I Suck at This Divorce Stuff

My divorce is Walmart while others have Rodeo Drive.

I love mail from readers. When I started my Medium writing journey, I aimed to write anything in my mind. It was a method to cope with anxiety and journal my thoughts. Along the way, I’ve written about my divorce in real-time. When people write to me about similar circumstances, I feel less alone.

Sometimes these emails are encouraging me, especially from folks that have already gone through the divorce process and survived. Other times, they’re messages from people in the same boat seeking advice.

Because I’m a loudmouth with opinions, I’m happy to tell you what I think of your situation and what you should do. But let me make it clear: I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.

It’s the blind leading the blind.

I’m an expert on how not to do divorce.

My pseudo-friend Allison divorced her wealthy, professional husband in what seems like overnight. While California’s six-month waiting period is mandatory, I think she lawyered up so well that it was right down to the very minute those six months expired.

Allison isn’t fucking around. I mean, she is probably fucking around, but I mean she’s not fucking around when it comes to living her best post-divorce life.

She’s traveling to the best hotels. She went on my dream European vacation, including getting designer dresses and getting professional photos taken. This is a woman who won the lottery with her divorce.

I know, I know; not everything you see on social media is a representation of someone’s life. But as someone who is seriously considering joining a sugar baby website to afford my post-divorce life, I’d be fine crying my miserable tears over a glass of wine on a cruise in Italy.

My friends keep asking me how she wrapped her divorce up so quickly, as if I have any insight into the divorce of someone I’m barely friends with. I think they’re concerned that I’m doing this divorce wrong.

And they’d be correct.

My first mistake was trying to live together while separated in something called a Parenting Marriage. I should have swiftly ripped off the bandaid. Instead, out of fear for my kids, I gave it a shot.

A Parenting Marriage distills the relationship down to two coworkers whose job is to raise the kids under a single roof. It’s great in theory, especially if both people are on the same page and one of them wasn’t devastated, spending months on the floor crying hysterically.

The problem with this arrangement is that it’s like taking a spouse who you want to divorce and then going to see them every day at work. Your ability to do tasks together is still strained. Common areas like the kitchen are awkward and your rage over their lack of cleanliness doesn’t leave when you switch from spouse to coworker.

My next mistake was thinking we could try Nesting. That’s where the kids remain in the house but the parents rotate out. It’s also great in theory; it’s a lot easier for an adult to relocate every few days than for kids. Anyone who has taken five bags to travel for eight hours knows that kids require lots of stuff.

After a horrible fight where Joseph called me a “piece of shit”, it dawned on me: why the fuck would I now share two properties with someone who calls me names? It’s bad enough that we own one together, on what planet would I buy another one?

I didn’t need an extra home where I’d be stuck cleaning the common areas and communal towels; I’d already have to do that when rotating back into the main house. Fuck that noise.

The mistakes didn’t end there. The Parenting Marriage and Nesting were compromises to Joseph’s unwillingness to divorce me. I knew we were stuck living together during the pandemic and I was adamant that we behave as civil as possible for the sake of the kids. I begged him for the divorce.

I literally had to ask his permission to break up. What the actual fuck?

Joseph agreed to the divorce after threatening me with bigwig lawyers and my pleading with him to not drain our bank account. Somehow I got bamboozled into completely paying for a mediator with extra funds from side hustles.

You know you’re doing divorce wrong when you work second jobs to pay for a joint mediator so that your spouse will let you leave them.

I even did finances incorrectly. To quote a buddy of mine, “I’m really sorry you’re going through all this, but I’m kind of glad to hear the woman is getting screwed over in divorce for once.”

This entire process has drained my soul. It’s not the divorce itself; it’s how I begged, pleaded, and actively worked to get permission for an amicable end to this marriage. In my attempt to keep his anger contained, I behaved like I needed his approval to let me leave him. Non-pro-tip: you don’t need permission to leave an unhappy relationship.

I love emails. Engaging with readers is fun and makes me feel less isolated in this divorce purgatory. But I make no guarantees that my advice for your situation is the best solution. Because I’m definitely doing divorce all wrong.