Monthly Archives: July 2012

Diary of a Divorce: July 30th

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     I’m done, I’m done, I’m done, I tell myself. I have no feelings left for this man. We split up because we couldn’t make it work out. No matter how much we tried, we kept coming back to the same reality: we are not suited to one another.

      So I called up the paralegal today to see if there have been any new developments on my case or if they need the remaining balance paid to get this divorce done.

      The friendly assistant tells me they just got the signed paperwork back from Mark a few days ago. Now, they need to prepare the judgment, have both of us sign it, and then send it off to court for finalization.

      “If we email it to him, will he do the necessary signing? He needs to have a notary present for the signature,” she asks.

       “Why? Was there a problem? Did he delay getting the paperwork signed and returned to you?”

       “No, no, nothing like that,” she assures me. In fact, we sent it through snail mail so that would account for why it took so long.”

        Well then, I figure, he’ll cooperate on the rest of it. An email is fine. She needs the remainder of the balance I owe to prepare the judgment, and I give her a credit card number. Okay, all is well. No problems. I hang up the phone, numb.

        What is bothering me? Why do I feel tears threatening to form in my eyes? I’ve already resolved these questions. This marriage is over, and it’s not a problem. Or is it?

       I think it’s time I remind myself of who each of us was during the marriage. What better way than to reread some of the little “letters” Mark brought to me after one fight, then another?

      Good idea.

      I fish through the nightstand, where I’ve deposited several of these hand-written “love letters.” I read them. There are three, plus one little note on a scratch sheet.

      Everything was MY fault, he says in the letters. What drove him away from me was my constant hostility, my refusal to take into consideration his feelings while spewing forth my own, my uncanny ability to twist everything around so that I made it about how I was the wounded animal.

      Oh yeah. Now I remember. Gosh, he was good. He was the ultimate victim to my anger, according to his perspective. He only took responsibility for his occasional depression, his miserable social skills, his inability to express his feelings.

      I fold up the papers and slip them into the other end table on the side of the bed where he used to sleep. I’d throw them out, but I might need to reference them again in a weak moment.

      I really don’t feel resentful towards him. He does seem to struggle with that inability to feel his feelings and to share them with me or anyone. I suspect that’s been true his whole life–and through each of his previous two marriages. I suspect he’s already searching for the next woman to sweep off her feet with roses, endearing comments, and the “I love you’s” after only a couple of weeks. How sad it is that he wants so desperately to find love and to be in love while having no clue how to do it.

     I’m no pro either. But when I reread those letters, referencing some of my remarks to him, I see that I did one thing differently from him. I admitted it. I accepted responsibility for my share of the problems, and I even asked his help for us to make it through working it out. I’m not blameless, but I believe I was as emotionally honest as I knew how to be. Maybe that’s how it was for him too.

     “You can’t give away something you don’t have,” I hear often in meetings. How could he give me his love when he didn’t know how to access it or how to open up his heart to me and reveal himself?

      I bear him no ill will. Still, I don’t want to know when he finds his new Miss Right. I wish him happiness, but I don’t want to hear about it either. That’s the best I can do for today.

Diary of a divorce–July 25,2012

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  Okay, so what kind of a moron schedules surgery right during a pending divorce? Gee, I don’t know. Maybe ME! I look at that last post and I am stupefied. Who is that independent woman crying out in liberation?

   I sit here, two weeks and two days after one of the most painful experiences I’ve ever endured: the insertion of a spinal cord stimulator in my back. No big deal, says the doc and the company’s rep. You’ll be on your feet and back to yourself in a few days. Well, NO, I’m not. I’m paralyzed with fear and with the reality of knowing I can’t do anything for myself. How much TV and how many books can a Type A individual soak in before she goes nuts?

