Tag Archives: divorce

♫ “The name I made, I’ll trade for his. The only trouble is…” ♫

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hello my name is

As a former 23-year-old divorcée, I always come back to the same issue: would I ever change my name for a man again? I live in the Midwest, y’all. This shit ain’t optional. You get married and you change your name… especially when you’ve repeatedly said the words “If he’s not a better shot than I am, he’s not really a man.” I’m a traditional gal… who’s been FUCKED OVER.

The day I finalized my divorce, I went directly from the judge’s office to trek over a tri-county area changing my name on every single piece of documentation I had from my social security card, to my driver’s license, to my student ID’s and my passport. It was emotionally and physically exhausting. It was also totally worth it to reclaim a piece of myself after becoming someone I not only didn’t recognize, but didn’t want to recognize. One year before I finalized, I had to decide whether or not to put my married name on my diploma and graduation  announcements. I chose my maiden name. How’s that for a sign your marriage is shot to shit? Today, the only documentation with my married name on it is my teaching certificate and that won’t be the case once I take the test to be certified in school library and have it reprinted. I’m just too cheap to do it before then.

It’s ironic that the very thing that has made me so he’d-better-open-my-door-and-pick-up-the-check traditional is also the thing that’s made me want to keep my daddy’s name until the day I die. A man who refused to work, lied, cheated, stole, manipulated, and abused has made me want to be with someone hard-working, honest, loyal, moral, forthright, and caring. It’s also made me want to forever retain that sense of self I got back on February 17, 2011.

My Gramma is this hilarious and adorable contradiction of a feminist from her day. She thinks it’s ridiculous for a man to do the dishes while his wife lazes on the couch, but that the reverse is acceptable. Contrarily, her thoughts on name-changing are as follows:

“Why does a woman have to change her name? Why can’t he change his own danged name if it’s so important?”

I don’t want a man to take my name. That’s weird. Why do I have to take his, though? I know that some people say it seems like you don’t have faith in the marriage if you don’t take his name and you know what? They’re half right. I don’t have faith in ‘Til Death Do Us Part. People grow and change and become unhappy. Maybe we will get divorced one day. However, that’s not why I wouldn’t want to take his name. Getting a divorce is such a pain in the ass that changing a name is just one stone in a crumbling tower, particularly when you’re older and have assets and children. Keeping your maiden name is not going to save you trouble. That’s bad reasoning.

The thing is, now that I have my name back, I’m not just a person I appreciate being. I’m creating a professional reputation for myself. It’s tentative and small at the moment, but once I get a librarian position, I’ll be known in libraries by my maiden name. If I meet a nice, somewhat traditional man and change my name, then the amazing fundraiser I put on in the summer of 2014 won’t have my name attached to it anymore. That’s a lot of accreditation to toss out with the birdseed. Do I want to do that?

I’m not going to lie. I’m jaded about marriage, at this point. Recently, I casually declared that there was no love before 1970. There was only Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe I’ll find the guy who gets my sense of humor, makes me feel secure, and does so with a diamond the size of a cow’s eye – because my last wedding ring was surprise fake – and that’ll clear up some of those doubts. In regards to my career, though? I’m not sure any amount of faith and love will tempt me toward that concession. Maybe I can hyphenate so the new name is still recognizable. Weirdly, when this issue comes up, I think of Xander and Anya’s duet in the Buffy the Vampire Slayer Musical, which I’m proud to say I can still sing word for word, because I was an awesome teenager:

♫ “The name I made, I’ll trade for his. The only trouble is…” ♫

…um… no. I don’t think I will.

maiden name

Thank God I lost the baby.

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pacifier on floor

You’re not supposed to say that. It’s one of those unspoken rules.

One of the worst parts of miscarriage is that other people don’t always consider it a baby. I was starting my second trimester. I had just registered at Baby’s R’ Us. I’d have bet money it was a boy. I had a name all picked out that I have no intention of using now. I was supposed to hear his heartbeat on my 22nd birthday. I didn’t. I have a box full of baby clothes that were never worn. Every now and then, I take out some tiny overalls and have a good cry. It was a baby to me. My ex-husband lost his job days before the bleeding started. I was home alone through most of the pain. It broke my heart.

Another one of the worst things about a miscarriage is everyone high-fiving you over it. I’m not a fan of a particular married-in family member in general, but I’ll never forget when she called after her husband received my text message (not her) to point out all of the perks of my miscarriage.

