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 50th
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.
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