 You know, I haven't cried at all since I left Todd's house. Not once. I have not been sad for what I have done, leaving him there all alone. I've had no remorse. There is no guilt. There are no pangs of hopeful hurt when my telephone rings. I do not expect text messages; he was never big on those, anyway. I don't even expect him to show up at my work only to get down on his knees and with a prepared, grand outlay of all the reasons why he believes that if you would just come back to me, Liz, maybe we could make it work this time. After all, I'm positive scenes like that only exist in movies. I'm certain scenes like that are almost always orchestrated after everything crumbles, after everything that once was rock hard and steady disintegrates like the pages of a century-old book of poetry by James Whitcomb Riley himself. Like a 'Take 2' in 1943's Holy Matrimony.
I wish I could put my finger right down on the exact season, the exact month, the exact days that Todd and I stopped fighting for our marriage. I wish I could have been aware enough of everything to have marked it on the calendar if only for the visual satisfaction -- if only for the careful consideration and tending and carved-out time in life any other commitment so fairly requires, deserves. DONE, boldly written in serious and thick black Sharpie. No location. No time. Not even a list of reasons why it got sick. Just, simply, DONE. Our calendared DONE dates would likely be different. I mean, no two people ever quit trying on the same day of the world. No two people put their hands out together in a two-person huddle and do a team "Aaaaah, BREAK!" just prior to leaving the house to divorce each other, as though it is something you find to do after scrambled eggs, even if you eat your breakfast at the dining room table and he eats his on the couch. It just doesn't happen like that. Does it? I am not one to place blame on others. Matter of fact, I have willingly and gladly assigned blame unto myself for years as being The One at Fault for the demise of my marriage. After all, I drank for 3 years straight. Three YEARS. I drank to cope because, goodness, I couldn't eat! Todd had every right to be DONE with me for not shaping up and dropping the bottle. Sure, I'd promise to stop drinking...but then turn around and pick it right back up again. Vicious cycle is what it was, much like what became of our marriage...fight, rest, fight, rest, fight, rest, sob. I wanted SO much to be well. I wanted nothing more than to enjoy my daughter and to laugh and play without living in fear of my very own horrible, awful secret. I wanted nothing more than to be desired and wanted by my husband again. But, no. The alcohol killed all of that for me, and more. But to say it was the only thing working to kill my marriage isn't exactly true and it sure isn't accurate. Also? It's completely unfair. But I'm not here to place blame. I took the blame upon myself for years and even did everything I could possibly think of to try and redeem myself...and when nothing worked, I tried harder to land on something that would finally finally! let him forgive me. Nothing I did worked. Nothing I tried, it seemed, showed him that I was sorry enough for him to take a step back and look at my progress, how far I had come, and that I had not drank in 2, 3, then 4, 5, or 6 years, and try and even view me in a different light. While I was trying to let go of my hurt and shame for the havoc I had, through my drinking, wrecked on my home, I felt him to be getting angrier. More restless. More hateful. He had anger toward me for ruining his life, and would tell me every few weeks in one of our emotionally exhausting, tail-chasing arguments that left both of us looking and feeling like death warmed over. When we were DONE with fighting for the night, we'd go our separate ways in the house and I would stew about getting out of there once and for all. I didn't know how, and I didn't know when, but I knew I had to. For the sake of my kids and for the sake of myself and for the sake of every woman out there before me who never left because of what people would think, or because it wasn't that bad, or because there were never any bruises, or because she did not have enough love or respect for herself to know she would be okay without a man, without the notion of all that 'having a man' carries with it, because she didn't think anyone would ever love her again or that they would instead find out about and care too hard about old mistakes. I don't know what thoughts he ever gave any of this, but he always managed to unearth old stuff that had happened and bring it into whatever argument or heated discussion we were in the midst of, even if it did not even pertain to what he supposedly came in from work mad about that night. I honestly hated to see him drive up in the evenings after he clocked out. He'd clock out from his job and make the 45-minute transitional drive home, but it never really felt like walking into our home was an indication that he'd clocked in or tuned in to what we were doing or what we needed or even just that the kids were glad to see him. It didn't feel like he was glad to see me or the kids, and eventually I think my children stopped running into the kitchen to greet him because they knew they would always be met with the same response: The exaggerated eye roll complete with an immediate slumping of shoulders that fell just like a geyser calving; the hesitation at all the loud chatter that 4-, then 5-, and then 6-year-old twins vying for their daddy's attention would cause. I would usually be standing at the kitchen sink in my apron, hair up and looking like the Wrath of the Gods all over again, looking out the window and tending to dishes or dinner, mad because I just knew (!!!) he was gonna be mad, so right away, walking in the door, he'd see my ugly mug first thing. I'm sure he could see both 'trying' and 'you disgust me' twisted up and thrown onto my face like acid I'm sure he imagined instead; he couldn't even bear to look at without wincing...And I could see the chip just perched up there on his shoulder. In fact, an observant onlooker