"If I can't stop hating you by August, I want a divorce." That's what my wife of 7 years told me the weekend after Valentine's day. I want to tell you that I was shocked, I want to tell you that I didn't see this coming, I want to tell you that it's all was just a misunderstanding. I can't tell you that.
"Okay…" That's what I told her.
She continues, "I don't want you to grovel…"
No need to worry about that.
She says more too. Apparently it's not enough to tell somebody that you hate them, you need to document it, support it with exhibits and labels of "you’re an asshole because," and submit that packet in triplicate, Or maybe this is a courtesy ritual reserved for the soon-to-be ex-spouse.
So I know what your next question is: "What did you do?" You'd have to ask her. The reasons she gave me don't seem significant. Then again, maybe that's the problem. I don't take my fatal flaws seriously enough. Still, what I did doesn't matter. Ignore it. What matters is that she's decided 7 years bad luck is the longest she wants to subscribe to Rob Daily. The end. If you need a reason, try this: Think of the most disgusting heinous act one person could perform to another outside the throws of passion, and without consent. That must be what I did to her. That's ok, every argument has at least 2 sides, so you could say she did the same thing to me too. We're even.
So what's even? Wasn't it JFK who talked about the fruits of victory being ashes in our mouth? Yeah, I've been spitting soot for months now; I feel freakin' victorious.
It took her a month to decide hating me didn't need to wait until August. She needed a divorce, but would wait to file. So right now we continue living together in holy acrimony. It's ok, we're like roommates. We talk about pop culture, I ask her about her day, and she nods and smiles when I talk about mine. The good news is she pays half the bills. I need that; I can't sell the house. She waited until after I refinanced our home to tell me she wanted the move out. I'm locked into a SERIOUS 3 year pre-pay penalty mortgage, in a soft housing market. She's thrown out the lube, and this is just forepaly. I'm screwed.
One thing the divorce has taught me is who my friends are. As soon as I reached out, people scrambled backwards, like I was a leper. Of my bushel of "friends," I now have 6 people I can talk to, and I'm related to 3 of them. The one person I used to tell everything, is now the one person I can't talk to about anything more than what happened on the last episode of Lost.
I've started this blog, because in cyberspace no one can hear you scream. I work at home, and I have limited (ok, NO) human contact; I need to vent somewhere. Even if nobody listens, my voice will float in the vacuum, propelled by a need for contact. Spinning into the void. I can pretend somebody will read, and that somebody will be suffering a similar catastrophe and need to hear a voice. Maybe my voice will make somebody else feel less alone. Right now I need to pretend I'm needed by somebody. My wife hasn't needed me since 2005. Maybe I'll get to that later. For now I have to go to work...
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