#Christianpain

[analoglens]

© timo bernhard, all rights reserved

[divinelydivorced]

Divorce: Lies

Numb.  I remember feeling incredibly numb.  There’s this tendency I have to sort of “click off” my emotions and hit overdrive with tasks. Once I’d realized Dave was set on our divorce my brain said “Stop feeling.  Start doing.”  The problem is it’s way more complicated to get divorced than it is to get married. You want to lower the divorce rate? Get rid of pre-marital counseling and instead make a couple live a year in the lives of two people divorcing. That, my friends, would be a WAKE. UP. CALL.  

I’ve been witness to several people, weeks from their wedding, having cold feet who justify proceeding forward with, “If it doesn’t work out, I’ll just get divorced.”  Dave and I were two people, with few assets, no kids, and inexpensive furniture who agreed on who got what.  Yet it took us almost a year before we could stand in front of a judge…and even today, almost two years later, there are still papers that have yet to be signed. For those people with lots of money, a home, and kids, I can only imagine how tortuous the divorce process must be.  If engaged couples had to file that paperwork, live in that tension, and answer awkward questions from nosey relatives, close to 90% would say “not worth it.”  

But that’s hindsight for you.  There was nothing I could do to change the past, so my goal was to move forward as quickly and efficiently as possible. Unfortunately, though, Dave and I were coming from two very different places.  Dave had an amazing job, with reliable benefits, and a paycheck that was about to double in size once he only had to worry about himself.  With each month that drug on, he saw more of his money continue to go towards supporting our old lifestyle, which meant less he could spend on fancy bikes and cool solo vacations.

For me, though, I was hit with a fast and hard reality.  When we’d moved to Chicago, I’d quit my job and started to pursue acting.  My touring job barely paid for groceries, yet left little to no time for a steady job that would pay the bills.  My insurance was through the actor’s union and was stable, so long as I kept touring.  Thus, when Second City decided to let me go, they took my insurance with them.  There’s so much more to explore here, but I’ll save that for another time.  Let’s just say, in the long run, they did me a favor.  But, in that moment, it was another thing I’d failed, another hole to fill, and another problem to fix.

Needless to say, Dave was excited as his new future grew nearer and I was terrified.  While we waited for our court date, we had the standard questions all divorce folks find themselves trying to answer.  Where will we both live?  What will we do about the dog?  How will we pay the bills?  Do we want to see each other?  How can we be kind to one another while this process draws out?

My suggestion, made when I was still touring, was we split the apartment 50/50 each month.  I was gone over half the time, leaving the place to him and when I’d return, he could stay with his parents who lived quite close to his school.  He didn’t like that idea.  He suggested we both live there together.  I refused.  I mean, if we hadn’t successfully lived together as a married couple, how would we do so as a divorcing couple with the tension rising?

He then said he wanted to rent a small studio and lease a car.  This, actually, was a great idea.  We sat down with our budget and this was an easy solution.  The studio was close to our current place, so he could help take care of Sophie when I was gone and everything worked financially.  It would be tight-but definitely doable.  But then, out of nowhere, he refused to go through with it.  He didn’t like to see that money disappearing when it could go into savings we would split later.  So, what then do we do?  

He said he didn’t know what I was going to do but he wasn’t moving.  Essentially, he was demanding we go with his original plan and if I was uncomfortable with it, I should leave…after all, as he pointed out, his paychecks were paying the rent.  So, I left. When not touring, I split my time at various people’s places.  It was exhausting.  Going through the mental and emotional process of figuring out “what next” while sleeping in someone else’s house was impossible.

Too often I’d find myself saying I was going to bed, then sneaking into the bathroom to cry where no one would hear. I only had what fit in a few bags and miss Sophie had to go stay with my mom.  

Early one Friday evening, I ran home to swap a few things as the seasons were changing.  When I arrived, Dave was waiting and said he’d leave so I could have the place to myself.  He made such a big production of this.  He kept saying I shouldn’t feel rushed and that he’d just take a book to the coffee shop up the street and wait until I was finished.  But, again, no rush as he wanted me to take my time and even hang out for awhile there if I wanted.  Once he closed the door behind him, I started unpacking and then repacking.

I heard a buzz, but it wasn’t my phone. Then another buzz.  A third.  I followed the noise to his iPad.  He was getting texts from a male friend from college that definitely indicated he was not patiently waiting as a martyr a couple blocks away.  I swiped left, opening the text messages.  Within seconds I was enraged.

He and his friend were talking about this “hot” girl he worked with and how he should totally “bang” her.  To his credit, Dave was far less crude than his friend.   He did, however, agree and then indicated they were going on a date that evening and that he had to sneak away from the house so as not to be caught.  Then, she started texting him.  I clicked on the text:

“Is she home?”

           “Yes, but I told her I was going to the coffee shop.  You can pick me up there.”

I scrolled up and began reading their previous conversations.  Not only was this wrong of me, it was incredibly stupid.  The things I read that he wrote about me were heartbreaking. The outright lies he was telling her were incredibly degrading.  And the way she continued to push him to get a divorce quickly, to not let me “take” anything from him, and to hurry before I changed my mind, were mind blowing.  

Phone in hand, I called him until he answered. He knew from my tone he’d been caught and said he’d head home.  I was pacing in the kitchen when he opened the backdoor.  With wide eyes and a frozen face, he just stood there.  For the first time in a long time, no words could come out of my mouth.  

Silence always panicked him so he started spewing words, “it isn’t what it looks like,” “we’re not dating,” “I swear nothing happened with her while we were married,” on and on and on and on and on.  I started having a panic attack, shaking, breathing hard, the room spinning.  Just as I felt like I was drowning, I pulled myself out of the water and said, “Stop. You.  Just Stop.”  He did.

“I don’t care who you sleep with.  It really isn’t any of my business at this point. What is my business is what you say about me.  I’ve kept the horrible things you’ve done to me to myself.  When people ask about why we are getting divorced, I say only that we both changed.  When they prod for details, I say it’s personal.  Yet you are here in black and white saying lies about me to someone I’ve never even met just so you can get laid.”

He jumped in, “I’m sorry-I know-“

“But you don’t know.  You don’t know what it’s like to have tried for six years to fix this marriage.  To have never been heard or understood or loved once by you.  When I needed you, you failed me.  You threatened me by telling me to ‘get better’ or you’d leave. You told me to choose between living a lie that appeased you or to be abandoned by you.  You are selfish and you are cruel.  I’ve made mistakes but I’ve admitted them and for years now, I served the sentence you placed upon me to live in this house with constant reminders that I was guilty and unworthy of you.  Even at the end when you refused to compromise, I packed my things to give you space.  Well, I’m done.  I want you out.  I may not pay the rent but I’ve paid plenty in this marriage with my self-esteem to have earned the right to stay here for three months without having to look at you.”

I walked into the bedroom, grabbed one dress I needed for the next day’s show, and said I’d be back in the afternoon and expected him and whatever things he wanted to be out.  As I pushed past him, out the door, and down the stairs he called after me.  But I couldn’t listen or even turn around.  I didn’t want him to see the streams of tears pouring down my face. The emotions had broken through and they weren’t going to stop.