Paperwork and Awesome Sauce

A tale of codependency addiction

Relationships, divorce, sobriety, memoir, superpowers. Excerpt from a book in progress.

“Those who will not slip beneath the still surface on the well of grief, turning down through its black water to the place we cannot breathe, will never know the source from which we drink, the secret water, cold and clear, nor find in the darkness glimmering, the small round coins, thrown by those who wished for something else.”

— David Whyte, “The Well of Grief”

The first winter he left, Randy set a new life up for himself in Portland. Though I found out later that he too was struggling, at the time he was sending regular newsletters saying life was “awesome.” (I tortured myself for a months before hitting unsubscribe.)

Often he’d toss that word into personal emails too — cold, mean ones having to do with divorce, bills, taxes. He’d open with, “I hope you’re doing awesome,” then abruptly shift into what payment was due or what form needed signing.

I think the word was trending in his new home, with all its awesome hipster-ness. I quickly came to despise all three of them — Randy, that word, Portland.

Meanwhile, on my end, I tried to find someone who knew what they were doing — seeking financial and legal counsel rather than taking Randy’s word for what was true. This led me to Carol, a divorce lawyer who ran a private practice out of her home. We’d been in yoga class together years prior, though I had no clue she was a lawyer at the time.

She was petite, spirited…airy-fairy yet full of big opinions. Years into sober recovery, she had no qualms saying what she thought and zero fucks to give. In short, Carol was living life on life’s terms and her terms. Some found her a tough swallow and perhaps I would’ve too, in other times. But when my dad paid the $250 for a hour-long consult, I leaned hard into her unique, badass blend.

We sat facing one another on either side of her desk — classical music playing in the background, her dog coming and going. It was all very “Nelson,” with the town’s expected dose of unexpected.

I gave her my backstory. She shared parts of her own. She also alleviated some of my dread around shared debt and told me in no uncertain terms I needed to divorce him, get over it, move on. Also that I should give up my beloved car to disentangle myself from Randy and avoid nightmarish import taxes.

I kept the car (and paid said taxes) but did file for divorce. Having Carol do it for me was far beyond my means, but she convinced me I was capable of doing it myself and showed me how.

I won’t recount the myriad forms and steps — there were many and most involved doubling back and doing things triplicate. It took months to get things sorted. But throughout, especially during tearful overwhelm, I’d return to Carol’s words and matter-of-factness:

“This is not hard. This is just paperwork.”

I held to that. A mantra to keep me going. A mantra focused on the immediate step at hand. The next step in the process. And, when that step was done, it’d likely need to be redone and then there’d be another: with my DIY divorce, with filing two years of “missed” taxes, with applying for Permanent Residency so I could stay in Canada without staying hostage to a toxic employer.

The line-up of steps seemed un-ended. There was always a new form, a new fee, a new complication.

No matter. This is not the hard part. This is just paperwork. One right step, then the next.

Prior to my meeting with Carol, Randy had sent a “Get Divorced Cheap and Easy Online” link in a detached but otherwise cheery email. As was often the case during those times, he opened by saying he hoped I was “awesome.”

I was crushed at his lack of care — his lack of caring — but said okay, sure. It was cheap; he found it; he paid for it; it was a scam.

He printed and signed Cheap-and-Easy’s stack of papers. I got them in the mail and brought them to Carol to review. She took one glance and said they were null, void, and meaningless. They were the wrong forms and, in any case, you could get them and the correct forms for free, on the Internet.

Seeking the two-bit way out, Randy paid non-lawyers to send him forms easily downloadable on a government website. Everything was just awesome.

Following Carol’s lead, I put those aside and took notes on DIY’ing divorce in British Columbia. The process took months and cost money and time I did not have.

But I did it. I collected everything needed from Canada and the states, filed what I needed to file at the courthouse on my lunch breaks (an ordeal involving many public tears and repeat visits), sent the right papers to Randy, and took agency over my own fucking divorce — doing it alone, paying for it alone, deciding that if this is what I want, I’m going to have to do it.

Then, finally, all that was left was to wait.

This seemed to shock Randy. He seemed to think, after all this, we weren’t actually going through with it. He seemed to think, in some part of his being, he could change his mind and pull me back into the same old game.

When he realized this was not the case, he was furious on top of furious.

