Always Put the In-Laws on the End of a Group Photo: A Divorce Survival Story

I am still dumbstruck by people who can co-parent and co-exist with someone who has broken their heart.  There is a hollow, gnawing black hole in your body when you end a marriage. A massive, vacuuming abyss, and sometimes the only thing that makes it feel better is imagining your former love dangling above a pit of hungry (hungry) hippos.

Later, you’ll catch sight of a family picture with HIM and his fat face in the middle of it, spoiling your happy memory.  You morph into a pulsing, sweaty bull, snorting, stomping-- getting ready to charge.  And then you find a pair of scissors and you cut that face—the face you once loved, the face that now mocks you, out of the picture, leaving a blank silhouette. 

Childish?  Maybe.  But I was 24 when I divorced my first husband.  I was a child. 

It would have been easier if I’d put the in-law on the end for less compositional disruption.  It would also save me the trouble of sticking a picture of Sponge-Bob in the vacant gap in the photograph. 

If only cutting your ex out of your life were as easy as scissors and a whimsy cartoon replacement.

It’s been 33 years since the end of my first marriage, and I can still feel swallowing pain occasionally.  I really loved the asshat.  But divorcing him and reclaiming my life was one of the best things I’ve ever done.  And it prepared me for my second divorce.

My first husband was like Seth Rogan—fun loving, a little quirky, very into pot.  We got along, we laughed, we had great 20-something sex. So, I never saw it coming when the county health department called me to report my sexual partner (Seth) had contracted Syphilis.  Divorce commenced, with zero resistance from Seth.  He exited in a 1978 Ford Zephyr with the fake wood panels on the side, with his orange extension cord and my blender.   

And then he was gone, leaving only the ghost holes in the pictures.

Enter Husband #2.  He was nice, well-mannered, smart, seemingly wonderful. 

Until he wasn’t.  Let’s call him Hyde.

Hyde found me on a high.  4 years later, I was over Seth, working a great job, my boys were thriving.  I was even confident enough to place a personal “DF wants GG (great guy)” ad in a local singles’ monthly. Hyde answered my ad (which mentioned my sons) and zeroed in on what would impress me—being a friend to my kids.  He found ways to bring up other kids in his life--friend's children, his Godchild, etc. to show me how gentle and nurturing and child-focused he could be.  He figured out my insecurities and toyed with them. Every time I would think things were going well, he’d pull back, leaving me doubting myself and confused.  He kept me like that, trapped in self-doubt and lowered self-esteem, blaming all our problems on myself for the next 21 years.

The decision to divorce #2 was not so easy.  I was deeply afraid of Hyde.  So, for years I tried everything I could think of to keep peace.  I greeted him at the door with a drink. I had the kids all prepped and ready for his return from work each night.  I encouraged him to do guy things.  I tried to keep things light and upbeat, but I was a miserable person, waist- high in quicksand, who forgot the “Gilligan’s Island” rule about relaxing and not fighting it.  The quicksand, in this case, was reasons to get rid of the bastard. 

Hyde did me a favor by throwing a bottle at my eye. As Seth had done the unforgivable at the time, so too, did #2. I called the police, and they dragged ranting, furious Hyde out in zip-ties. Later, the cops had to come back to retrieve his C-PAP. 

Immediately, the air was clear.  Even our dog was happier.

Divorcing Hyde was expensive.  Hyde was OUTRAGED.  He fought to make himself look blameless and me crazy.  My most satisfying moment throughout the process was when our judge screamed at him, saying “I don’t want to hear any more of your whining!” Hyde showed a bit of his true colors by slamming his papers to the ground.

I got divorced for the second (and last) time on my 50^th birthday. 

Both my ex-husbands have remarried.  I never will.  I love being my own best friend and being in control of my own life. 

You’re going to be alright, Poppet. 

My Mother The Honda

Believe it or not, “My Mother the Car” was real sit-com in 1965 starring Jerry Van Dyke who owned a car who was inhabited by his mother’s spirit.  She talked to him via the radio.  Nightmare?  I say yes. 

My own car makes passive aggressive suggestions just like my mother did, especially when she was driving with me. 

My Honda reminds me all the time about cars approaching me on the right and left.  “I KNOW!” I hear in my brain.  Dolores (my mother) is just trying to be helpful.  There are lights, but that’s not a good enough warning—I need to be beeped at as well.

Apparently, I don’t brake soon enough for my car’s taste.  Just as once, my mother’s foot used to stomp on the floorboard while she road shotgun alerting me that she thought I should slow down, Honda flashes a BRAKE warning in orange, large font.  “Yes, Mom, I know, I see the red light.” 

Annoyingly, Dolores, as my Honda, will turn down the air conditioning fan if I’m making a phone call.  “You can’t hear the other person with that noise” it seems to say, off-handedly, while thumbing through a magazine, not making eye contact.

There is something messed up with the camera in front, because my car is constantly telling me that I am going out of the lanes.  LANE DEVIATOR  it accuses and vibrates my steering wheel.  With all the construction in Michigan, it supposes I’m a crazy driver, when I’m really trying to stay on the shoulder in between cones and barrels.

The final judgement occurred when I was driving to Grand Rapids.  My odometer screen flashed what I thought must be a low oil image with a dip stick in it.  I was very worried, so I pulled over and checked out my manual.  My Mother the Honda was flashing me a picture of a CUP OF COFFEE to remind me to stay alert! 

It may as well have said: 

“You’re not going to eat all of that, are you?”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t wear those pants.”

“Want me to pluck your eyebrows?”

Ahh, I still miss her in many ways, but as for the nagging, I think I can get a mechanic now instead of dodging her phone calls.