The Descent Of The Divorce Rollercoaster

It feels like punching yourself in the face, repeatedly, for months.

I’m bored of mentally (and by written word on Medium) complaining about this marital breakup. I’m at the part on a rollercoaster ride where the buildup is done and now it’s terrifying freefall downwards.

To my defense, I wanted a simple divorce last summer. It wasn’t until Joseph’s meltdowns that I proposed a Parenting Marriage, which turns parents into coworkers while living under the same roof for the sake of the kids. In other words, what my marriage was already and we were stuck at home due to Covid anyway.

Then shit hit the fan and I realized: I’m a grownup. I don’t have to live in a house where another adult can yell at me. I just don’t. This Parenting Marriage isn’t working if I can still experience all the shitty things I was subjected to in the regular marriage.

I tell Joseph this and he has another meltdown. After a few days of it, he comes into the bedroom and asks what I want that would be best for everyone. It’s the first time he’s ever asked about my needs.

I concede and tell him that I could try “nesting” when the kids’ school year is done in June. That’s where the parents rotate out of the house while the kids stay in the main house; they don’t experience the trauma of losing their homes as well as the insecurity that comes with bouncing between two locations like cattle.

Joseph wants to buy a little condo to use as the rotation for our nesting situation. I’m wary about it, considering it only if we practice it with renting first. Except renting costs triple my mortgage here in Southern California; we would dip into savings.

Last week Joseph flipped his lid on me yet again after I told him “well, you do it then” when he berated me for a shitty job my daughter did on a project that I helped with. Full-on swearing at the top of his lungs that I “attacked” him for telling him to do the work. I replied that I no longer could do our situation and I wanted to be done. Joseph yelled at me to leave. He also called me a piece of shit.

He’s called me names before. But it dawned on me: that’s not okay. It’s never okay.

I don’t want to even try a nesting marriage anymore. I want out. Completely out. Without him sucking me back in out of guilt.

Today, we talked while the kids ate dinner downstairs. I discuss the logistics of selling our house and splitting things.

Can you guess his reaction? Yup, he flips out. Joseph tells me that I keep changing the rules. I replied that I’m not obligated to stay in a situation where I’m called names or sworn at. I don’t mention that he violated our little contract by yelling at me to move out, by swearing, and by calling me names. Instead, I make sure to say things like, “I’m not saying that I haven’t said hurtful things to you or crossed any of your boundaries. I’m only speaking for me, those boundaries have been crossed and I can no longer live like this.”

I bring up how we can ride it out as best we can until June when the kids are done with school. Joseph gets irate and tells me that saying “ride it out” is incredibly aggressive, he doesn’t want to hear me say it ever again, and that I should use the word “waiting” instead.

I pause the entire discussion to ask him genuinely what is wrong with saying “ride it out” in a sentence; maybe I’m mistaken, but to me, it simply means “kickback during an unpleasant situation and chill for a period of time”.

Next, Joseph says “I guess now I have to get the best lawyer in Orange County!” I maintain my zen and tell him that I’m not being combative, I believe we could do everything with a simple online form, and that there is no reason for lawyers. If he wants to make it a war, I’m not fighting.

“You’re trying to take the kids from me!” Joseph throws at me as his reasoning for a lawyer.

“How am I taking them from you? I want 50/50. If you have to go back to LA for your commute, I’ll give you as much time as we can squeeze in to max that out.”

“You’re taking them from me because you literally will have to take them from me when it’s your time,” he spews back. I point out that by his logic, he’s then taking them away from me as well.

Joseph tries to throw more guilt trips at me and I maintain my Zen Master state. I reply that we are not modeling good behaviors for the kids despite him disagreeing that divorcing shows poor behavior. He says they’re not learning that people can work things out.

Um, except they can’t. We can’t.

The goal of this conversation was for me to break down the finances after having spoken to our real estate agent and our loan agent. With our savings and equity, we’re in very good positions to buy our own properties when we split everything.

While they won’t be as big, they’re still perfectly acceptable to live in without significant drops in the kids’ quality of life. It’s impossible to buy a home right now in Orange County (unless you want to pay a few hundred grand over the appraised price and do it within a day of the home being listed), but we could come up with a plan and deal with our real estate situation in a few months.

Unlike many people divorcing, we are incredibly blessed to have savings and home equity that allows us each to be okay financially.

