Go Back Two Spaces

On Monday morning at nine o'clock, I told my therapist the truth. I felt amazing. Strong. Stable. I did. Until three o'clock this afternoon. I'm not sure what happened. Thoughts of him and Bambi have battered my brain since I discovered their relationship, but last Friday, after my O.M.G. moment, serenity and happiness settled within me, welcome companions.

This afternoon, I am faltering.

No worries. I'm not contemplating an exit strategy this time around. But neither am I feeling amazing, strong, or stable.

Oh...

Now, I remember.

I read something on Twitter about authors assigning character flaws to their characters as opposed to allowing flaws to develop organically. This reminded me of his list of reasons why he wanted a divorce. None are painless to recall. Each and every one sent me on a one way guilt trip. The one on my mind today involves my illness. Bipolar.

Why? Because my symptoms, and their effect on him, played a vital role in his decision to separate and divorce. I have PTSD on top of bipolar, so my ability to travel, to be around people, or to enter stressful situations is highly limited.

He wants to travel. Try new things. Meet new people. Branch out.

I like to stay close to home, though I'm no longer trapped by my agoraphobia.

I guess maybe I held him back.

Thing is, I haven't always been this way. Used to be, I could go to concerts, travel, talk to strangers like they were my oldest friends.

So what happened? What changed?

I changed. Looking back, I think it must have been after my miscarriage in 1998. The loss devastated me, and the need to conceive again consumed me. When I found out I was pregnant in November of that same year, I was ecstatic and terrified. My baby became my whole world, long before she entered this world. The fear never went away.

I now have two beautiful children, and while the fear of losing them is not as overwhelming as it was when they were babies, it still lives and breathes inside of me. Maybe that terror simply transmuted itself into something more, something bigger. I became afraid of pretty much everything. Going a mile down the road to the Dollar General for a gallon of milk requires a degree of self-encouragement which most would find strange. For a long time, walking down the driveway to the mailbox nearly sent me into a full blown panic attack. Traveling terrifies me. Every second, I am anticipating sudden death.


I don't know if I will ever change back. Can I return to the me I once was, outgoing, exuberant, playful? I'm not sure. One thing is certain, it's too late to change my marriage, to save it. Still, I will keep taking steps forward even knowing there will be days like today. Days when I go back two spaces and feel like I'm starting over.

About a week ago, a frog made its way into our house. I captured it in a jar and set him free in my backyard but not before wondering why he'd chosen to enter my home. My first thought was forward movement. I searched Google for the meaning of a frog in the house. Sure enough, a frog is a good omen and can symbolize forward movement. I stumbled today. Fell on my ass. Tomorrow, tomorrow maybe I'll take a leap forward once more.

 Violet

What's the waiting period for writing about divorce?

What's the waiting period for writing about a divorce?

I don't want to write a memoir. Just something. Some words put down on paper or hammered out on the keyboard. I'm not looking to pen a nonfiction retelling of the past twenty years and all the ways I fucked up. No, I much prefer weaving bits and pieces of myself into my fiction, hidden carefully so no one who knows me will suspect the neuroses belong to me.

Thankfully, He doesn't know my pen name, so I suppose I can write whatever I please, whenever I like. Let's start now.

He and I signed divorce papers on Wednesday, September 25th. 61 days later, we'll be divorced. Happy Fucking Thanksgiving, to me.

Twenty years of marriage deleted, splattered with Wite Out, bleached out like a blemish on His finely lined forehead. When I asked him if it felt like a big deal...signing away twenty years of our lives, he replied, "No, not really. But then I don't get all emotional about stuff."

Too true. And I, of course, am too emotional: one of the reasons he wanted a divorce in the first place. I believe his words were something like, "I'm sick of riding the *emotional roller coaster. I want off."

What I didn't understand was the timing. Why live with an emotional roller coaster (me) for twenty years then suddenly decide you want to hop off the ride?

Did you guess "shiny, new girlfriend?" If so, you're our winner! Ding! Ding! Ding!

So you know, I'm not usually this cynical, but if I don't learn to laugh at myself and scoff at his reasoning, I'll go insane.
Then there is his choice of  new woman. One of my best friends. Or, so I thought.

Let's call her Bambi.

Bambi and I became fast friends at age twelve on the first day of that well-known horror called junior high. For the next eight years, we shared crushes, cookie dough, and clothes. We fixed each other's hair and make-up. We argued over who was the hottest New Kid on the Block. When one of us asked if the new dress our mom bought made us look like the world's biggest nerd, we lied and said, "Of course not! You should be on the cover of Seventeen."

We exchanged secrets and vowed to carry them to our graves. She's the only person who didn't think my infatuation with and determination to marry Him was a futile quest. She believed, right along with me, that one day he'd be standing at the altar watching me walk up the aisle. We both knew he would totally rock a tux. I met Him in seventh grade study hall. We were twelve. I had bad hair, bad skin, and braces. He had the most amazing hazel eyes I'd ever seen. Then, he smiled. And I fell.

Four years later, he succumbed to my charms. Okay, so more likely, he was simply tired of saying, "Please stop following me around like a puppy dog." Yes, I was that pathetic. He was my first boyfriend and my last. My first kiss and my last.

Three years later, the **monster I called, "Daddy," walked me down the aisle. Bambi was my bridesmaid. Two years later, I was hers.

Funny thing is, I'm not hurt by his choice of shiny new girlfriend. I'm hurt by her choice, her decision to set aside the sisterhood of friendship and fall into his arms.

You see, friendships became my life raft over this past year. On October 6, 2012, I decided to die. Why? Because he said we were never, ever, ever getting back together. I told myself a dead mother is better than a depressed mother, and I started writing letters. I prepared myself to walk away from life, my kids, everything, because He walked away from me.

Yeah, I know I was stupid, but thanks for verifying it.

 I swallowed every pill I could find. In the backyard, He had set up a tent to test its waterproof-ness. I climbed inside and laid down, presumably for the last time. I don't remember anything else. I'm told he came home with our kids. They saw me weaving through the house. Next stop: ER. I recall drinking charcoal. Beyond that, I have no recollection of October 6-9th. My first moment of clarity came in the hospital on October 10th: "Well, damn. Guess that didn't work."

A few days later, still in the hospital, I began to feel grateful. I couldn't fathom why I was still here, but I decided to have a go at the Life thing one more time. And here I am, one year later, still giving Life a go.


Violet Gray


*emotional roller coaster - His term for bipolar disorder, which I have.
**monster - the man who abused me sexually, physically, verbally, and emotionally