would not have thought it ridiculous had I pointed to it and asked where he'd picked THAT hitchhiker up, because it was a monster. The kids even noticed it gradually gaining weight, and of course, that chip seemed eventually to turn into a boulder. Okay, so maybe not Gibraltar, but certainly something noticeable and heavy and hard to roll away. Unfortunately, he said to me, it just isn't that easy to forgive what I had done to him. And? Just my uneducated opinion, but sometimes, especially when you haven't forgiven yourself or the very person who planted seeds of mistrust, anger, and self-loathing in a young son's mind, it's probably hard to forgive them first so that a person can indeed get on with the rest of his life. Alas, it is what it is and I can honestly say I am not angry about it. I cannot control any body or any mind or any being other than Elizabeth Ann Hancock Watts. I am not sad, either, at least not yet, and I am even, dare I say it? ...a little proud to admit that I am happy for myself for leaving. I cannot remember the exact date I was DONE, and I sure don't know the month or day or year of Todd's DONE, but I am okay with that. We are both just DONE and we are both okay with the direction things have taken. It's odd in a way, and certainly (thankfully!) not riddled with the abusive and drawn-out drama and anger that was the divorce of my parents, but I definitely could not ask for it to be any more mutual or respectful or more chock-full of healthy boundaries than it is right now. And while there is alwaysalwaysalways room for improvement anywhere, I am pleased to say that neither of us have ever seemed happier, and I haven't felt this good in years. Am I dreaming? No. I imagined it this way, after all, and I had decided a few years back that if it was going to happen, at least let it be peaceful in its passing, peaceful in its transition. After all, our kids will repeat whatever examples we are setting for them. We are the people they look to as guides, as curators, as teachers. It is up to us to model love so that our children will live love and give love out again. As parents, if Todd and I couldn't get on the same page and come together without killing each other or compromising our own values for the sake of bending over backwards for a person who would never accept your sacrifices, then we at least owe it to our kids to be DONE with each other and call it a day or call it 15 years. After all, when you disengage and check out of something mentally, heartfully, spiritually looooonnnng before you physically leave, then how is that ever any kind of progress? How is that healthy? Sometimes just acknowledging there is nothing else that can be done, especially when all the fighting has you both so worn out and used up that you're no good to anybody, not even your kids, and surely not even yourself or the one with whom you are supposed to be equally yoked, what then? Isn't it okay at that point to walk away and just be thankful your legs can still hold you up until you reach your destination? Isn't it okay to admit defeat in a game you know you lost a long time ago? Isn't it okay to stop chasing your tail, especially if you're ready to stop in your tracks, hold your head up tall, and go find something else to do that you know will make more sense, anyway? Yes. I think yes. I wish Todd luck. He IS a good person, after all. He's smart in some of the ways I am not, like putting stuff together, like math, like knowing how to work stuff and being patient enough to read the manual if he doesn't just automatically know when he takes it out of the box or the package, like someone else I know and how THEY handle it. (Ahem...that someone else is me, and I am HORRIBLE at all those things!) He's funny when he can remember not to be hurtful about it, and in my opinion he wasn't always hurtful, like ever since the day I met him -- I'm convinced it's actually just a nasty side effect of that anger he's bottled up for so long, that's all. My wish for Todd is for him to work on himself and try to forgive the people in his life that he hasn't been able to really forgive quite yet, including himself. He has a lot of guilt about a lot of different things, and things that he had no control over, such as the family dynamic he was born into. My hope for him is that he, too, continues to grow and learn about himself and the world, if that is what he chooses. And, finally, I hope he finds someone to be with when he feels he is ready...but I hope he doesn't do like WE blindly and so naively did 15 years ago and invest our all into the false assumption that it's up to everyone else to make us happy. I'm not always playing with a full deck, but this is something I DO know to be true, because I am right now living it: When first we choose to be happy, happiness has no choice but to follow suit. It's wise to remember, too, that no other person can make it happen. No one can bestow happiness upon us. It cannot be left to us in a will or an estate. I honestly believe it is a pliable and moving thing, a conscious choice, and an intentional habit we develop, happiness. It doesn't just fall into our laps, and nobody serves it up to us on silver platters and then watches adoringly as we lick it clean. Happiness is out there, but you have to make up your mind that it begins with YOU. Happiness is never guaranteed, and it's certainly nothing written into the Declaration of Independence to deem it an instant entitlement. We are not guaranteed happiness, but we ARE guaranteed the right to pursue it. Jefferson's "original Rough draught" is on exhibit in the Library of Congress.[4] This version was used by Julian Boyd to create a transcript of Jefferson's draft,[5] which reads: We hold these truths to be sacred & undeniable; that all men are created equal & independent, that from that equal creation they derive rights inherent & inalienable, among which are the preservation of life, & liberty, & the pursuit of happiness; ... "My mother told me to be a lady. And for her, that meant be your own person, be independent." --Ruth Bader Ginsburg
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