His go at retaliation took the form of throwing another dagger my way — saying fine, he was coming to get the rest of his things to move them back to the states. Oh, and, he’d be staying at the house while doing so.

I said No. Having him come and stay and move back in after all that came before terrified me. I couldn’t face his Other. I couldn’t face dealing with his fury as I was struggling with all I had left to show up fully for teaching and clients. It was all I could take to do so over email and phone. In person, staying under the same roof, was too much.

I said I would see him, but not allow him to move back into a house I was now paying for alone. I said no to allowing his violent words back into my home — again, declaring agency.

This time, it was sourced from fear. I feared the direct proximity of his wrath. The wrath and cruelty not of the Randy I loved, but his Other.

There was not enough left of me to bare it. That was a line. And, even later, after reconciliation and eventually remarriage, it remains. I cannot live with him again or combine our finances. It’s a trauma my soul will not let me repeat.

So here we were. Paperwork filed. Divorce in process. Longer and longer stretches without contact. I willed myself to not reach out. To be grateful for any pause in hate mail. To grieve what was lost and to let go. When I strayed from this intention — in effect, relapsed — I felt awful.

The weakest moments were at night after dinner, during the hardest, loneliest hours. I’d tell myself, just make it through tonight. Just wait until tomorrow. When I waited, I was always grateful. By morning, I was deeply relieved that I had not emailed, texted, or called.

When I instead gave into the craving, the outcome was regret, shame, and pain.

This is perhaps my first real reckoning with addiction to codependency and enmeshment. I knew making contact would bring more hurt — including in the form of piercing arrows aimed directly at gaping wounds. I chose to anyway.

Some deep part of me was still in denial and delusional. Some deep part of me hoped that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different. This time, the Randy I fell in love with would respond.

Even when I resisted the pull to send the email or text, my addiction was full blown. I white-knuckled my way through without relinquishing preoccupation — abstinent yet obsessing about what he might be doing, what he thought of me, what we once had, what happened to us.

I took each next step as best I could while immersed in the suffering that comes from letting another decide your worth and, in this case, declare me unworthy.

Unworthy of partnership. Of security. Of love.

And boy did I pick my poison! Whereas I become flustered and unable to speak when flooded, Randy has a way with words. Intimately familiar with his own deep wounds, he’s a master at inflicting them on others.

When he chooses, he knows how to say the exact worst, most painful thing. The thing that cuts jagged and deep in the precise spot of my oldest scars.

Yet, somehow, I kept loving him. Somehow, I kept returning for more.

This, my friends, is addiction. But here’s the rub: it’s also what eventually allowed for reconciliation.

My addiction to our relationship, with all its obvious messed-up-ness, is sourced from the same place as my steadfast commitment and pull towards loyalty and forgiveness. It’s sourced from the same place that, in the end, tells me love is always everything.

Our wounds. Our gifts. Same source.

Thing is, lots of pain had to happen first. Lots of change had to happen for me, internally, to finally begin freeing myself from addiction to codependency and addiction to Randy.

This process isn’t over — even now, it’s hard to hold my ground and hard to release responsibility for managing Randy’s emotions. But somehow, someway, I’m doing alright, mostly.

Otherwise, we’d be back for more of the same. Back into the ring, where I’d be knocked out again. Back into a battle that would, without out doubt, ultimately destroy me.

I heard a song a ways back — one I haven’t managed to locate since. Both singer and song remain elusive. In any case, the tale is of a Great Love that fell apart and then came back together again. The singer speaks of being left, crushed, everything falling apart…followed by reconciliation.

Love wins, in the end, but not fully. It’s not the be-all-end-all anymore.

In a soft, powerful voice, she says the hell of her love leaving — her plummet into the darkest depths — changed things. Along the way, she found a superpower. As she puts it: I discovered I can survive without you.

It’s like that for me, since that winter of divorce and dissolution. I’ve already spoiled the story and shared that Randy and I reunited. That we’re together now, at the time of writing.

But things got broken. Things about me and us will never be the same.

In this, I discovered a strength and sovereignty I didn’t know existed. In this, I gained a superpower I had to go through hell to find. That was the only way — diving deep into the Well of Grief in order to find it shimmering in the darkness.

I brought it back up, into the light. I placed it in my pocket, close to my heart. No one can take it away. I can survive without you.

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