I know the exact date of DDay (Divorce Day, aka the day I heard my partner of 15 years’ voice over the phone say he wanted one from hundreds of miles away) because I wrote on my tiny desk calendar “Worst day of my life!!“. I did it so that I could look back at it and remember that it’s already happened, so I don’t have to be afraid of it anymore. 17 weeks. 17 weeks of literal gut-wrenching levels of anxiety. 17 weeks of therapy, meditation, self regulation exercises. 17 weeks of cycling through little deaths and resurrections like a frail baby Phoenix rising from the ashes of it’s own dead body. Is life suffering, or is life what we make of it? Am I a man, or am I a Muppet? Anyways… 17 weeks may not sound like a lot, but it certainly feels like a lot. It’s been painful, but more than that… it’s been freeing in a way that sometimes scares me. Everyone is always so shocked when I try to describe this feeling to them. Surprised, confused, concerned. And after all, it would be ridiculous for me to expect my friends and family to just believe that this euphoria I find in being alone isn’t some psychosis brought on by denial and THC dependence. But I’ve felt this way for as long as I can remember.
When I started having sex, it was in high school with my best friend. I don’t want to call him my “ex” because we never really dated- hooking up in secret consistently for three years with someone you weren’t in a relationship with not only baffled my fellow classmates/friends but also any trusted adult I tried to explain my feelings to, seeking answers they couldn’t even give. Every single person friend or enemy was convinced I was in love with him and in denial about it, hanging around waiting for him to realize he was in love with me too. I was so insulted by this- did they truly think I was that pathetic? That I had no self-respect? A desperate slutty girl with daddy issues am I? And the irony is I didn’t think I was any of those things, until they started telling me I was. I’m still not quite sure why I seem to be the only one who can wrap my mind around fucking without feelings. I knew that I needed the orgasms, but I also knew I didn’t need the people who gave them to me. Weren’t humans also animals, was sex not just a primal instinct buoyed by hormones and neural pathways engrained in our DNA for millennia that just so happens to be very enjoyable? And shouldn’t we take advantage of that biologically rare gift? The love I felt for my family and friends was so visceral, so deep, so intense- it was already the purest, easiest love I could ever hope to have. I never desired the seemingly obvious complications that came with romantic love. The cons seemed to outweigh the pros to me personally. When my mom confronted me about letting my friend take my virginity instead of saving it for someone special, I calmly and logically explained to her that it looked messy and painful so I just wanted to “get it over with”. I was so staunch in my belief that this is what I wanted that even she never denied it.
I don’t know if everyone else managed to brainwash me, or if I managed to brainwash myself into believing it all. But either way, eventually when I met my ex-husband unexpectedly during the last semester of my senior year of high school, I could not believe my good fortune that such a responsible handsome young gentleman would be interested in me, the weird little freak that I felt like I was at the time. I would thank a God I didn’t believe in every day. I would rack my brain for what good deed could have possibly earned me such karmic luck. He wanted to make an honest woman out of me, and I needed a shield, someone normal to hide behind so no one would point and laugh at the neurodivergent loser girl that no one understands. He never even understood me completely, not really- I learned quickly how to be exactly what he wanted me to be because I was not losing that protection at any cost.
I was obsessed with him, truly. I still would be right this moment if he hadn’t chosen to leave. I wouldn’t even have this stupid “blog”, even though my thoughts and feelings themselves aren’t necessarily recent epiphanies. I had gotten so incredibly good at staying silent, following his lead, terrified my mask would slip and he would run away screaming. He was tall dark and handsome, he made me cum regularly (although he never loved sex the way I did), and he was smart and capable. I grew up watching a pathetic excuse for a man in my father, and I saw a mother who was always yelling and never compromised.
So this was an obvious answer to all potential problems that only required two things from me:
- Find a strong, capable role model for my two younger brothers.
- Never yell, and always compromise.
And I was so good at it. That’s what happens when you put as much effort into something as I did in this. If there was an Olympic event in being an awesome girlfriend, I had the determination and dedication to bring home gold. Every day I woke up the same as Sisyphus did to his rock, but my “rock” was how to be the sexiest, the humblest, the most obliging, the most respectful woman, slut, maid, whore, angel, devil, mother, friend, cool girl. Because if I ever stopped thinking about what he needed and what he wanted, if I slipped up for even a moment, I knew he was always surrounded by sweet and so temptingly normal women who were foaming at the mouth for a chance with someone like him. He was perfect, and if he knew that underneath this human suit I put on the day I met him was a monster, a beast, an alien, I would lose everything.
Thankfully, being the perfect woman wasn’t hard. Many traditionally feminine traits came naturally to me already, and I was zealous in my efforts to hide anything that may be confused with masculinity that could threaten his. Men and women we knew were obviously jealous of him, of me, of our relationship. I was addicted to that feeling. Therefore, I was addicted to him. But what I was never addicted to was being a girlfriend(/wife). I was never pleased to share my identity with someone; it made me feel like I was losing a crucial piece of me, a piece that hurt to leave behind. I’m a naturally bad communicator- I fall asleep before saying goodnight, and I forget to respond to texts more often than not. My humor is razor whip sharp, I am unapologetically loud and I interrupt often without remorse. My favorite coping mechanism is isolation via long periods of bedrotting (I’m talking less than 500 steps a day). These are all things I love about myself, and they are all things I had to say goodbye to. It felt like putting a square peg in a round hole, it chafed like wool under my skin. But I could live with it. I could live with anything if it meant living with him.
And I know now about attachment styles and how we were so obviously doomed from the start. In the final death rattle weeks of our marriage when I knew he was unhappy and I was desperate to save us I became obsessed with researching having Anxious attachment and a partner who has Avoidant attachment. I bought a book on self-regulation by a practicing therapist as a Hail Mary, and it was actually incredibly enlightening. I spoke in earnest as I reacted calmly and communicated my needs effectively. I got into therapy as proof of how serious I was about fixing myself. It was too late by then, of course. But I didn’t know that. I also didn’t yet know that there is nothing broken in me, so what would there have been to fix anyway? And what if he was actually the broken one in the first place?
Ironically enough the older I got, the more I learned my worth, and the more open I was to receive help from my support system. And with such an awe-inspiring amount of love how could I not gain more and more confidence in myself? And with the more confidence I gained, the more I realized had been allowing myself to be controlled, for years and years and years- 15 is SO many years, guys. My entire 20s, gone and wasted. But I would have allowed it for the rest of my life in fact, happily. I forced myself to allow it- to believe it’s what I wanted. But it’s not what I deserved. It took me a long time to figure that out and I did it in spite of him, not because of him. So excuse me for feeling like I can breathe for the first time now that I don’t have to. But at the end of the day an excuse is not what I’m asking for because I know that’s not what I need. I can promise you that I’ll never allow myself to be controlled like that again- that means I’m done compromising, I’m done being someone I’m not and I really can’t bring myself to give a fuck if you’re bothered by the person I am.
No, I don’t need an excuse- all I need is love. And I already have it.
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