“Well, maybe this is for the best. You can wait until you’re done with school and you both have jobs to start a family.”
Yeah. It’s for the best that I just passed my baby into the toilet with gut-wrenching pain all alone. FUCK. OFF.

Even the ones who truly meant well (and no, she wasn’t one of them) were relieved. They were kind enough to keep their mouths shut about that fact, but I could hear it in their voices… as sad as they were that I was hurting so much.

The absolute worst part about my miscarriage was that even I was relieved. Even then, a part of me knew the man had burned down our house with all our pets inside. He tied the dog to the wall and left him in his own urine without food or water. Said dog still can’t get through bathtime without my ridiculous and terrible singing to calm him, because my ex would scream and hit him when he bathed him. My ex-husband wouldn’t do the dishes because the dishwasher was pretend broken and wouldn’t take the trash out because it was too far. He once left glass in the floor after the cat broke a dish and didn’t clean it up until after I cut my foot on it. I still have the scar. While I was home losing our child, he insisted on going to a birthday party, because he never got to have fun. Then he cashed in my WIC checks for the free food. Not only did he steal and pawn my things, but he wasn’t allowed in his mother’s or aunt’s homes because he’d stolen from them as well. He’d already pretended to have several jobs and I didn’t see that coming to an end. I didn’t even know how I’d fund my own living expenses, let alone a little one’s. I prayed to God that he’d take it back, that he’d make it not so and I’d wake up not pregnant. I wasn’t ready and he was a terrible person. Then I bled… and bled. I screamed and cried all alone in physical and emotional agony, while laying on a towel to catch the blood. At 12 weeks, they should’ve done a D&C, from what I understand. They didn’t and it just all tore through me naturally… and painfully. With every ripping sensation, I knew it was me, it was my body, that was killing my baby and there was nothing I could do to stop it. There’s nothing like the guilt of asking God to take it all back and having your prayers answered.

Today… I wouldn’t change it. Even if I had been ready to have a baby, had been the person I am now with the morals and priorities I’d want to instill in a child (which I knew I wasn’t then)… I’d never wish him on anyone, especially not a helpless child. Gail regularly wishes she’d never told her ex he was the father of her daughter that died at eight months. She knew he had a sick mind for little girls and would still rather live without her little lady than ever have her experience that pain. I’d rather have lost my baby than come home to glassy eyes and no explanation for his unresponsiveness. I was due March 5, 2010. I’d have had a three-year-old right about now… and he’d have been cursed. I’d rather God have kept him.

You’re not supposed to say that. It’s one of those unspoken rules. Actually, scratch that. It’s one of those spoken rules. But God had a plan. I’m where I’m meant to be… and so is my baby.

Divorciversary

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My American vagina says I was supposed to be super psyched for Valentine’s Day and desperately wish I had a beau. The gun under my pillow disagrees. Two years. Happy divorciversary to me.

dead bouquet

Stupid Crap I Tried Really Hard to Believe When I Was Married

“Your wedding ring is real.”

“I didn’t start that house fire.”

“I have a job. They just aren’t paying me… like the last job I had. ”

“I don’t know where your iPod/guitar/grandma’s bracelet/video camera is! Stop calling me a liar!”

“I wasn’t the one who wrote all of those bad checks.”

“You can’t call me at work or I’ll get in trouble.”

“I got fired, because you called me at work.”

“I paid the rent. They evicted us because we have a cat.”

“I don’t know where that $400 went.”

“I’m sorry your lost the hundred-dollar bill from your wallet, but it wasn’t me.”

“I had the rent money, but I got mugged… again.”

“I don’t know why they issued an arrest warrant.”

“I’m no longer welcome at family events, because they think I stole from them and I didn’t.”

“I have to work out-of-town… over night… for the job that’s not paying me… and I’ll need your car.”

“I’m enrolled in college again.”

“I don’t know why the dog dug a hole in the floor and is bleeding. I didn’t keep him chained up the entire time you were in Alaska with your mother.”

“I changed the oil. I don’t know why the engine exploded.”

“I fed the dog. I took him out. That dried urine he’s laying in must be fresh.”

“While you were working two jobs, I spent the whole day applying for work. That’s why I couldn’t clean anything.”

“My friend you’ve never met bought me those frozen pizzas from 7 Eleven. I didn’t steal your money.”

“My mother moved everything that survived the fire into storage for us. She didn’t throw it out.”