I never got to this point. Joseph spews, “I need to look into whether I can even get my inheritance back since you benefitted from that.” I don’t take the bait. I reply, “Yes, your inheritance is not part of community property. If you want it all back, you can have it.”

I spoke too soon and I’ll have to deal with that. Turns out, if the inheritance is commingled with the family bank account or used to purchase a marital home, it no longer counts and it’s community property. Regardless, he will drain our savings with a lawyer to fight me out of spite so I’m not getting any of it.

Our home has gained a small chunk of equity. Neither of us can afford to buy the other person out. I ask how much his inheritance was (it was years ago, I don’t remember the exact amount). He tells me a number that is four times what I thought it was. Joseph isn’t lying; I later checked our banking statements.

I hold my breath and tell him, “Well, I can’t afford to pay you back. That takes up the entire amount of my half of the equity. But you can have it. You’re entitled to it. You originally said you’d be okay having a post-nup stating that you get half of any inheritance when my parents die, but who knows when that will be or how much it is, if any. So yes, if you want your money back, I won’t fight you.”

Doing the math, I tell him how much we each will have after we split things up. Closing costs to sell my house will be $78,000, which takes a solid chunk out of my potential half. “Basically, you get the house. Completely.” He hears the shaking in my voice. I’m a cheap, cheap-ass motherfucker. I spent four months last year debating on buying a lip gloss for eight bucks. I must be truly miserable to walk away.

My remaining half, after paying out his inheritance, is barely enough to buy a mobile home here in Orange County. I’m not exaggerating; I looked it up. Renting is more expensive than buying; I would consume all my savings within the year. My kids will split their time between a sizeable, beautifully-renovated home with a pool and a mobile home where they’ll share a bedroom and pray my car doesn’t get broken into every night.

I’m giving up my Forever Home with my dream renovations and all our money to get out of this marriage. Joseph finally sees the depth of my desperation. I’m agreeing to barely 16% of our assets.

I ask if I can at least have the TV. Suddenly, he’s Mr. Nice Guy. “Of course, you spent months working with your boss on the perfect TV for us, I wouldn’t ever take that from you.” My boss died weeks ago, so I appreciate the gesture. I bring up how we could go through the house with Post-Its to label things.

“I assumed you’d get the bedroom set. You’d get all of it,” he tells me. Mr. I’m-Getting-The-Best-Lawyer-In-OC is temporarily in a giving spirit, letting me have all the furniture in the house.

Cool, I won’t have to argue for my Instant Pot.

The tense conversation ends with me pleading for him to meet with me regularly. “Especially given how little I’ll be getting, I need to be able to plan things out well in advance.” My newfound poverty is my trump card.

I ask if initially, we could meet every night to plan things out. “I’ll only agree to it if you have an agenda written up,” he replies. Joseph says he doesn’t want to argue off-topic. It’s a little melodramatic for my taste but I immediately agree. If I don’t tread lightly, he’ll hire that Best Lawyer in OC to fight for more than 50/50 custody out of spite.

It’s 3 am. I was gaining momentum in my life by squeezing in self-care things like working out or reading into my day. That’s shot to hell. I’m now dedicating every evening to making digital files for Etsy and looking up other side hustles I can do while feigning work at my actual, real job.

Maybe I’ll write a book: “How to Incorrectly Divorce: everything you learned from TV is wrong”. I might make ten bucks off that Amazon gem.

This discussion happened last night. My morning has been spent hyperventilating, fingers going numb from anxiety attacks, and body shakes. I’m imagining how much worse Joseph’s spite will get; he could easily drain our savings fighting to get more than 50/50 for the kids (despite that it would be highly unlikely to happen). My brain is spiraling to all the ways he’s going to continue to make this as miserable and combative as possible. Frequently out of the blue, I’ll freeze and stop breathing.

I think…I think I have PTSD from this experience. I doubt any studies exist showing the effect of being caged during a pandemic with a spouse who refuses divorce. I’ve been through much worse, I don’t know why I’m crumbling. Maybe because I’ve never prioritized and fought for my mental health. This battle is new for me and I’m being attacked by a tank when all I have is a slingshot.

Throughout this journey, I’ve been curious at what point I’d regret wanting this divorce. Despite the drama and ginormous financial loss, I still have no regrets. Maybe I’ll feel that way when we’re breaking the news to the children or when I’m moving into my mobile home with the stale odor of cigarette smoke, but for now I still feel this was the best decision.

Or that eventually, it will be.