   I look at my lawnmower, edger and leaf blower with wild cravings. I want to use them again. The new steam cleaner I bought to clean my kitchen pavers sits unused in the spare bedroom. Didn’t even have a chance to test it out on Alanna’s aging online skate tracks she’d imprinted on the kitchen floor when she was maybe 12 or 13. When Wayne yelled at her not to skate across the floor, I had had no idea how badly she could damage those tiles. Nothing has been able to lift those marks. I’d hoped the steam cleaner, with the promising ads, could put an end to that  cycle finally.

    Alright, so I go outside. I take my clippers and do a “little” trimming of the overgrown bougainvillea vine draped over the back fence. Stop, I scream at myself, as I limp back into the house. Ain’t gonna happen. I’m in wracking pain again and stagger into the kitchen to swallow a couple more pain pills and a muscle relaxer.

     I was indeed mislead on the time of recovery from this surgery. At my last visit with the doc, the rep let slip the “gruesome details” regarding what exactly was done to me. Seems the doc did a “laminectomy,” or a removal of some bone from my spine. Yippeee. Could that be what’s causing this stabbing pain?

     I was wholly unprepared for being “down” for over two weeks. Had made no arrangements for someone to walk the dogs. Didn’t even have groceries in the house. My mother to the rescue! She forced Alanna to drive over to her house in Leisure World, pick up and deliver to me a “care package” full of food to last several days. I doubt I’d have starved without her dinners, but nothing beats Mom’s chicken soup and ruckutt crumpli (who can spell Hungarian words?). I savored every delicious bite.

     Was virtually a captive in my own house for over two weeks, unless you count a couple doc appts and visits to the pharmacy. I’d had to cancel all the plans I’d made for both fun things as well as responsibilities. My mind has been working overtime, imagining all kinds of complications and strange new ailments. This CAN’T all be related to the back surgery, can it?

     When one of the incisions started bleeding a few mornings ago, I really panicked. What the hell was THAT? So I took off my nightgown and let the dogs smell the spot of wet blood to see their reaction. Don’t dogs know how to tell if someone has cancer?

      When I told the doc about the dogs sniffing my nightie, he found nothing funny about it. Call me, text me, I’m your doctor. Consult with me, NOT your dogs! He cleaned up the bandages and told me to put on a fresh dressing every day. Oh yeah, sure. Right in the middle of my back! I’m not an octopus, and my reach is simply not that long.

      Mom again to the rescue. She took two buses to come over, clean my wound, walk the dogs, and feed me more delicious food.

      What would any of us do without the women in our lives? Yes, men are amusing, but almost worthless to me now. Okay, so I’m seeing the glass half empty. I’m sure Mark would’ve cleaned the dressing–but probably in HIS time. Just like everything else that went on his “honey do” list.

      Have we women done this to ourselves? In our quest for independence and authenticity, have we gone too far? Are we now doing it all?

      I went for a manicure the other day. Changing my nail color was great excitement for one who has been without stimulation in her house for over two weeks! I saw a woman, visiting HB from South Carolina, come into the shop. I hated her at first sight. She was gorgeous, self-possessed, unpretentious, and her clothing draped effortlessly over her perfect figure. Then I heard her tell her manicurist that her husband of 15 yrs came home a couple nights ago and announced he had fallen in love with someone else!  He’d been getting his ducks in a row for the previous two months, changing all their accounts so she’d have no access. This woman had been doing it all around her house–the lawnmowing, the kids, cooking his food, repairing the car, even taking out the trash. The husband? Well, he went to work, came home and was done. I could feel myself seething with anger, although the woman herself had a great attitude.

       Yes, we all know the end of this story. They will get divorced, and then the guy will get over his little fling.  He’ll realize just what he lost in this lovely lady. And I hope then that she realized what a jerk he was to her and shows him the door.

       We are woman! We are strong, we are invicible…but sometimes, like now, I can’t do it all. I am hurting today. I can’t wait to report I’m back to my usual self. It’ll not be soon enough for me!! I can’t do it all myself. To my chagrin, I admit I need people. I am vulnerable. I am no longer a rock.