“I won $400 on a scratcher!” I later found out that this was his one and only paycheck from the gas station that ‘never paid’ him. He even tried to argue against the W2.

– Roses are red.
So is the dog’s blood.
You’re fucking crazy.
I hope you die soon. –

I’m not one for poetry.

… but superheroes do it.

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Coworker B: “But sometimes in a marriage, you’re 80/20, 60/40, or 90/10. Everyone has days like that. You’ll learn.”

Coworker B has never been married. I was married for four and half years of Hell. Therein lies the downside of accidentally creating a secret identity at work. I know right? You wouldn’t think there’d be one.

Most days it looks like this:
circus

But some days it looks like this:
anger

Sidenote: The Google Image search for “fun at the circus” turns up a lot of pictures of clowns. I felt that would give the wrong impression. Rarely is it ever scary as fuck.

I’ve detailed the whole secret identity thing before, but the short version is that my coworkers know me as a country girl from a wealthy and super functional family. They assumed. I let them. They’ve no idea I was ever abused, married, pregnant… none of it. It is fucking awesome. I’m like Clark Kent with boobs.

clark kent with boobs

Don’t get me wrong. I understand, logically, that this is unhealthy and totally insane. For one, I have Jiminy Fucking Cricket as a best friend and Gail is perpetually willing to tell me I’m a lunatic for creating the persona she calls “Winifred”, even if it was by accident. I think she’s more concerned that I totally intend to keep this up even after moving to another branch one day. She’s so irrational. Just like a woman. Head pat, Gail. Head pat.

Honestly, at this point, I’m pretty amazed that I haven’t run over Winifred with a truck yet. I almost slip at least a couple of times a month, such as when I was talking to Coworker S just the other day about my brother’s jealousy over my weekly lunches with my dad.

Coworker S: “But your brother’s also married and that makes a big difference.”
Me: “Yeah, but when I was… at lunch with my dad…”

I’ve no idea what the rest of that sentence even was. I just remember a roaring in my ears as I almost plowed right over Winifred.

Me: “If I ever get married ag…:cough:…”

No one’s caught that… any of the 27 or so times I’ve done it. It’s like I have some kind of guardian angel protecting my secret identity.

alfred

Sometimes, it’s super funny to encourage this… “misguided image” my coworkers have. My personal favorite:

Coworker S: “Well. I just don’t think I’m fond enough of marriage to ever try it again, anyway.”
Me: “Yeah. Me neither.”
Coworker N: laughingly “You never tried it in the first place.”
Me: hearty laughed tinged with a little madness.

Other times…

she hulk

Coworker B: “You don’t know how to make mashed potatoes?!?”
Me: “Why would I? I don’t like them.”
Coworker B: “What happens when you get married and your husband wants mashed potatoes for dinner?”
Me: “Then he can make his own danged mashed potatoes.”
Coworker B: “That’s not how it works girl. You’ll learn.”

Thank you, thank you, thank you! I’ve been wondering what the secret to saving my marriage was! If only you’d gotten here sooner!

mashed potatoes
When blended just right, I hear they’ll pay your rent and bring all your pets back to life.

Yeah. Winifred was almost viciously gang raped and left to bleed out in a ditch that day. You can never accuse me of lacking in imagery.

Other times, of course, I wonder if I should just come clean, much like how Clark Kent doubts whether or not he should just come out as Superman. There have been entire movies based on it. How did they usually end, though?

dead lois lane

With a dead Lois Lane. That’s how. So really, this is for the good of all mankind… or um… just Lois Lane… only the library version. I’ve had this job for a year and a half. Even if I didn’t tell them to call me Winifred, they did and I’ve kind of been responding to it for all this time. I’d just look crazy if I admitted it now.

crazy superman
Shut-up, Gail. That one’s too easy… like you.*

*She loves those jokes. She thinks Hallmark should use them.

Fortunately, no one has ever caught on about how defensive I can be of divorce, thinking my negative marital views stem from my parents’ divorce, which I’ve barely mentioned… cuz that’s the saddest thing that’s happend to me. :Giggle:

Coworker S: “It depends on why people get divorced. Some people get divorced just because they don’t want to be married anymore.”
Me: “You never know what’s going on in another person’s marriage. There could be plenty they aren’t telling you.”

You see, though. I’m defending divorcees all over the world… undercover. I’m like some special Amazonian heroine…

wonder woman

You’re fucking welcome y’all. You’re fucking welcome.

