Divorce And Moving Out Can’t Happen Soon Enough
It’s the final countdown.
It’s been a long time since I’ve written on Medium. A lot has happened, all of which would be written in a happy snappy Medium article about my new home.
Instead, I’m writing while having a forgotten, but familiar, mini anxiety attack because of my soon-to-be ex-husband Joseph.
For the most part, we get along as we co-exist under one roof. We broke the divorce news to the kids and are trying to show we can work as a team in front of them. It helps that I no longer give a fuck about anything related to my prior wifely duties nor is anything my responsibility in this house anymore.
Joseph wants to leave stains on the white countertop? Not my problem.
Joseph has to juggle bill paying for utilities? Not my problem.
Joseph wants to leave actual piles of trash around the house? Not my problem.
Joseph lets the kids drink milk while sitting on the carpet? Not my problem…good luck getting the stench of milk out of the carpet, buddy.
I still model good behavior for my kids but I no longer chase after Joseph like he’s another child. He’s welcome to trash his own house or rack up debt from his excessive shopping habits.
I’m done being his mother.
My phone buzzes. It’s my real estate agent congratulating me on closing the house. It’s finally real.
I go downstairs and tell Joseph. The kids are still at school; it’s just him and I during work hours these days. He begins to cry.
As my Guilt-For-Ruining-This-Family kicks in, Joseph walks over and hugs me. He’s bawling and I rub his back while asking why he’s crying. He apologizes.
“Uh, what are you apologizing for exactly?” I ask. He replies that he’s apologizing for everything he’s ever done for the last twenty years and anything that he’s done to hurt me.
Awkward. The onus is on me to settle his emotions and provide a mature, rational answer. I prattle something about how we’re both responsible for the demise of the marriage and we equally messed it up.
Later, I think how far we’ve come considering Joseph had tantrums last year at the mere mention of divorce like I needed his permission. I briefly wonder if maybe there was a way it could have worked.
And later I remembered that no…not it could not.
For a while now, my son has been requesting to end his behavioral therapy sessions. Since being diagnosed with autism as an infant, he’s always received therapy of some kind. The problem is that they are present in his afterschool care and now he’s embarrassed by them.
I’m okay with ending them because we’ve gone two years longer than I thought we could manage before he’d get embarrassed in front of his peers for having “helpers” when the others don’t have anyone. However, Ashton likes the therapists at our house. Which we experienced for 17 pandemic months. Not an option now that my kids are back in afterschool care.
Joseph says that he can pick the kids up early on some of his days so that Ashton can receive therapy at the house.
“Insurance doesn’t cover sporadic every-other-week behavioral therapy,” I tell him. I’ve been managing therapists, therapy companies, insurance, and schedules for ten years. I know the system.
Still, it’s worth double-checking. “That’s what I think anyway, but I’ll email them and check,” I add.
This is where my autistic brain kicks into gear. I proceed to explain my thinking based on certain events that occurred in the past. I repeatedly say “I could be wrong though” to note that I don’t know for sure until I ask. He has never interacted with the scheduler or insurance so my brain thought it was acceptable to tell him what would typically happen in the past in similar situations.
Joseph begins a rant.
“You don’t know, so just wait until we hear from them,” he condescendingly says to me. I point out that that’s what I have said a dozen times: I could be wrong and I will verify with the behavioral therapy scheduler.
The ranting doesn’t end. Joseph berates me that I don’t know so there’s no point in me saying anything. His reaction is akin to me saying, “I think Ashton has cancer and I’m not going to ask a doctor to find out.”
“Well, I have been doing this long enough that I can make a solid judgment call, which is why I was saying what I suspect will happen but as I said, I’ll confirm with them to be sure,” I reply.
Joseph closes the fridge. I know this mode well; when he gets agitated, he goes to the fridge and looks for a soda. “Don’t speculate! I don’t want to hear your speculation! It’s just a waste of time!”
From my counter stool, I look around and say, “I didn’t know we were in a rush to do anything right now.” It’s a regular school night; we’re simply meandering through the evening routine with the children. I was leisurely eating a piping hot chocolate croissant (curse you, Trader Joe’s) while he watched football on TV.
Joseph spurts more about how he doesn’t care to hear what my thoughts are compared to knowing the facts. “Okay…I just wanted to share with you what I suspect will happen so we’re prepared but that yes, I will verify with them. I didn’t know I couldn’t tell you my thoughts.”
“No, I don’t want to know them,” he answers.
Walking out, it was silly of me to say that. Because I know better than to tell him my thoughts. That’s on me.
I sit on my bed, open my laptop, and prepare to send an email to figure out the scheduling dilemma. Suddenly, I burst into tears.
This isn’t like the crying I’ve done the past year where I badly wanted to leave. This is the crying that I did my entire marriage.
It’s the crying that you do when you have been berated for being who you are. When you are silenced and told not to speak. If you do speak, it must be in a certain order or a certain way.
I forgot this feeling. I was blessed to not feel it for months in my Joseph Avoidance Strategy. Here it is, rushing back to remind me what it feels like when you’re making conversation and get a verbal lashing as a result.
This feeling is the reason I need out of this marriage. I feel dumb. Like I was scolded for something ridiculous in front of the class (except, in this case, Ashton was the only attendee to the scene). It was petty but going through microaggressions week after week for years eroded the emotional safety I need in a marriage.
I know if I confront him, Joseph will tell me that I was speaking to him like a know-it-all. Or that I was condescending. He will spin this on me that it’s unacceptable for me to verbally speak out loud my guess of a future situation. The conversation will end with me apologizing for my behavior.
Fuck that.
I needed to recollect that the marriage has to end. It sucks and I hate feeling this angst that I thought was a thing of the past. But it’s serving as a good reminder to not look back and wonder if this divorce was the right choice. For my mental health, it’s the only choice.
