It’s Divorce Time, Muthafuckas!

Words I never thought I’d be excited to say.

Do I seem overly excited to sign divorce papers?

Sorry-not-sorry.

I tried. I really tried. My nagging factor dropped. I apologized when I messed up. I stopped caring about things that would have mattered when we were normally married.

Now we have a Parenting Marriage, which means we’re like professional coworkers whose only purpose is to raise kids in the same house. I worked on the Parenting Marriage plan. I thought naively that this would be the solution: split up but stay under one roof for the sake of the kids.

It’s good. In theory. But a Parenting Marriage hinges on one thing: buy-in from both parties that the marriage isn’t working. Unfortunately, it’s been one of us (*cough* me *cough*) that pushed this. The other one hasn’t been so accepting.

Things weren’t bad since the separation. They weren’t good either. With this pandemic, we existed. That’s all. Like my marriage had been for almost 20 years, it wasn’t bad enough to leave. With their world upside down, I wasn’t going to throw another bomb on my kids. It’s hard enough as it is with an autistic kid. It takes two people to fail at homeschooling our children in a pandemic.

The past two weeks have been the worst emotionally that I have had since last summer. The catalyst was a session with our divorce counselor. We haven’t met with her since November.

“So, how’s it going?” she asks us both.

“Meh…status quo” I reply.

Joseph flips his shit. He is upset because we’ve worked on the Parenting Marriage contract and we changed our bank accounts. I tell him, “I thought she meant in general. Like in general, the kids are in school…we’re still working from home…no one has gotten sick…there’s still a pandemic…hence, status quo”.

The session got worse before it got better. Joseph says I “ambushed” him because of my Status Quo Reply and later mentioning that I want to revisit the No Dating clause. If you can’t speak about hot topics during a joint counseling session, what’s the point? Isn’t the counselor there so that two people can have a moderator guide the conversation on delicate topics?

I was forced to argue my point about wanting him to knock on the bedroom door before barging in. Joseph insisted I was controlling and that this was his house too, he doesn’t need permission to go anywhere. On my side, it’s a respect thing. You wouldn’t barge in on a roommate. And it’s crossing a boundary when we’re supposed to create a delineation between us.

Thankfully, the divorce counselor agreed with me.

I explain my thinking on the dating topic: why not just hash it all out in the contract now (such as not going out in public within 10 miles of our house) while we’re still in serious lockdown so that it organically feels more natural when it does happen?

That didn’t fly. Why? Because as always, Joseph has the ultimate trump card. The kids. I can’t go out risking anything that can get them or him sick. The divorce counselor agrees with him and says now is not the best time to start dating.

Goddamn it.

I asked about being able to message other guys. Joseph shrugs and says he can’t stop me. Now he decides that something is beyond his control? He adds the caveat that doing that kind of thing takes away focus from the kids.

Yeah, the same kids who play Roblox ten hours a day.

By the end of the session, Joseph was calm. I was livid. I was scared. I felt trapped. I fought spiraling down too far in angst and despair. Just enough to stop me from dying my hair black and getting a nose ring. It was two weeks of hell.

Then this morning, everything changed.

My children’s school switched back to a hybrid model. That means a couple of hours in the morning are spent in-class. This also means getting laptops charged, gathering all the books usually kept at school, and have uniforms ready. My son’s teacher lightened the load by sending an email with a day-by-day plan of which books to bring back each day.

Joseph does the morning routine with the kids. I hear them getting ready and stumble out of bed while grabbing my paper copy of the teacher’s email. Without glasses or contacts, I Mr. Magoo my way down the hall (yes, that’s right, I made Mr. Magoo a verb). Joseph is on the floor with a pile of books around him and his cell phone open to the teacher’s email.

Through my son’s bedroom door, he hollers to our son asking which book was for social studies. My son is brushing his teeth with the bathroom door open. Like a typical ten-year-old, he mumbles that he doesn’t know. He rephrases the question and again, my son starts replying.

Joseph stands up, shows his phone to me, and says “here are the books he needs today.” I tilt my paper towards him and reply, “yeah, I’ve got the list here.”

That was not the correct reply. He flips his shit.

First, he rants that he asked me three times and I didn’t reply. I told him that I thought he was talking to our son and I didn’t have anything to add. Especially since our son was still answering him. Storming down the hall, Joseph yells how I shoved the paper in his face and gave him attitude.

Stunned, I stammer that I didn’t shove anything in his face. (I didn’t have my glasses on if anything I had it too close to my face.) I reiterate that I thought he was talking to our son. Joseph stomps down the stairs yelling that I’m acting like he did something wrong.

“I didn’t…I didn’t say anyone did anything wrong, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say in confusion. My son is next to me, staring with wide eyes, with his toothbrush still in hand.

“The way you’re acting right now is as if I did something wrong!” he yells.

After I help my son find the books (clearly labeled in the pile of books Joseph was looking through), my quasi-ex-husband leaves to take them to school.

I crumple to the floor and cry. It was so small and petty. Why was I getting so upset? There were plenty of times where I was partially at fault. However, this morning, I did absolutely nothing wrong.

Suddenly, the skies parted. I’m done. I’m done. I keep telling myself, “next time he does this or that, then I’m done.” This is that moment.

I’m done living in a house where I can be yelled at. For anything. I’m done.

For the first time in weeks, I feel happy.

Later that morning, I park down the street for privacy and talk to our divorce counselor. I tell the story and say that I want a divorce. She says that I’ve been patient and fair with him (it’s been five months). Relief washes over me. We strategize on how I can tell him since my biggest hurdle is my fear of his anger and making my life hell thereafter.

The divorce counselor told me to strike while the iron is hot and tell Joseph that I’d like to chat later in the week about what happened this morning. That way it’s enough to spark a conversation but it doesn’t come across as a knee-jerk reaction. I scheduled a joint session with her for next week so she can help with the inevitable conflict that will arise.

I’m pumped. I realize my excitement is temporary and there are plenty of hurdles ahead. But there’s finally light. There’s a plan. Even if I have to stay in this house with him for the duration of the school year, I can handle that knowing there is a direction towards a formal ending.

Who knew the word “divorce” would make me dance on clouds?