The Top Five Ways He Broke Me: A Valentine’s Day Tribute

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I was never huge on Valentine’s Day. I always thought it an excuse to either exclude single people or make your spouse (usually the husband) try to top whatever romantic thing he did last year. You can’t do something nice for your love just any ol’ time, such as when the restaurants and movie theaters aren’t packed? But, I used to participate anyway. It was just harmless fun.

Then Gail’s daughter died the day before Valentine’s Day, right around the time I had begun to suspect my ex-husband was cheating on me.

Then, three days after the following Valentine’s Day, my divorce was finalized.

Fuck Valentine’s Day.

There’s nothing to make you apprecieate being single like your Divorciversary and looking back. So in honor of Valentine’s Day, I post the top five ways he broke me. Keep in mind these are only the top five. The other day I almost threw out my only glass baking dish… because he once touched it.

i hate you sweet heart

1. I am a food hoarder.
It’s true. After spending the summer of 2010 eating free movie theater popcorn and explaining to the neighbors that I didn’t know why my dog’s ribs were showing, I will never go to bed hungry and neither will my beagle. I’ll never know for a fact that there is literally nothing to eat in my home. I have a framed receipt for corndogs on my bedroom wall, because corndogs were $4.95 for a box of 16 and it was the most food I could get for $5. It’s a reminder of how far I’ve come. It’s symbolic. Duh. My ex-husband constantly complained that it’s all we had, though he still wouldn’t get a job. I had to start carrying unperishables around in my car, so he wouldn’t eat them, leaving me nothing. I will never go back to that. As a result, my kitchen looks like that of a mom of three… or a doomsday prepper. I take care to buy canned and frozen items, because they won’t go bad before I get the chance to eat them and throw out anything that does. At the time of writing this, though, I had:

3 pounds of chicken
2 pounds of turkey franks
2 pounds of ground turkey
1 pound of breakfast sausage
3 pounds of turkey lil’ smokies
1 pound of ham, two pounds of cheese
2 dozen eggs
8 bags of frozen vegetables
1 container of fresh spinach
2 onions
2 avocados
4 cans of soup
4 cans of spaghetti O’s
4 boxes of cereal
2 loaves of bread
2 bags of frozen fries
1 bag of oranges
1 pound of grapes
5 pears
5 cans of fruit
4 cans of tuna
2 cans of beans

I. Live. Alone.

2. I panic whenever someone is at the door.
From the time I graduated high school in 2006 until I moved to this apartment in 2011, I moved 10 times. Literally. Nine of them were in only three years. Once, I just came home to a housefire and his suspicious lack of tears. Though he swore he was paying the rent, I had an anxiety attack every time the doorbell rang and would have my ex-husband answer. Ocassionally, it was someone telling us to get the hell out… now. I never knew where we’d go. Once, it was his mother’s house, for several months. Then, it was a motel room for a month and a half. We lived below a registered sex offender, who’d committed offenses against children. I was far away from my Gramma and Gail. I cried myself to sleep at night or drowned myself in fiction and alcohol. It was bad. Though I’ve been settled and able to pay my rent for about two years now, my heart still jumps into my throat whenever I hear a knock at the door. A part of me will always be unsettled.

3. I can’t even masturbate without crying.
Psh. I won’t even tell my therapist the details of this one. I’m kidding, of course. I don’t believe in that voodoo crap. Feelings and animal entrails gross me out equally. I just talk to Gail, who majored in that Black Magic for 9 days.* Regardless of the cause, however, the result is the same. I can’t do anything sexual without crying most of the time. I’ve yet to try it with a man, but explaining that sexual hang-up should be haaaaawt.

*I believe in therapy plenty, which is the precise reason I’m not letting anyone crack my head open and take a shit inside.

4. I cannot sleep without my wallet.
During the last year of my marriage, a lot of things went missing, such as my iPod, that cherished bracelet my Gramma bought me, the video camera I bought my senior year, my guitar, $600 in cash, a jar of pickles from my car. Incidentally, the XBOX never disappeared. On the night of my four year anniversary, the car even vanished, just before I sliced my hand open on a broken candle. I was alone and bleeding and had no way to get to the E.R. He didn’t return until morning. I began stuffing my keys in my pillowcase at night and leaving any valuables in the car. I forgot once and noticed my wallet wasn’t in my bag, where I left it, and realized the last $15 I had for gas and food had disappeared. I called my Gramma screaming and crying as if someone had died. She couldn’t even understand me and immediately promised to give me $25 once I “quit yelling.” Then I threw up from crying so hard. It was glorious. Soooo, after that, I began keeping the keys and the wallet in my pillowcase every night and to this day cannot sleep without my wallet in reach.

