The Purple Pill

You may have noticed I don’t have a blogroll. You probably didn’t, though, because who cares? A blogroll lists the blogs a person recommends. I read blogs… obsessively… because I am a truly obsessive person. When I was a kid, I used to get really into a show or a book and I would talk about it for weeks. I’m still that person. I may control it a little better, but… wait. No. I don’t control it better. That was someone else.

thoughtful-woman
It must have been her.

I don’t list the blogs I read, because they aren’t blogs that my readers would necessarily enjoy. While there are some touching divorce blogs, funny dating blogs, and entertaining satire blogs that I follow, the majority of what I read covers my latest obscure obsession. I went through a phase a few weeks ago where I followed the blogs of several people taking on group sexual relationships. Then it was blogs criticizing Fifty Shades of Grey. Then it was erotic blogs. Then book blogs. Now it’s blogs discussing the Red Pill and anti-feminism. For those of you who didn’t drink seven cups of black coffee so strong you could chew it, because you were up procrastinating on graduate school work last night, allow me to enlighten you. The Red Pill is a movement of sorts that pushes back against extreme feminism. It’s spearheaded by men who are tired of being treated like shit by women who have taken the women’s rights movement too far and think it means they don’t have to have respect or consideration for the opposite sex. That’s the most unbiased description I can give and I think it’s pretty good, because I’m pretty unbiased about this. The people “swallowing the Red Pill” are consenting adults who have chosen to go with the traditional idea that a man is the head of the household and it’s working for them. It’s none of my business. But it’s fascinating.

Yes, I’ve gone on a few Rosie the Riveter rants in support of women’s opportunities and choices, but that’s exactly what they are: opportunities and choices. Telling a woman that she has to hold a corporate position, when she just wants to be milked by snuggling infants is just as harmful as confining her to the kitchen when she wants to go get an MBA. We live in a society where we can make our own decisions and I’m all for that. End disclaimer and back to my point.

My dad’s family is highly matriarchal and Catholic. The couples are mostly wealthy, with each individual bringing in a large sum. We women are all loud and I’ve heard my grandma K shout “That’s fucking bullshit” in her nicest Christmas outfit with a drink in each hand. There are as many opinions as there are hugs. The love and liquor is plentiful. All the gals wear the pants on the little stuff (how to decorate), but will usually defer to the men on the big stuff (that move to Texas). My dad, however, was the obvious head of the household in all ways growing up. Because of my parents’ drawn out and explosive divorce, I was largely raised by my Gramma, who worked as a corporate supervisor in tailored pants suits and heels and was one of the first moms on her block to get divorced in the 60s. This woman never swears, unless it’s in defense of one of her baby chick grandchildren and where her heart should beat, she has the sneezing baby panda instead. She’s that pure. She’s traditional in the sense that she thinks it’s a travesty that my brother does the dishes while his wife lounges on the couch, but doesn’t understand why a woman has to take a man’s last name. She’s an adorable little contradiction. So where does all this leave me in regards to gender and relationship roles?

confused woman with maths
Confused as fuck.

When I was a teenager, I desperately (and perhaps unhealthily) wanted a man to take care of me. My mom had made certain that I had no relationship with my dad at the time and I was often abused at home when she couldn’t handle the stress of raising the teenager with whom she’d isolated herself. That being said… what the fuck happened?!! I married my ex-husband, who didn’t work, clean, bathe, feed the pets, or contribute in any way. Quite the contrary, he stole from me, trashed the apartment, abused my animals, burned down our house for monetary incentives, lay around all day, cheated on me, and even lied to fabricate jobs that weren’t paying him. He was the worst sort of person and no man at all. On the one hand, he was nothing close to a traditional man eager and willing to practice traditional gender and relationship roles. The very opposite of him should still appeal, yes? Well, yes, in theory, it does. I love my alpha male romances. On the other hand, I’ve had two years to take charge of my life and care for myself and I’m not sure I could ever hand over those reins again. You can only retain so much trust in people after looking at your dead pets all over the front lawn.

