Store Your Emotional Reserves When Splitting Up

You’ll be pulling from that emotional bank more than you realize.

Do you know what’s worse than a hangover from drinking? An emotional hangover. It’s the morning after you’ve spent the night before as a crying disaster.

My head is pounding.

Since the pandemic, I’ve made a complete shift in my mindset, attitude, and what I want out of life. I’ve made peace with my crappy parents and my self-esteem is no longer garbage. It’s been decades since I’ve felt excited about life.

Living with a disgruntled spouse during a pandemic after you’ve asked for divorce really throws a wrench in any personal development. I plummeted this week. You know it’s bad when I stop giving a shit about my appearance; while I’m used to not caring about my emotional well-being, I’m much too concerned about my outer appearance to ever let that go.

Not this week. If I stepped outside with a cup, I’d probably make bank from the coins thrown my way in my grungy old Costco pajamas, unwashed face, and rat’s nest for hair.

One of the many reasons I want a divorce is because of how much I tiptoe around my husband. Talking to him about something that upset me required a solid few days of mental Eye of the Tiger pep talks in anticipation of his rage. He no longer throws open cans of soda or punches walls (I wish he did, it would make this whole thing much easier), but his anger is still just as scary.

Telling your spouse that you want a divorce because you’re secretly afraid of his temper is terrifying because of the anticipated rage-filled reaction. It’s not a one-time event; I could handle a single evening of his anger. I’ve been dealing with his post-breakup anger since last summer with no escape thanks to the Covid lockdown.

It hasn’t all been bad. But now that I’m in full “okay this pandemic is ending and I want out completely” mode, it’s back to DEFCON 1 anger level. I have to worry about him saying something hurtful to the kids about me or purposely hiring an expensive lawyer to drain our savings. Without any social life or places to go for a reprieve, I’m a zebra caged with a hungry lion.

I’ve created enough cortisol in my body from this fight-or-flight experience to fuel an army at war.

Now that there’s light at the end of the pandemic tunnel, I was stoked to finally push my life forward. Planning is my jam. I can imagine my life of freedom with clarity. Emotionally, I felt fantastic.

Despite that I’ve done 99.99% of the work and planning for the duration of our marriage, getting a divorce requires some effort and input from the other spouse. Maybe in my mind, I naively thought this divorce would be like our life; I’d do all the work for months then show up with final papers and the only effort on his part is lifting a pen to sign.

It took years of begging and marriage counseling to get Joseph to help me with the dishes at night. Getting him to help with divorce is like asking him to move the moon. He has conveyed or said repeatedly that he will behave out of spite, this will be combative, and that he will not be civil in front of the children. I convinced him that the last one doesn’t hurt me as much as it will hurt the kids which quelled that act of retribution, at least temporarily.

Maybe I dreamed that we could be amicable for the sake of the kids. I thought he would eventually come around and realize that we suck as a couple but can be a team for our children. While I knew it would most likely be War of the Roses, I naively hoped it would be friendly like Demi Moore and Bruce Willis. You know, spending Christmases together and stuff like that.

As expected, it has not been a calm Conscious-Uncoupling.

I’ve spent the past few months planning the financial aspect of this divorce. Speaking multiple times with my loan agent, I figured out when splitting assets how much home we could buy on our own. Inventory is non-existent right now but once life returns to normal, there should be a fair amount in the fall. Not ideal, but doable.

Until this week.

Here’s the thing with being a Saving Ninja: assume you’re poorer than you are. When there was any cash availability, I dumped it into a savings account and it immediately became off-limits. First, it was saved for emergency reserves, then for the pending divorce. When my husband and I got any of our bonus checks, they’d get dumped in that account.

Last year we pulled from it. I told my husband to get hair transplant surgery to boost his self-esteem to be ready for the dating world. Our house had to be tented for termites, which ruined our roof (you sign away the damage claims when you get the house tented), which then needed new roof tiles. I’ve been hustling on building those financial reserves back up.

When his mother died and his brother bought out his half of her house, that money went straight into a savings account in another bank that we no longer have. I wasn’t able to go back and see exactly how much it was since the account is closed. I had a number in my mind.

