The Romance Narrative of My Marriage Fell Apart

My best friend helped me get out while I still could

“You don’t have to do this,” he said.

We sat in the SUV in the cold dishwater of predawn side by side. He was in the driver’s seat. My rolling suitcase was packed with a week’s worth of clothes, toiletries, and art supplies.

That last indulgence was wishful thinking. I never did art while visiting my best friend’s house in Kentucky. But this time wasn’t like the others.

This time, my father-in-law had died. His death sparked an explosive worsening of previous problems in my marriage, culminating in my husband lying on the living room floor sobbing, “I wish you could leave, but I know there’s nowhere you can go.”

I ran out of the room, called my best friend, and arranged for their mother to buy me a one-way ticket back to Kentucky to visit them again. I’d only been home a month.

In that week between buying the ticket and the scheduled flight, my husband had said a few times, with more or less conviction, “You don’t have to do this.”

Which “you” do I listen to? I did not ask because getting answers for anything had gotten worse over the years until it was now impossible. Do I listen to “drunk 2am you”, or do I listen to “sober you”? I wasn’t necessarily a believer in alcohol being a kind of truth serum, but because of our history together, I was wary.

“You said you needed space,” I said.

I did not say, I’m tired, I’m sick, and I’m sore from having to get my gallbladder out.

I did not say, While I was recovering from surgery, you left me on the sofa while you worked, hung out with your cousins, and had sex with another woman.

I did not say, Your response to me suggesting that we get separated was to fling yourself into the arms of another woman and then come home drunk, crying to me about how the sex wasn’t even good, as if that was my fault. I didn’t tell you to have sex with the first woman who would talk to you!

I did not say those things because I needed him to drive me to the airport. My ability to get to the airport where my best friend would be waiting hung in a delicate balance.

He looked both stymied and frustrated at my using his own words against him. “You scared me. Are you sure you’re up to doing this?” He meant the excruciating and mysterious leg cramps I had earlier in the morning, which, in a fit of desperation, I had asked him to massage out. That had worked, sort of. Mostly, I was surprised he had been willing to do something like that for me.

“I feel better,” I said with grim conviction. “Please take me to the airport. When you really want me to come home, all you’ll have to do is tell me, and I’ll come back.” We had already discussed that he didn’t know how much time he needed to himself.

He started the SUV, backed out of the driveway, and glided up the hill and out of our residential community. For whatever reason, the combination of saying “please” and “I’ll come back” motivated him to actually drive me to the airport, walk me to the security checkpoint, and let me go.

If that sounds like I’m talking about a hostage situation, I am. Imagine any Lifetime movie, and you’ll get the vibe.

The Romance

When he proposed to me in my room at my parent’s house, I felt like I was living out a completely different movie. I was 19, and he had just turned 22. We had met in our college’s creative writing class. We had been dating for five months. He played a song he wrote for me on his acoustic guitar, got down on one knee, and asked me to marry him. Despite him not having a ring, I was charmed. In fact, the lack of a ring just made it feel more like one of those summer rom-coms about plucky and poor college kids falling in love.

We used to be able to talk about anything. We’d have long, deep talks about pop culture, watch movies together, swap our favorite bands and TV shows, go out to diners to eat, and browse in bookstores. He discussed the philosophical meaning of Spider-Man, and I explained the logical fallacies of The Joker. We watched Jurassic Park, Alien, and Jaws and discussed themes of the fear of science and the non-human. We bonded over our love of The Beatles, and I brought in The Beach Boys and Queen while he brought in Blink-182 and Weezer. He introduced me to It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and South Park, and I re-introduced him to Columbo and Murder, She Wrote. I introduced him to Agatha Christie and Rex Stout, and he introduced me to Stephen King and Michael Crichton.

I thought we were broadening each other’s tastes and becoming a part of each other’s lives. He would bring home ingredients, and I would cook dinner. Then, we would watch TV, snuggle, and have sex. I thought we were experiencing the same story about the two of us together.

But we weren’t.

The Abuse

The signs were there, but I wasn’t reading them. Something that happened early on is a prime illustration that I had actually married an abuser.

He had a meltdown when I accidentally put one of his paychecks through the wash while doing laundry. He punched the wall next to me, then demanded that I go with him to his workplace and tell his manager what I did. On the way, he yelled at me not to cry. When we got there, he literally brought me to his manager and told the man what I did. The manager laughed it off, saying that he should thank me for doing his laundry, and then explained to him that all the payments were on the computer and all the manager had to do was print another check. But he didn’t apologize to me on the way home. Instead, he thanked me for coming with him and for not crying.

It was only when incidents like that went from once a year to twice a year to once a month that I believed that my marriage was out of control. When it became twice a month, I weighed the pros and cons of a trial separation period. When it was almost every week, I actually asked him to consider a separation. He was also putting his hands on me at this point. I was never severely injured, but I was shaken.

When he said that he wished there was somewhere else for me to be, I knew I had to get out of there, or he would throw me out. He was working himself up to it. I knew the signs by now. “I wish” would turn into “I will make this happen”.

So I called my best friend and arranged a one-way plane ticket to be paid back later, which loops us back to the beginning of the story.

The Divorce

I stayed at my best friend’s house until we could find an apartment for me. My husband financially cut me off despite knowing I was seriously ill (but that’s a different story). My response was not to find a job. I told him that I'd come home as soon as he said he wanted me to.

Instead, he claimed that he had fallen in love with one of his coworkers.

