Divorce sucks

8/29/2014
Divorce sucks
It doesn’t matter which side of it you’re on, or how necessary it is.  It just sucks.  Add in little people you made together, all of the nasty contributing factors to justify why it’s in everyone’s best interest to end it and you just enhance the recipe. It’s the most suck-tastic, bitter, steaming, slice of humble pie I’ve ever eaten.  The longer the divorce takes, the more aromatic the toxic rue becomes. I assure you, the stink lingers the longer it sits.

I didn’t realize during the separation process that this whole divorce thing would be so centered on “the wasband.”  

(wasband n. was- indicating previous, -band inferring commitment. 1. A personally favored mildly derogatory moniker 2. a clever word-smithing attempt to indicate previous spouse or ex-husband.)

 wasband

 

Making him leave was the right choice. Consciously I know this. For the safety of myself and my children I have no regrets about protecting them in the way that I did. After almost 4 years of separation, there’s still the absence of something that seems to be lingering around the edges of progress. The weight of something ready lift off or unload its burden onto me.  All this time with nearly no contact, no income no involvement that I have spent waiting for proof of sobriety.  We all make choices based on what’s important to us I suppose.

Opiate Soil
Sweet vitriol.
Each dose
Burning taste buds;
Burning bridges
Sliding down his insides.
Powerless to the
Infectious euphoria.

Bond lost in the ether.
My subtle sorrow
Like a slow slaughter
Measured in sugary white
Rounded tablets.
Divine Division;
Anathema.

My split chi
Dug into opiate soil;
Their divided dynasty
And pulled up fetid earth
Suddenly clarified
His intrinsic aversion to
Little feet and hands
Not raised like his.

-Angela Ivie 11/9/2012

I filed for divorce but he has to be served, and I have to find him. I have every intention of completing that last step, but if I’m honest, I’ll realize that the process has stopped moving forward because of me. I’ve stopped moving altogether, and I’m just sort of – hovering here - having a staring contest with failure. I’m going to let it win of course, but don’t want to just give it that satisfaction.  I’m working on preparing myself for the impending “gloat”.  Failure is in fact a separate and nefarious entity when accompanying the writer in any given situation; be it real, imagined or embellished. The nemesis exists - actively lurking around corners while sinister music plays. In these looming moments he waits patiently wringing his hands in anticipation for you to drop a glass of water on your laptop, or kill off the wrong character. Failure is a nasty beast, and when you have to face him to tell him he’s beaten you, it’s best to hold your breath because he smells like old gym socks and Corn Nuts.
In spite of all this, it’s the gloat that’s the ugliest.  The gloat entitles failure to come back repeatedly in moments of stress and woe, or moments of bliss to remind you of the long list of items he’s collected. 

I hate the gloat.  More than I hate paper cuts, and I have often said that sometimes a paper cut is worse than a broken heart.

It may not seem like it now, but my goal is to let it go and learn why it didn’t work. Maybe I will discover why I haven’t been able to have healthy relationships, and why I feel like I’m broken somehow when really I may be more together than I think; or less.

Or maybe I just feel that I need to reexamine and document the history of bad dates and relationship mistakes of epic and truly noteworthy renown that I’ve experienced for the sake of eliminating a long list of under-qualified contenders. 

 
So let’s do this.  Let’s talk about this, so that I can get it off the table because writing about the journey costs less than therapy.