I Guess That's Why They Give Us Names So, a Few Old Men Can Say They Saw Us Rain When We Were Young

 It has been a wild 24 hours. Funny how life can rage around you and end off pretty peaceful. 

Started off pretty uneventful. Until I got downstairs to see my husband sitting there with the "we need to talk" face. And that face only ever means that he has something I am going to have to tolerate. He'd decided that despite the fact that we have no children and no joint assets beyond a small account that we pay household bills from, he needs to have a lawyer look over the papers. Okay. I kind of get it. But you needed to do this two weeks ago.

I've felt like I have been trapped waiting for him to do what he's supposed to do. I mean, that's been the past five years, frankly, so I don't know why I expected anything different. And I literally cannot do this for him like basically everything else, so I just had to wait. Wait until the weekend the first week. Give him another week the second week, and then yesterday, this business with the lawyer.

And these past weeks, he has suddenly become the model husband. Helping with errands and voluntarily helping get the kid to his job and bringing home flowers (if I never see another bouquet of store flowers as long as I live, that will be fine by me) cleaning up after himself and asking considerate questions and all that shit he has not done for our entire marriage and before. The reason it upset me so is that he obviously had this in him the whole time. He chose not to do all of these things I needed because he didn't want to. I was never worth it.

So he tells me about his need to consult a lawyer and I did it. In all this mess with my heart all strung out and my mind busy and all the fear and sadness and defeat, I yelled at him that he just needed to sign the fucking papers. Not my finest moment. I've always handled him so gently. He's always been fragile. I never talk to him that way. I did once call him a motherfucker. He was being a whole motherfucker, in my defense.

Of course he was upset. I don't think he ever considers that I am upset. I'm basically always upset in this marriage because I can never resolve anything with him. It's like a vortex of bullshit, around and around and around.

He calls around a few lawyers and of course, since he doesn't really know any, they get real predatory real fast trying to make him go to court and fight over god only knows what because there is literally nothing. I told him he could have the stupid account. That's all there is between us. Lawyers trying to get some billable hours.

That seemed to bring him around. He left and came back with the papers signed. Wearing that same pearl snap he wore the first weekend we spent together. With the green that makes all the colors in his eyes light up like gemstones. I loved him so much my bones ached. I still do. That won't ever change.

But I learned about 21 that love is not enough. Love and work are enough. You can't just "arrive" married and stop. And I feel like I never stopped working. He said he never had any time, so I started picking up things I could do to help free up some time for himself. Getting the groceries, taking all the cats to the vet, cleaning the house, arranging that all the bills are paid, picking up his prescriptions, making his coffee every day, packing his lunches...the list goes.

In all of that, I started losing myself. I had no time. And while it appeared to me that he did little besides go to work and play guitar, he still said he didn't have time. And so I let it go. I stopped begging for his crumbs of time. About two years in, I started filling my time myself. What was left after all the work. I began to paint and picked up embroidery in earnest. I don't think I did a whole lot of writing in four years. That should have told me something right there. Writing is how I access and analyze myself. And if I'm not doing that, then I'm stuffing all those feelings down.

I hit a breaking point several months ago. After two years of his emotional abuse in the form of telling me he wants a divorce but not doing it and the way he would talk to me. The first few times he dressed me down, I just sat silent and cried. I bet no one who knows me will ever believe that.

One of the first such incidents occurred when we went back to his city to visit. We were grabbing custard to take to his friends and in the car, he just began this litany of everything I was doing wrong as a wife. Mostly sex. Y'all know. I was flabbergasted the first time he told me I was selfish. I won't go into details, but that is exactly how it was not. So I was there in the passenger seat, silent, tears streaming down my face. And then I was expected to clean myself up and go be the model wife. He never said he was sorry for that. But he never said he was sorry for a lot of things. And he never acted sorry either. A friend tells this story where he'd done something wrong and he apologized. His father said to him "Don't be sorry, just don't do it again." 

Time and again. And again. And these past couple weeks have felt like that exact thing packaged tightly in square container and left for me to look at while I squirm.

So I got all the forms filed into our case. And it took longer than I thought, but they were all accepted by close of business yesterday. That means in 30 days, I should have my last name again. My father's last name. The name I should have kept. The name of the man who always treated me like gold. Not with kid gloves and not like some princess, but like a bright, capable, gift. All those years of goodness. All those years of sweet tea and Star Trek and boots and paintbrushes and love. Goddamn me if I will settle for less ever again.

My hands shook the entire time I was scanning and organizing and trying to find the right form names and finally clicking that last button.

I feel like I've been through most of the hard parts of divorce already. The loss and the anger and loneliness and self-doubt and all of that emotional stuff. I did all that slowly over two years. I did all of that alone and quietly for two years. Pain makes me retreat into myself. And I am prepared for the bubbles. People tell me that even in all of that emotional preparedness, the details will hit you like a mule kick to the solar plexus. But the good thing is that even in these moments, my heart has already been crushed and rebuilt over it. It's not easy, but it's easier.

I expect the new narrative to be that we got divorced because I'm gay. I am arguable off men at the moment. I guess that story is easier to stomach than the truth that I just can't stand you. You can't make someone self-aware.

That kid of mine. I had one of those moments where I just sort of crumbled for a second. He gets up and comes across the room and pulls me to my feet and encases me in a hug. Kissed my cheek. I don't know when his sweet, baby face started feeling scratchy like that. The boy is a man. And he knows how to act like one. I am so fucking proud of that gentle, sweet, kind, empathetic, beautiful soul that I helped to become. 

So I did what I do when I can't do anything else. When I want the hurt to be outside hurt instead of inside hurt: went to the gym. My impulsive side tells me to go get drunk or punch a hole in some body part or get a tattoo. But I went to the gym. Burn off the crazy. I see now why some people think the best way to peace is a pocket knife and the expanse of their own flesh.

And it helped. My mind felt much clearer after. I was able to start letting go of a thing that's been gnawing at me. I still have to do something with this painting I don't even ever want to look at again. Probably finish it and decide to either find it a good home or have a bonfire in the backyard. Get that picture in your mind.

I wrote the first music review I've written in probably six years. Is it any good? Folks say yes, but I don't know. I never really think my thoughts are worth much. But I like doing it. I love writing about music more than I love anything else in the whole world. I guess that's my way of feeling less alone. That Alabama boy is on to something.

Talked a while with a good friend last night. Another of the widow's club. I'm not sure why, but I always felt like he really saw me. And does. This sounds pretty weird, but it's a great comfort to have an older man friend like that. He's probably still full of shit, what with the dick, but I trust him and I respect and love the shit out of him.

I'm so lucky for all my friends and my family right now. This whole thing has wreaked havoc on my sense of self. But these people are the best humanity has to offer. And they love me. So I must be okay too.

Pop has declined to speak to me since the news came. He has every right. And he's fully justified. But I had to step out onto the patio this morning so no one would see or hear me cry over it. I guess I'm just not part of the family anymore. And of course that fucking hurts. I knew there would be casualties, but the cost is high.