No fight. No yelling, screaming, cussing. Just emptiness.

I wander around the house, noticing which things he's taken. I leave him a voice mail (he doesn't answer his phone, the chicken shit) listing the things that he needs to return. The Christmas movies and Grey's Anatomy DVDs. My Pampered Chef cookware I owned before our marriage. The dressing table my step-father built for me. Anything else I think I have to right to bitch about (it's only later, at bedtime, I realize he has taken the only tube of toothpaste).

Few tears come. Mostly I feel incredible relief. The long charade is over. The lies can stop. The fear I had that I wouldn't be strong enough to walk away is eased; he has saved me the trouble.

I kiss the dog and get back into his truck (which has significantly higher payments and will later be traded back for my own when he is feeling guilty) and drive back to the club where I work. I walk in the door to the surprise of my friend who has the evening shift.

"Why are you back?" she asks.

And that is the first time I say it. The first time I acknowledge it the words that have been floating close to the surface since I walked in my front door. The first time I put out there in reality the true factual state of my marriage. Most importantly, it's the first time I realize that I am grateful for the truth of the words.

"My husband. He left me."


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