5. Sometimes, I sleep with my gun.
I was defenseless when I was married. I never will be again. Some nights, I wake in a panic or in tears. The next night, I sleep with Cecile, my guard issued Smith and Wesson 681 revolver in its bright pink gun sock, with home defense bullets in the side pocket, which were personally reloaded by my daddy. The gun’s not loaded. But if anyone ever threatens me or my puppy again, it will be. I’m damned accurate with Cecile and with .357 home defense rounds, it wouldn’t matter if I wasn’t.

Time may heal most wounds, but in some ways, I will always be the frightened 23-year-old driving around with her Gramma’s jewlery in the car. The perfect Valentine’s Day gift is a giant Reese heart, an equally disproportionate box of ammo, and respect for the fact that I don’t fucking do Valentine’s Day.

Divorce is not an option… you know… until it is.

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Ah, Facebook trends. Guess who’s about to go on another No-One’s-Divorce-Is-Any-Of-Your-Fucking-Business Rant?

…as I did in Toasters, Marriage, and the Good Ol’ Days and Your ONLY marriage? Why didn’t I think of that?

no divorce again

The Facebook status update I made much later was:
“The wedding pictures you posted last month are a lot cuter than the judgemental little sayings you’ve been posting about divorce ever since. You don’t know anyone else’s pain.”

What I wanted to say in direct response to the above, was:
“Oh, suck my big fat furry dick, you’ve been married for eleven damned days, you twit.”

Once again, this shit implies that the rest of us went into our marriages considering divorce an option, because we just don’t value the sanctity of marriage as much as you do. It’s nice that you’re an adorable couple and you get along. I’m truly happy for you. Now fuck off.

divorce cake

You mad? Take your ass in the other room and calm down, cause we gone work this shit out.

Yeah. That’s why we all got divorced… because we got mad that one time. Not to mention, if that’s how he talks to me, no wonder I’m mad.

Grammatical errors aside, that is not the solution to real divorce-inducing problems.

“You have been on that couch for four damned years!”
You mad? Take your ass in the other room and calm down, cause we gone work this shit out.

“I had the rent money right here. What did you fucking do?”
You mad? Take your ass in the other room and calm down, cause we gone work this shit out.

“You shook our baby?!?!”
You mad? Take your ass in the other room and calm down, cause we gone work this shit out.

“Look at these bruises!”
You mad? Take your ass in the other room and calm down, cause we gone work this shit out.

“You killed the dog on purpose?”
You mad? Take your ass in the other room and calm down, cause we gone work this shit out.

“Kiddie porn?!?!”
You mad? Take your ass in the other room and calm down, cause we gone work this shit out.

“You molested our daughter!!!!”
You mad? Take your ass in the other room and calm down, cause we gone work this shit out.

Divorce is not an option… you know… until it is. On that day, I hope people are more understanding of your pain. I’ll even withold my “I told you so”, because I know it hurts that fucking much.

Toasters, Marriage, and the Good Ol’ Days

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Not long ago, I was substitute teaching at my suburban high school and heard a 10th grade girl say:

“I would never get a divorce. I mean, unless he cheated. Maybe then.”

Oh, sweetie. I’m so glad you think that’s the worst a man can do to you and I hope you never know differently.

I can only assume that she’ll turn into one of the happy couples on Facebook who’ve been married all of eleven days and are posting the following. picture

Because if it’s true about toasters, it must be true about marriage. Fine. I’ll get on board with that idea. In 1953, your toaster starts sparking. So you pay someone to fix it. Then, because it’s a faulty piece of crap that broke for a reason, a few months later, it causes a kitchen fire. Today, in a world of mass consumption, your toaster breaks and you throw it out and buy a new one. Guess who just avoided a fucking kitchen fire, bitches?

The reason people fixed things when broken back then, was because it was cheaper, which is the very reason people just buy a new one today.

In 1953, your husband hits you in a rage, because dinner wasn’t ready by 5:00. So you make sure dinner is ready by 5:00. Then, because he’s a bastard with anger management problems, a few months later, he beats you to a pulp because his chicken was undercooked. Today, in a world where you don’t have to defend your reason for not wanting to be with someone, your husband hits you in a rage and you leave. Guess who just avoided being beaten to a fucking pulp, bitches?

