09/19/2010

I’m slowly stripping away us and taking it back down to me.

At first, it felt like a gaping hole when I walked in and saw the tv and entertainment center gone. And I lived with that hole for a while, sat in front of the gaping pile of debris left behind, and hurt. It was the first physical manifestation of this emotional storm that had been brewing.

Then, I cleaned it up. What looked like trash, wasn’t – it was books, and collectibles, and pieces of memories and desires, and some little pieces of him. I packed them up. I treated them gently, respectfully, carefully – these used to be pieces of us, and that makes it worthy of the honor.

The hurt lifted a little then, and I kept packing. Cards, pictures, socks, jewelry, notes, shot-glasses, eyeglass cases, and the like. Little things here and there, marking how we once twined together.

And with each box, I felt lighter. Not to say that there was no sadness, because there was. Laying a single Bonnaroo ticket in the box felt like a little death. And really, it is. It’s the death of us.

I keep packing, just a little bit every night. Taking the posters down from the walls. Stacking everything just so, to make it easier. Easier on me to let it leave? Easier on him to carry out? Am I trying to make this death as kind as possible? Hrmph. I’m cut out to be a minister – trying to make the gouging pain of an unavoidable death easier, to remind those left behind that death is mercy after months of rot.

And I can’t tell him that I hurt too, because I was the one who pulled the plug. Death might be a mercy, but everyone hates the Grim Reaper. And I told him I wanted a divorce.

He thinks I’m selfish. And stubborn. And self-centered. And inflexible. And a liar. And a cheater. He thinks I’m manipulative, and greedy, and a gold-digger. And he thinks all of these things because who I am didn’t – despite years of trying – fit into who he wanted me to be. It’s partially because of who I am – and how I set my boundaries and expectations. It’s partly because of who he is, and how he set his expectations and boundaries.

We tried to bend, to shift, to mold. He gave – but it wasn’t enough for me. I gave – and it wasn’t enough for him. For ten years we tried, and tried, and still we weren’t what the other needed.

I wasn’t willing to try to be a better wife, anymore, and despite all his promises to the contrary, he wasn’t able to be a better husband for me.

Gods, I sound horrible – and I don’t really deny much of it – except for the lying, cheating, and manipulating. I was always as honest with him as I was with myself. Funny, that was part of the problem he had with me – I’d think on things too long before I would talk about it. I was silent until I was sure about what was in my heart, because I never wanted to lie to him.

The sadness is mixed in with peace, though – and love. There’s no real joy, in the death of us for me, there’s just a quiet acceptance in my heart that even though it hurts, it’s love, and it’s for the best for our joy, our health, our wealth, our dreams and desires and demands. As much as we love and loved each other, we weren’t a good fit for each other. We both sacrificed more than we wanted to, and didn’t feel like the return was worth it. We were slowly killing each other together, chipping away at central bits and pieces of who we truly were.

As I do my nightly rounds, packing up pieces of who we used to be, the tiny core that is still me starts to breathe deep and stretch out again. And in that, there is joy. There is peace. There is love.

(finally making this public)