M | T | W | T | F | S | S |
---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 |
8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 |
15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 |
22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 |
29 | 30 |
It’s been 15 years since my husband left us – suddenly and completely – and I still sometimes struggle with aligning my personality to what happened.
None of the popular options available (angry.bitter.regretful.devastated.forgiving) seem palatable and even after so many years, complete indifference also still seems elusive.
I’ve observed some women “moving on” perhaps more traditionally, by re-inventing themselves with a new tattoo or job or hair colour; swopping man-bashing stories whilst enjoying tequila shooters with other Divorced Friends and peppering the conversation with recently learned terms such as “crazy-making behaviour,” “borderline” and “narcissist.” As one of my brothers wryly observed it’s funny how years ago people were just asses.
My ongoing challenge used to be resisting the urge to re-play the nearly 30 years I was married, multiple times every day, examining each scene like a forensic scientist to see where I went wrong and more importantly exactly when he stopped being happy. If he ever was. It seems important to know if he was always pretending – to not just being happy but being totally fulfilled.
Mine was a marriage full of in-jokes, tenderness, random, thoughtful gifts and a proud congratulatory sense that we had got so much right both with our relationship and children; we also shared a delighted smugness that everyone else seemed to be struggling when we were completely insulated from the world and had cute little disagreements over mushroom choice or thread counts. Our likes and dislikes were known without even speaking, and a single arched eyebrow was enough to alert the other person that it was time to leave a party. He told me how much he loved me frequently, how fortunate he felt.
(I only mention all this because I somehow missed that he wanted to live the rest of his life as a gay man …)
In the early days when the pain was still fresh and bright, I wept openly in grocery stores amidst curious stares as I leaned on freezer doors, fell outside in the garden to my hands and knees and most often in my car.
One day as I was just putting my key in the ignition, I noticed a cd he had obviously forgotten: George Michael’s “Faith” the one where he is thoughtfully regarding his armpit on the album cover.
When I found this cd I felt a shift in me. I calmly got out of my car and put the disc beneath my back tire. In a rocking action whose speed and rhythm mimicked the sexual act itself I drove forward and reversed till I could hardly see for tears.
Later, I would gather up the long silvery splinters, put them in an envelope and throw them away.
https://www.classicpopmag.com/2021/04/classic-album-george-michael-faith/
Hurray! I love your writing! So happy you have started a blog!
And although I have all kinds of sympathy for Mr. Michael, I have none for your husband, so good on yer.