The reason people stayed in bad marriages back then, was because it was easier, which is the very reason people just leave today.

If you long for “the good old days” when people stayed married, then you don’t remember Ricky Ricardo bending Lucy over his knee to spank her for going against his will, while America roared with laughter. You’ve never seen Archie Bunker call his wife stupid while no one stood up for her. This was comedy. Abusing women is funny, y’all!

Today it’s just haaaawwt, but that’s a different rant.

The reason divorce rates were lower 60 years ago, is because it was harder to get a divorce, not because people were just so much more willing to work on their problems.The divorce rate in 1953 was 25%. Once a couple was able to declare “irreconcilable differences” in 1970, that increased by 10% and had more than doubled to 52% by 1980. It’s 50% today. Prior to the no-fault divorce, anyone wanting to do so was required to prove “adultery or cruelty in a marriage”. Tell me, how does a housewife, who hopefully has a high school education and likely no further, prove that her husband is cheating on her, to a bunch of men who also think wives  are property and need to be controlled? How does she prove he’s being cruel to her when he can argue it’s part of that controlling? Furthermore, if she’s granted the divorce, how does she support herself when women made up a WHOPPING 34% of the workforce? Why the hell would they hire a woman to do the job when they could get a man? If she is hired, she can hope to make 63.9% of what she’d be making if she brought a penis to work. Even daily survival, such as purchasing a lawnmower on credit, is going to take the signature of a man, whether she’s got the full-time job or not, as it did for my Gramma in the 1960s. It was just easier to suck it up and stay. The good ol’ days, indeed.

In the 1960s, my Grandma Kay went to her devoutly Catholic parents, head held high and said:

“I have done everything you’ve ever asked of me. I have been the best daughter I can be… but I hate him. I will not stay married to him. I want out. I don’t care what the church says. I can’t even stand the sight of him.”

She had four babies in under 5 years and he refused to use any method of birth control, including the rhythmic method. She was his baby machine, he wanted her to coddle him more than any of the children he ignored, and he expected her to do every one of the household chores alone. She tried to fix a broken toaster and got out before the kitchen caught fire. She reclaimed her life with more than 60 years left and gave her babies a happy mother and a wonderful step-father who adored them. She was the extreme minority. That’s not a time to boast about or envy. That’s heartbreaking.

Sure there are some happy couples joyously celebrating year 65, such as my great grandparents who died within a few weeks of each other, but there are also some women who wish they’d had the nerve to stick their heads in the oven 50 years ago and some men who haven’t retired because they can’t fucking stand her. This country is no doubt filled with elderly men and women, looking at the lives behind them thinking “if I’d just left 60 years ago…” Today, there are 72 day marriages and that guy who told me on a first date that the reason he was divorced was because they made better friends than husband and wife (?????), but that’s not the majority of our reasons. Irreconcilable differences can translate to anything from “he painted the bedroom orange” to “he burned my fucking house down.”

As infuriating as it is to hear a 15-year-old say “I would never get a divorce,” I don’t comment. She won’t listen. I didn’t. I thought the exact same thing 10 years ago. Several fake jobs, a house fire, a hundred bottles of Everclear, thousands of dollars in debt, an eviction, some dead pets, a miscarriage, hundreds of missing dollars, and a whole shit ton of lies later and I know better than to judge. Yet, these people on Facebook are my age and they don’t. Maybe they will turn into that judgemental old couple. He’ll work and she’ll do the dishes and life will be fantastic while they look down on everyone else for shitting on God’s law and getting a disgusting divorce. To that, I say: Fuck you. Fuck you for having the perfect life I wanted and taking it for granted, because you’ve never known how they could’ve hurt you. How dare you judge me or anyone else for escaping abuse? You have no idea what went on in anyone else’s relationship.

A marriage takes two. TWO. That means there’s no room for the opinion of a third party, because no matter what, “irreconcilable differences” always means, “none of your fucking business.” So while some people long for the Archie Bunker days and pat themselves on the backs, I think I’m going to enjoy shopping for a functioning toaster.

Yes. I did research this.

http://www.infoplease.com/ipa/A0193820.html

http://www.divorcerate.org/

http://www.bls.gov/opub/mlr/2002/05/art2full.pdf

http://divorce.lovetoknow.com/Historical_Divorce_Rate_Statistics

Holy shit, we’re grown-ups.