After months of back and forth over the telephone with my husband, not wanting to face being divorced, it transformed into the realization that I was working a job, living by myself, and managing it with help from my best friend and their mom.

One day, I asked. “Are we getting divorced?”

“I don’t know,” he said, seeming shocked and offended I had brought that word into our lives. “I haven’t thought about it.”

It’s a normal question to ask when your husband, whom you’ve been separated from, tells you he’s fallen in love with another woman. “I think we’re getting divorced,” I told him.

“Give me some time to think about it,” he snapped.

So I did.

Two years later, I asked him again what exactly we were doing. He said, “I don’t know.”

To be clear, in those two years, I was not waiting with bated breath. I was resolving my serious medical issues and figuring out how to make a poverty-level but barely adequate living doing something I could still do.

Although my husband “couldn’t” find a way to visit me when it looked like I would die, now that I had recovered and was talking about divorce, he made a way to come see me for five days to try to talk me out of actually pulling the trigger on irreversible legal action. He did absolutely nothing financially meaningful for me, although he was quick to show me how much spending money he could amass for a mere 5-day vacation ($700) and insisted on taking me out to a restaurant every day. In the end, before he left, he bottom-lined that he wanted a sex-based arrangement and that he was fine staying separated as long as I had sex with him whenever he was in town.

My best friend sat him down and patiently attempted to explain to him that this was the same thing as asking me for a divorce, as it is not legally or financially tenable to stay married under those circumstances.

He replied that he understood. Then he went home and refused to divorce me. This was done by saying he was too busy to do it, then repeatedly “losing” the paperwork he needed to complete for the divorce.

Meanwhile, he still would not send me the belongings I had at his house, which were not much. I had not entered the marriage with more than clothes, a computer, and stuffed animals. The computer was now obsolete.

At the start of the new year, my New Year’s resolution was to text him that I would be angry if he didn’t send my belongings. This was a bold move. He had frequently told me he couldn’t stand for me to be angry at him. After he weaponized so many of my feelings, I finally weaponized one of his. He was infuriated.

I can’t afford that, he texted.

Then I’ll pay for it, I texted back.

You won’t be able to pay for it.

My best friend’s mother had already volunteered. I texted that I could and would pay for everything. He would take a picture of the receipt and receive payment in full through PayPal.

He refused to use flat shipping boxes and weighed down all the boxes with books. We had bought the majority of those books together. Those idyllic trips to the bookstore had transformed into an ugly expression of hatred.

I paid him, and he was furious again.

But there is one item I had to cry and beg for: the stuffed rabbit my mother gave me for my 6th birthday. My one oversight when I left was that I didn’t pack Bun-Bun.

Yes, I am, in fact, telling you that my ex-husband refused to give me the most sentimental present my mother ever gave me. My husband told me that he snuggled with Bun-Bun every night. “He is so soft and warm.” I am not kidding. I could not even make that up.

I finally had a nervous breakdown six months later, called him, and wept at 1 a.m. about needing Bun-Bun. Sounding both groggy and actually slightly ashamed of himself, he promised to send Bun-Bun.

“I sent Bun-Bun in the mail,” he said over the phone the next day. “I hope you get him okay and he shows up soon.”

It took two weeks. And he knew that it would take that long. His final act of revenge was to act like my request for Bun-Bun might cause Bun-Bun to get lost in the mail forever.

As soon as Bun-Bun arrived, it was over. I began the painful process of initiating divorce paperwork from my end.

Everything that follows is more or less like one of those movies that begin with a divorce and end with hanging out with your best friend swaying to alterna music with a glass of wine in one hand and fairy lights prominently featuring in the décor. I have to cut out parts that don’t fit to make that narrative happen, but these events are largely true in and of themselves.

After my divorce papers came in the mail, then, finally, came the dancing in my best friend’s living room. The wine really goes to my head, though, so I don’t partake.

The Life After

I’m a graduate student with experience as a freelance editor of novels now. Despite my health struggles, I write every day. As my profile says, I’m happily divorced.

How did I get to this point?

To overcome the loneliness of being the only person in my bed, I collected stuffed animals to help Bun-Bun out. When I really need a cuddle at night, I have my stuffed animals, and they’re guaranteed not to grope me or snore. An instant improvement over the ex-husband.

I didn’t push myself to date anyone. Instead, I’m enjoying quality time with my best friend. Connecting to my fellow female grad students in my program is also a lovely experience. We’re strong, intelligent women, and we have our own lives.

Having an apartment by myself was unutterably lonely at first. My best friend understood and let me sleep the night at their house whenever I got overwhelmed by emptiness, but that happens less and less now. I’m learning to reclaim taking up space in my world.

My apartment is less than half the size of my ex-husband’s home, but his home felt so small, and my apartment feels so big. I have a bedroom area, office area, bathroom, living room, and kitchen just for me? This is all for me? It feels luxurious, like almost too much space for one person like I’m greedy in soaking in all in.

But I’m not greedy. I want to exist in the world and have my own place in it instead of being squished into someone else’s story as an afterthought or, worse, as a possession. And I do.

My best friend let me talk to them until I was ready to discuss my husband with my therapist. At first, I didn’t want to. It felt overwhelming.

Telling this story is another way of retaking, reclaiming, and planting my feet in my own space. Here I am. This is me.

And what happened to me was never my fault.

Amanda Melheim is a Grad student, ulcerative colitis survivor, happily divorced, and a neurodiverse nerd who loves learning new things and wants the world to be a kinder place. Please follow her for more brilliant stories, and please follow PartingWays.