Gail is divorced also and had a similar situation to mine. Her ex didn’t contribute in any way, but he constantly quoted biblical ideals about being the “man of the house.” This has sent her running for the hills from anyone who might use that phrase. Today, as we discussed the Red Pill blogs we were both reading, I brought up my concerns. My Gramma has always told me that someone must lead in a marriage. She thinks it should be the man, but her main point is that someone always has more power. Maybe she’s right. Perhaps someone always is more dominant. The Red Pill school of thought titles this “Captain” and “First Officer” with the man taking up the hull. It’s a somewhat extreme take on gender roles that has Gail insisting that there can be two heads of household with no superior dominance. Gail has a kind and gentle, laid back boyfriend, whom she has seen infuriated once or twice, just not at her. They’re neck in neck for who is the most passive. It’s like watching kittens lick each other and trying to decide who’s angrier.

becca and adam

Partly just to piss her off, I told Gail that she was the Captain and just couldn’t tell, because she didn’t like the idea of wielding such power. She refuted my claim and I asked whose name was on the lease since Terry moved in with her. She said that was immaterial and I sent her an “Aye, aye” and the following picture.

female_captain_america_body_paint_09

Frustrated, she ended the discussion, so I sent her another:

salute

I’m funny as shit. Gail’s lucky to have such an amusing friend.

Regardless of where Gail’s relationship lies, it’s still up for debate for me. Can there be a mutual partnership running the household? Should there be someone in charge, regardless of whether their sexy bits are concave or convex? The Blue Pill is assigned to men who passively let their wives run the show (like Terry, Gail) and the Red Pill designates men who’ve woken up and decided to lead. It’s a Matrix reference and it’s all a little extreme for my tastes, but intriguing. It’s working for these people. It’s giving the men a sense of control and making the women feel protected and they’re enjoying the initiative he takes. We all complain that he won’t just pick a restaurant… so he picks a restaurant. It may not be for me, but it’s made me wonder. Is there a middle ground? Must someone come out on top? Who should it be? Does it even matter?

I must say, I am girly as fuck. I love pretty dresses and the color pink and makeup and nail polish. I own pink guns. I think men should open doors and pay and that if a parent stays home with the baby, it should be the concave one. FOR ME. This doesn’t apply to other people, because I don’t give a single fuck about what other people decide makes them happy. Maybe I have a hot pink master bath and a dozen pretty dresses, but that doesn’t invalidate anyone for not following suit. This isn’t 1943 where women have to stay home and cook and breed. It’s also not 1983 where women have to fight for Vagina Rights and work 60 hours a week or they get their girl power ring taken away. It’s 2013 and we don’t have to do anything.

The key factor in all of this, of course, is respect. The feminists are demanding respect for women and the Red Pill enthusiasts are demanding respect for men. Most women still make .80 on the dollar to men for the exact same job. We’re teaching little boys that girls are cherished and protected, but wrapping those little ladies in shirts that say “Boys are stupid. Throw rocks at them.” In society and in a relationship, each group needs to respect the other, genitalia aside. It drives me crazy to see a woman on Facebook complaining that her husband is away on business. REALLY!? How about you have him plant his ass on the couch for four years? That’ll put hard work into perspective. Similarly, my brother regularly tells his wife that her salary means nothing, because she doesn’t bring home as much. It’s broken all around and we need to concentrate on respect and gratitude and praise in general. Example: “Hey, honey. Thanks for not killing all the pets and pawning my Gramma’s jewelry while I was at work.” Was that so hard? But that still doesn’t answer whether or not someone must hold more weight.