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This New Year’s Eve, Gail and I rented a motel room in a town about an hour away, took a cab to one of the many popular casinos in the state, gambled the penny slots all night, lost more money than we made, ate quesadillas as the clock struck midnight, drank too much, and took a cab back to the motel.

Me: “‘Motel 6: We’ll leave the light on for you… but that’s about it.'”
Gail: looking around at the sketchy parking lot “‘Motel 6: It’s well lit… thankfully.’ We probably shouldn’t keep insulting it once they can hear us.”

motel 6 room

Me: “Ew. Someone’s been raped in this room.”

swill

Pre-drinking Smirnoff Apple and orange soda.

“Gail, the phrase is ‘apples and oranges’, because they don’t go together. This tastes like acid and urine.”

Throughout the night, as we gambled and drank, I recorded the quotes that made us giggle like maniacs in my phone.

My drunken lamenting over not understanding the appeal of gambling:
Me: “Gambling is gay.”
Gail: “You probably shouldn’t use that as an insult in public.”
Me: “It’s not my fault they’re gambling.”
Gail: “That’s not…”

Gail drunkenly complaining that we had to wait for the cab instead of being able to take the shuttle:
Gail: “We should’ve stayed at the Holiday Inn. They have a… a… thing.”
Me: “That’s great. You should be their spokesperson.”

I have no idea.
Me: “He could’ve gone home, looked in the mirror, and preened like a peacock.”

In the night, we slept on the Flinstone beds (slabs of rock) with our own personal blankets, because motel blankets are covered in semen and tears. I woke several times to down water and ibuprofen and call the desk to ask what time we had to be out, not that there was a credit card on file, because we paid in cash… like hookers.

Gail: “You know what’s awesome? We used our own money, rented a motel room out of town, took a cab to the casino, and gambled all night.”

I was more blunt with the same sentiment as I did my makeup.

Me: “Holy shit, we’re grown-ups.”

When Gail and I became friends, we were 15-year-old virgins, who couldn’t drive, or hold jobs, had never had a date or a first kiss. She used to make fun of me for loving the show Lizzie Maguire while we played old school Super Nintendo in her little sister’s bedroom floor. Growing up, everyone acts like you’ll just become an adult at a specific age or a particular milestone. So Gail and I each turned 18, moved out of our parents’ houses, got married, got pregnant… and it still never happened. Maybe that’s because we sucked at all of those things, constantly struggling. Three years ago, I was living in a motel, imagining the death of my ex-husband, through no intervention of my own, because that would allow me to be free of him. Gail was pretty much doing the same thing, only the sweeter version where he just leaves. Being an adult, or at least our version of it, sucked and we just felt like abandoned children, both having had no choice but to strike out on our own the second we graduated high school.

Then, we sold our wedding rings together, started dating, rented our first places of our very own with no one else’s name on the lease, put the bills in our own names, started our careers at entry level positions and…

holy shit, we’re grown-ups.

Being an adult is awesome now. My childhood wasn’t all that glamorous before my sucky early twenties. But now, no one hits me or manipulates me or steals from me. I don’t have to lie to my family to defend anyone and when I come home and the place is a mess, it’s my mess. I only have to feed me and if that means cereal, sweet potato fries, and orange juice for dinner, that’s my right.

I don’t always feel like an adult, however, even now. When I call my Gramma crying, because my mother’s acting like a lunatic again, I feel like the 14-year-old kid I once was. When I open a DVD and see the case is charred from a house fire he started, I’m 19 and my pets are dead on the lawn. When I call the credit agency to ask what this charge is for and they tell me it’s from the phone company when I was married at 21, I feel like the scared 23-year-old in the judge’s office, praying he’ll sign the papers. We were mislead as children. You don’t just suddenly feel like an adult. It comes in phases, like when I take a trip with my best friend. I don’t have to answer to anyone. I pay with my own money. I wake up and go shopping all day with my own money. I don’t wonder where that missing hundred is. I go home and have soup and pears for dinner and…

holy shit, I’m a grown-up.

12 Things I Didn’t Have To Do This Christmas

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1. Lie to my family about whether or not he was working.