That number was wrong. Very, very wrong.

In California, inheritances are not part of community property. Meaning, it’s not divided in half like everything else. And in a divorce, they get that money back unless it was mixed with regular family funds.

My husband and I agreed last year that in place of him getting that money back, I would write in a post-marital agreement that whenever my parents die and I get any benefits (which could be zero, other than the house which isn’t worth a lot), I’d split my proceeds in half with him.

Except — this week — Joseph decided he wanted it back. And in a moment to avoid his rage and him threatening yet again to get an expensive lawyer, I had to calm him down by telling him that I wouldn’t go after the inheritance amount. He could have it. Then Joseph told me how much it was and I realized: I’m so very, very fucked.

I know divorce people who gave the other spouse more than they needed to in an effort to make it equitable. That’s not my husband. Not by a long shot. Well, he graciously offered to let me have some furniture and the TV, but that’s about it.

Still, I gritted my teeth and maintained that I didn’t want a divorce so that I could take Joseph’s money and live some fancy, glamorous, Southern California life. Anything to prevent a battle with him.

I always wondered why some people walked away from their marriages with absolutely nothing. I get it now. In the moment, the fear of the battle outweighs the outcome. At this point, hand me a cardboard box with a blanket and I’ll agree to it, that’s how terrified I am of his potential revenge.

The worst part? Joseph doesn’t think it’s wrong to be vindictive because I’m the one coming after him and ruining his life. He’s protecting himself against my selfish ways. Also, I should suffer the consequences of divorce, not him because I’m the one who is walking away. Why should he have to uproot his life and move when I’m the one who doesn’t want this marriage?

I have no valid comeback. And so, I take the cardboard box and say “thank you”.

Complaining about yet another headache, Joseph begrudgingly sits down to talk about the divorce because like he requested, I made an agenda.

First-line item: a code of conduct for these talks. He immediately says there will be no code of conduct discussion.

“I don’t get it,” I tell him. “Why would it ever be a bad thing to have a code of conduct for these talks? We already couldn’t follow our contract when we tried the Parenting Marriage, the least we could do is have one for these talks.”

Nope. No dice.

On to the second agenda item: the breakdown of house profits and how much we each would get. My real estate agent gave a conservative amount on how much he could sell our house, plus an estimate after subtracting our loan and closing costs. With a gulp, I tell Joseph how much he’ll be getting compared to me.

“Technically, I am entitled to half that inheritance because it was mixed with our account and used for the marital home. But I know you felt screwed over by your brother, I won’t do that to you. I won’t ask for it.” That’s my attempt at an olive branch. A very, very expensive olive branch in hope that he’ll be chill moving forward.

I tell him the pricing if he wanted to buy me out of the house (since I can’t afford to buy him out) because he’ll have the funds. He very much wants to keep the house because he doesn’t want to move out, nor does he want the kids to have to move between two new homes.

Joseph confirms one last time whether I’d be willing to try Nesting (where the kids stay in one house and the parents rotate out instead of the other way around). He insists we’re going to fight anyway because of the kids, what does it matter? I tell him that it’s one thing to narrow down the complexity to just the kids as opposed to the drama of maintaining two houses.

He gives me more grief about the harm this will do to the kids. I tell him there isn’t a single study that will show that children should stay in a house with tension and arguing. I know what he’s thinking: it’s my fault for not trying more therapy to stop the tension and fighting. Been there, done that, nothing changed.

My final agenda line item was about mediation. He said he wanted to be on the free 15-minute calls that mediators provide to assess them. That’s cool that he’s willing to take the time for that but never took the time for literally any other meeting or scheduling needed for 18 years.

He leaves the room. I break down. Like full-on, Joseph-style, melodramatic meltdown.

My divorce saga isn’t over yet. Even that evening, there was more. It’s exhausting. Every time I see the finish line, it moves further out of sight.

If you’re proposing divorce (I’m so funny with my puns), attend a shit ton of zen and yoga classes. You’ll need it to manage the onslaught of emotions your spouse will throw your way.