I suppose my “girly as fuck” declaration makes it clear that were someone to be in power in my future relationships, it would likely not be me. Despite my oh-so-witty banter with my Gail, I’m not an aggressive person. I’m sometimes too passive, because I tried everything with my ex-husband. I was his cheerleader. I left him alone. I nagged him. I cried. I begged. I screamed. I threw things. I ignored the problem. None of those brands of conflict worked, so I just naturally avoid conflict now. I work in a public service position, which exacerbates the issue, because this is an asset. It truly is. I love my job, but it is paved with eggshells and I know it. I’m good at it. Therefore, I don’t want to be in charge of other people at home. Were dual leadership an option, I could do that. I could be a teammate in leadership. My profession is all about group work. But is it possible? Or is my Gramma right and someone will inevitably tip the scales? Is it better to acknowledge this upfront and be aware of the dynamic or to be surprised when one person takes over, despite who it might be? Is it best to expend the effort to co-captain the relationship and family as Gail has insisted Terry do?* Or will this inevitably become a battle for power, causing more trouble than it’s worth? Is there a purple pill? I have no answers. But it’s fascinating stuff… and it renews my relief that I don’t have time for dating right now.

purple pill

* You just recently came to me for help pissing someone off, Gail. Just keeping sharp.

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

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

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

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.

Toasters, Marriage, and the Good Ol’ Days

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

Well… if the crown fits?

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.

Your ONLY marriage? Why didn’t I think of that?

marriage 2

Everyone I graduated high school with is doing one of two things according to Facebook: getting divorced or getting married.

The ones getting divorced aren’t talking about it. They’re changing their last names and you’re to draw your own conclusions. Either that or they’ve accidentally posted “… is no longer listed as married” long before telling their family that he’s moved out and the paperwork has been filed. Oops. Color me sheepish.

Then there’s my amalgum of a Facebook Friend who is getting married and more and more frequently posting the above photo and its ilk. Yeah. I said ilk. Fucking deal with it, Gail.

I’m not a wedding person, Facebook Friend. I never have been. I didn’t care about my wedding, so I really don’t give a crap about other people’s weddings. They’re extravagant and no one knows anyone else there and I have to shave my legs and buy a gift. If you’re old enough and financially stable enough to get married, why the hell am I buying you a toaster? My wedding advice for stressed out crying brides:

“Just remember. No matter what happens… it’s just a stupid wedding.”

However, Facebook friend, my qualm is not with weddings. You want to spend thousands of dollars on a party and months talking about it on social networking sites? Fine. It’s your thousands and I can hide you from my newsfeed. I may not like weddings…

… but I hate the above photo.

Show me one blushing bride who didn’t think it was going to last forever. I dare you.

We all want our first marriage to be our only marriage. None of us walk down that aisle to Pearl Jam’s Better Man. We all have a picture of the future with the person standing next to us and every single one of those visions is happy.

You know what, though? It takes two people to make a marriage… and sometimes one of those people is batshit fucking crazy.

Sometimes you come home to a suspicious house fire and all of your pets dead on the lawn.

Sometimes your husband tells you he’s sexually attracted to little girls.

Sometimes he shakes your baby.

Sometimes he hits you.

Sometimes you wake up with a pillow over your face.

Sometimes he rapes you.

Sometimes he steals from you and your family.

Sometimes he develops a drug problem.

Sometimes he abuses your pets.

Sometimes he won’t work.

Sometimes he cheats…

… and there’s nothing you can do about it, because you can’t control another person. Every one of those references is from me or someone I graduated with that’s confided in me. We didn’t get divorced because we didn’t want it badly enough. We didn’t get divorced because we didn’t try. I was willing to stay with a man I didn’t believe had a soul, because I made a committment until the boys who will forever own a piece of my heart helped me realize how bad it had gotten. When I filed for divorce, I fucking broke.

So, my dear Facebook Friend, it’s nice that you’ve never been hurt that much. I hope you never are… because it will tear you apart in ways that will never heal. I wouldn’t wish my marriage on anyone. I’m glad you’re looking forward to the future and I am truly thrilled you’re happy. Perhaps, you could manage such happiness without shitting on the rest of us, though? Because, to suggest that you’re a regular trailblazer for wanting your first marriage to be your only marriage (and that’s what this photo is doing or it wouldn’t be significant) implies that a lack of determination or respect for the union ended all of those other marriages. In which case, fuck you.

It takes two people to make a marriage… and until you’re one of them, you don’t know what heartaches haven’t been posted on Facebook.

Come to think of it… yeah. You’re right, Facebook friend. Maybe I do want my first marriage to be my only marriage.