2. Buy my gifts on a college book voucher.

3. Be snowed in with a man I hate.

4. Buy gifts for a man I hate.

5. Accept a gift while wondering if it was stolen.

6. Use my Christmas money to keep from getting evicted.

7. Lock myself in the bedroom with piles of fiction to escape my life.

8. Lock myself in the bedroom with bottles of liquor to escape my life.

9. Return my gifts so I can buy food.

10. Borrow money from my grandpa to pay my bills until I get my financial aid.

11. Throw out all of his belongings.

12. Convince my friends that the divorce isn’t breaking me.

It’s the little things that remind you how far you’ve come.

Well… if the crown fits?

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crying princess

I think I’ve been crowned Queen Divorcee of the graduating class of 2006.

We tend to confuse the graduation ceremony with a mass wedding ceremony around these parts.

Seven years later, we’re all weeping on each other’s shoulders.

I’m not sure why so many have reached out to me for guidance or advice. I didn’t exactly handle my own divorce with poise. I was too busy ignoring the problem, drinking, crying, and waking up in my own vomit before quickly showering and running off to my two jobs and school. I didn’t sleep or eat well for weeks. I just stayed up tossing out most of his belongings. Thanksgiving night involved 8 LIT’s, Gail’s and another friend’s drinks, a $75 bar tab… and a lot of throwing up. On Christmas Eve, I got horribly drunk and threw out every dish I owned, because I felt like I wouldn’t have been drinking out of old pickle jars if he’d just gotten a fucking job. Seriously. Every single dish. I nearly broke my foot throwing away a couch at 4:00 a.m. from an upstairs apartment to the dumpster across the complex… alone. By the new year, my living room furniture consisted of a dining room table, an old office chair, and several empty bottles of Everclear.  My guys, the kings of “penises cancel out all emotion” actually sat me down to tell me I was worrying them. It was bad. So why come to me?

My life’s improved exponentially and that’s obvious on Facebook. That’s my best guess.

I’m not good at giving advice. I’m too honest, so it looks like this:

“The first time you put up the Christmas tree alone is going to break your heart. But then you’ll realize that you know how to put up the Christmas tree alone and that’s something.”

Cheery.

That’s sort of a load of crap, considering the fact that my dear friend Chad had to come over and help me put up my pretty pink Christmas tree with my pretty pink hammer. That wasn’t really my point, however.

I don’t mind it, though. I know how badly it tears someone apart. I know how awful it is to feel like no one gets it and know that you’re just so many people’s story of the day. The “So… what happened?” question comes from everyone, even people you don’t even fucking know. Sometimes they have the nerve to put it on your Facebook wall… twice. You mention the word divorce and immediately want to explain every detail so they’ll know it wasn’t you… but then you’re the crazy lady ranting about her divorce… to the mechanic. Telling your family… via Facebook, by accident… or a voicemail… or by knocking on your dad’s door and blurting “I’mgettingadivorceI’msorryIruinedChristmas” twice and then bursting into tears…

There’s nothing easy about it. I’m happy to support anyone hurting through it.

My only problem…

I won’t tell anyone to stay. I actually posted on Facebook yesterday:

“I am the person who will support you through your divorce. I am not the person who will tell you to stay. I’m closer to a cynic than a romantic. Know that before asking for my input.”

Four people liked it… one immediately messaged to tell me about her possible separation and ask about the cost of my apartment complex.

I used to say I didn’t believe in divorce. Now I know that anyone who says that has never hoped that he’d eventually follow-through with all of those suicide threats so you could finally be left alone to wash the blood off the dog. The dog can get through bathtime without my singing now. I still can’t sleep without my purse within reach.

“Nothing gets rid of that victim feeling quite like shooting a gun.”

That’s the advice I give. It may not be poetic, but it’s fucking true. I own four now… and a range membership. He’ll never hurt me again. That’s what I tell myself in the dark.

So when that girl from high school tells me it’s gotten to the point where she’s considering leaving, my advice is always to run… fast and far. I don’t even get the details. I suppose it’s because there was so much I kept to myself in my marriage, that I assume she’s doing the same. Yes. That’s definitely why. Is it so bad that you’re reaching out to that one girl from high school? It’s bad. Leave.

I wonder if I’ll ever let anyone close again. If I do and he tells me I made the fried chicken wrong, will I tell him I just can’t do it anymore? A part of me wonders, am I telling women to leave their husbands over a fried chicken insult? No. I don’t really think so. They wouldn’t be asking if it were nothing. It’s always something. There are always secret horrors once you’ve gotten to that point. Everyon’e marriage is their own and I’ve no idea what’s pushed them to consult me.

I guess I’ll take that crown.