In a recent blog entry I discussed the difficulty of living under the same roof as the ex. I’ve since discovered something almost as, if not more, emotionally stressful: preparing for the move out.
I have often been asked why I feel I am the one who needs to move. Most of my friends and family are of the thinking that I should keep the house while the ex should have moved out many months ago. My answer is very simple, however. I don’t want the house.
To me, the house (a customized home in a new housing development) represents the promise that we were building something together. A future home for our daughter, a shared life, a permanent entity…and a f*cking every day reminder of the failure of the marriage.
Ignoring the fact that I couldn’t afford to keep the house if I’d wanted to, there really is no reason to stay in the house. Just as I cannot live within the confines of a loveless marriage, I will not live in a soulless house. At this point it is merely a place to store my stuff. Pretty damned expensive storage unit if you ask me.
So, as part of the divorce settlement, it became necessary to get rid of it. Like so many people in these economic hard times the ex and I are attempting to short sale the house (do not get me started on what a joy that process is), but in the meantime there is the dreaded “Property Division” on which to concentrate.
In an effort to stay out of court and thereby causing more turmoil in an already tumultuous situation, the ex and I agreed to divide the property ourselves and to submit our decisions to the lawyers. I was hoping to merely create lists of what we each desired and see what negotiation would be needed, but the ex insisted on meeting for lunch to discuss the division of property in person. Already at the point that I found it uncomfortable to even be in the same room with him for more than five minutes, this seemed like a new form of torture: Eye gouging, fingernail pulling, root canal, lunch with the ex, yup, yup, yup. Maintaining an indifferent front was particularly difficult when he pulled out, not his list, but instead POST-ITS (on which he had written different pieces of property), all with the idea that we would discuss and divide up the Post-Its onto papers labeled with “Donate”, “Discuss” and each of our names. Oh god.
Seeing my life divided that way, like none of it meant anything, pretty much sent me into a sobbing tizzy. What was hardest was that he wanted to get rid of all his family heirlooms, but fight over the flat screen TV. Yes, I know it is just stuff, but our daughter is our legacy and now she wouldn’t even have the things that meant something once. That stuff began to represent everything that had gone wrong with the marriage and how easily discarded and replaceable it had all become.
The ex and I left that meeting with the determination that the rest of the items not already discussed would be sorted and added to the individual lists. After that meeting he then proceeded to go through the house (again with the f*cking Post-Its) and label everything with our individual names.
I guess I should consider myself lucky he didn’t systematically piss all over everything in an effort to mark his territory (although it certainly felt that way). The sight of all of those Post-Its attached to our property depressed the hell out of me. I asked to have the house to myself for a few days to complete my review of his pissings…I mean, Post-Its. I wanted to mourn the loss of the life I thought I’d had. Yours, mine and no longer ours, indeed.
For some reason, this appeared difficult for him to understand. But then everything had become difficult to understand it seemed. Too much anger, too much distrust, too much disrespect, too much blame, too many malignant perceptions…sigh. Oh, funny girl, to think this division of property, marriage and life could be done amicably.
After a couple of weeks of terse emails back and forth (including 3 drafts of the “lists” in 5 days from the ex), I reached my boiling point. I will readily admit that I have a temper, but it takes a lot to push me over the edge. Within what is almost a year of whiny, petulant bullsh*t, I had already discovered that I despised the person he’d become. Worse, I did not like the person I was becoming. I’d always prided myself on being independent and strong, yet here I was wholly dependent financially and emotionally on someone else. I had given him the power to cause such great upset with just a few words. When he sent me an email that I felt negated our entire 11 year marriage (and 15 year relationship), I just…snapped.
It doesn’t matter now what was said in the email (although God knows I’d LOVE to post it here), but I found it just, well, MEAN. I had already been questioning our entire past relationship and myself (something therapists say is perfectly normal during a divorce), but when I read that email I questioned how he could not recognize his own cruelty and alleged lack of responsibility in our downfall? How was it so supposedly easy for him to negate our past life and love together? I know the answers to those questions (and the fact that I am fully aware now of what I could have done better in our past relationship) are of no consequence at this point. It simply seems like the more I fight to be civil now (how’s that for a contrast of ideas? Lol.), the more I must defend against in terms of angry words and spiteful behavior.
Ultimately, I just got tired of forced civility, I guess. When I say I snapped, I mean that in the most basic sense: Screaming, cursing, door slamming, shoving…and oh yes, the police were called (although really how much harm could a 5’2” person do to someone 13” taller than herself?). I am not proud of my behavior, but I felt that my requests for proper treatment and respect of my boundaries have been blatantly and consistently ignored. I have felt berated, belittled, disrespected, blamed and underestimated throughout this entire divorce proceeding. Enough was enough.
The good news is, however, the altercation brought with it a lot of clarity and finality. He has repeatedly called me a victim, but that is only in his twisted little psychodrama version. Instead, I would rather believe that I am a survivor in my own story, working to regain my sense of self and life, both for myself and for my daughter. Every day brings with it another step away from my current existence. I need to just keep moving forward, making strides to heal, to live and to, hopefully, love again.
Watch for your invite to my “Thank God I’m Free” Party coming soon! Lol.
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