So, here it is, already September and I find myself thinking more and more about my current living situation. Hardly ideal, I am working to make the best of it, even though every day it grates on my soul, my patience, my wellbeing…
What’s the big deal, you ask? Really, what could be so bad? Let’s just put it simply, shall we? Just one seemingly innocuous phrase to sum it all up:
(Cue melodramatic music here.)
I am living in the same house as my ex.
While I understand that many couples find themselves in the same situation after a breakup (mostly due to financial necessity) and that there are some lucky couples who actually seem to make this work, folks, I do not recommend this. Yeah, yeah, I know it is not like I am living with drug dealers/addicts or members of the mob (hello, I have seen Trainspotting and The Sopranos), but how this even happened is a source of constant frustration—mostly because it is a situation from which I cannot easily escape.
When the ex and I first started going through what I call the “beginning of the end”, I asked him to leave. He stayed in various hotels, changing locations each week or every few days in an effort to get the best deals on cost. He never stayed with friends, allegedly because he didn’t have any (his declaration, not mine). After two months of this, he asked if he could move back in, claiming that it was too expensive to pay all of the bills (which he did because of a much higher income) and to live in hotels. Additionally, we were supposed to start therapy soon. Apparently he’d heard that couples trying to work through relationship challenges should be living in the same house.
What a crock of shit.
Against my better judgment I complied, allowing him to move into the downstairs bedroom. I would live upstairs…like Rapunzel trapped in the tower. Without the long hair.
Unfortunately, living in the same house did not really lead to working anything out. Therapy was futile (as it generally is when one person clearly doesn’t want to be there). We tried dating (another futile attempt). We attempted “amicable” communication (even less successful). It was too difficult to find resolution for the sins of the past, the betrayal I felt, the negative perceptions…and how could I? How could I ignore that not once did I feel like the attempts we were making were in any way motivated by a desire to be together. He allegedly wanted to keep the family unit in tact, sure, but to really truly work on this relationship? Hmmmmm. Not as clear. I felt I was being held at arms’ length and expected to work on my issues, but not receiving any sort of confirmation that there was a good reason for it.
I began to feel that divorce was the only option well before our mutual decision to get one. Darn my stubbornness, but I won’t live in a loveless marriage—not with the wellbeing of both my daughter and I at stake. Honestly, what sort of example would that set for her? “It’s OK, honey, be a strong, independent woman…just don’t expect your husband to love you.”
But I digress.
Unable to afford my own place (both due to the decision to be a stay-at-home mom and therefore only working part time for the past 5 years and for stupidly not realizing the need for my own savings account), I have, at this writing, “lived” with this arrangement for over 8 months. While our lawyers continue to negotiate the terms of our divorce, we barely speak to each other—save for the occasional terse email. Ever in a constant state of agitation from not knowing when it is "safe" to be at the house, I hold on to the hope that I will soon be the only key holder in my own domain.
And on that day I will have climbed out of my tower and I am throwing a freakin’ party. Oh, and my daughter has asked if we can get a cat. Freeeeeeeeeeedddddooooommmmmm!
