Is Divorce PTSD Real?
What if you’re the one who wanted it?
It’s been 4.5 months since I moved out.
It doesn’t feel like I transitioned into a new life. It feels like I threw a bomb on my old life and jumped into a portal to a new land.
Divorce was my porn for years. I imagined a fantasy life where I didn’t have a man-child to handle. Where I could hang out in the living room instead of always retreating to my bedroom. Fun fact: I still do that. It’s a bright sunny day but I’m typing this on my bed instead of being downstairs with a room full of light and a comfy couch.
I was quasi-single anyway. Joseph worked so far away that I only saw him around 9 pm each night. Our weekends were busy focusing on the kids. He was a crappy roommate and an even worse coworker. There was no partnership.
Is it worse to be alone after divorce or feel alone when married? It’s a pendulum of emotions that I’m still navigating.
On the outside, I’m doing fucking amazing. In a short amount of time, I:
- got pre-approved for a house
- got accepted for my first offer for a detached, three-bedroom house in one of the hardest real estate markets ever
- packed half of a massive house and scheduled the move
- gutted the kitchen and bathrooms while juggling a new world with kids who still needed food, lunches, and care
- did dozens of home improvement projects on my own
- unpacked every single box because I refused to leave unpacked cardboard boxes containing unknown junk like I did when married
- restocked almost everything that I split in the divorce
All while still maintaining my job, parenting, dating, and relationships with my friends.
Speaking of friends, they’re in awe of me. I don’t fuck around when it’s time for me to take action. One minute we’re having lunch and I mention divorce, next minute we hang out I’m buying rugs for my new home.
I look happy. I should feel happy. I should feel like the weight of an unhealthy marriage is off my shoulders. This should feel like zen and relaxation.
Uh yeah…no.
With the dust settling (literally and figuratively, as the construction dust still lingers), the emotions I pushed down to help me plow through this New Life Portal are surfacing.
The strangest things trigger me. Grabbing a large bin from the top rack in the garage makes me think how I asked Joseph to handle things like that. While he was awful at being an equal-level partner, he was great for grunt labor. I’ll struggle to move something heavy and suddenly start crying because I miss the 35% part of my marriage that was good.
I was at his house (getting used to saying “his house” instead of “my old house”) picking up things and Joseph started crying. He told me how he missed me. Like an emotionless robot, I got up and hugged him. My “there there” hug and pat on the back is so epic, I should host a Ted Talk about it.
But driving home, I’m filled with rage. “You made this happen,” I yell to him mentally. This wasn’t an easy choice. I feel pushed into it and now I’m the bad guy for pulling the plug. Why am I an asshole because I wanted to be treated better and left when it was clear it would never happen? Am I in the wrong because it was the only emotional self-preservation tactic short of suicide?
Today I sat in bed, too tired to do real work. Or really…I’m just too tired to care. My brain is on overdrive trying to process the reality of an unintended life. It’s like I erased twenty years of my life but I can’t go back to being twenty-three. I might as well have been in a coma.
I’m angry. I’m so fucking angry. I’m mourning something that shouldn’t ever have happened. I’m mourning something so awful, I began to think all marriages were that way until I opened my eyes. I thought all couples who seemed happy also fought nonstop behind closed doors.
Until I learned, that’s not true. It’s not normal or healthy to fight even once a week. It’s not normal for a spouse to regularly threaten divorce during arguments, let alone melodramatically pack bags and walk out the door. Stonewalling isn’t the same as giving someone a moment to regroup their thoughts and calm down. Having to do everything for him since “it’s just quicker if I do it” is a sign of his weaponized incompetence, not because I was a control freak. A fucked up sex life, or lack of one, isn’t standard practice.
I’m angry that I used to fantasize about being trapped on an island after a plane crash. Just for a year. I’d emerge tanned and super buff from building my island house with fellow passengers (in this fantasy, my teeth remain intact and brilliantly white against my tanned skin). Meanwhile, Joseph would crumble from the weight of having to watch the children and run a household like I had been doing. Then, upon return, he’d tell me about how he never realized all the work that I did until I was gone.
Sometimes, that fantasy was during a coma. Same outcome.
But there was no chance of those happening and I would never get the appreciation I craved for the level of effort I put in. It wasn’t an effort going above and beyond. I’m talking about the minimum effort I could do as a faux-single working mother of two small children, one of them with autism.
The enormity of everything I did without help or recognition is crashing down on me. Sometimes it hits me so hard, I can barely breathe between the sobs and mental re-living of it all.
When friends would put anniversary posts on social media, they’d always regurgitate the same “our life has been full of ups and downs but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Fuck. That. My brain immediately thinks, “uh yes…yes I would very much have liked any other way than this.”
What’s strange to me is how much I cry. I used to time my crying to the drive between when I left work to when I picked up my kids, as well as when I showered (raining water drowns out the sobbing sounds).
I think it’s because I can cry now. I can cry for hours and there’s no reason to stop. With work from home and not having my kids full-time (a whole other heartbreak), I find myself crying longer than I have in years.
It’s an odd feeling. Being allowed to cry without boundaries.
Experiencing this extreme life transition feels like I have PTSD combined with mourning a great loss. But it’s a loss that I chose, and with that adds the burden of guilt on top of the Wah-Wah-Woe-Is-Me pile
I don’t know if this is healthy or normal.
I need to stop writing and find a therapist.





