November 15th 2009.
That's the date that everything changed.
The Ex and I had been having problems - on and off for a few months. We had had our biggest fight back in August. Maybe I should have been more alarmed by how things were, but a lot of the shifts I attributed to the natural fading of the honeymoon glow combined with the fact that the Ex and I were living together, in a different city and away from home for the first time.
If that's not a period of adjustment, I don't know what is.
There was more to it than that and the Ex saw it all - or perhaps he wasn't content to settle for what was. Part of the problem seemed to be that we just couldn't communicate as effectively as we once did. This was highly frustrating for two people who used to be able to talk endlessly for hours upon hours. I would often come home from school, stressed and the fact that some minor chore hadn't been done would turn my mood for the worse. The Ex can read me like a book; he can tell by how emotionless my face becomes, the slight downturn of my mouth, the hardening of my eyes and the deceptively cool, passive expression that I'm livid.
Being a talker, he'd always would want to talk about it. His first girlfriend had always said never to go to bed angry.
Being a secretly tempermental person, I would want a cooling off period. I was always afraid of saying something I would regret in a heated moment when I lost my temper. I can be so very mean so I'm constantly reining myself in, checking myself. I'm also very careful about the fights and issues I do choose to bring up. Not everything is a big deal; not everything is worth fighting over. Being ruled by emotional whims all my life, I've learned that some days, when my mood is black - one dirty sock left on the floor will trigger nothing short of an avalanche of anger. Other days, I wouldn't notice an entire hamper of dirty laundry in the middle of the bedroom floor. I've learned to wait, to see if the stormy feelings would pass - or not.
The Ex took my silence to mean I was avoiding the problem so he would press the issue. I would further retreat. He would question me, with the good intention of resolving things amicably. I'd glower at him, feeling attacked and feeling like my wishes not to talk were not being respected. We fed into each other's biggest annoyances.
I was sitting on the couch, laptop on the coffee table in front of me. It was about 2 a.m. The Ex had gone upstairs to try to get some sleep about an hour earlier but I heard his footfalls as they thumped down the steps, back into the living room.
He was carrying himself in an odd manner. "What's wrong?" I asked. While he could read me like a book, I wasn't entirely clueless about him either.
The Ex hesitated for the briefest of a second. I remember he looked at me and his whole body language changed. He almost seemed defeated, like he had been caught red-handed and cornered. He told me, as he walked towards me on the couch:
I'm not happy; I don't think this is working out...
I actually don't remember hearing his exact words but I remember feeling them. I remember how this coldness hit me in the middle of my chest, right above the breastbone and radiated outwards. My arms were heavy and numb; the outside world was buzzing a little in my ears. The cheap Ikea lamp was suddenly too bright as to make the room hazy. The Ex was sitting next to me on the couch now and I managed to croak out, "Are you asking for a separation...?"
He looked taken aback at my question, as if he had only planned on telling me he wasn't happy without further thought into the next step, but he replied in the affirmative.
I burst into tears.
That's truly the only way to describe it. Any ounce of pride or strength withered as I broke beneath the weight of the news. The shock of it all struck me like a blow to the face; it left me reeling. I was gasping, between sobs, "I can't believe this is happening. Oh my God. I can't believe this is happening."
I really couldn't.
This was all wrong. All wrong. It wasn't supposed to turn out this way. When I married him, there wasn't a whisper of doubt. I was sure.
Divorce is something that happens to other people. Not me. Not to us. It never occurred to me that divorce was even a possibility. Sure, we had our problems but I never thought it was that bad. We had never had the screaming rows, we never threw things at the other - we were never blazingly angry at the other.
But that's why it was deceptive. You don't need a relationship to shatter under the hammer-like force of one fight. It can be ruined by a slow, steady erosion as well - a wind which slowly wipes away the details of why you were together in the first place. Somehow, when I wasn't looking and paying attention, the Ex and I had drifted apart so badly that he wanted out. They say you have to work hard to keep a marriage together. I always thought that's what I had been doing: I cooked him his favourite meals, I did the laundry, I went grocery shopping. I thought I was being a stellar example of a prototypical 1950s housewife, apron, iron and all.
But it's not what he wanted. He didn't care about the carefully planned dinner or the immaculately folded shirted. The Ex wanted an emotional companion; he would have been perfectly happy eating bagels for the rest of his life if it meant we could have stimulating and challenging discussions when he came home from work. He would have been happy wearing rumpled T-shirts if it led to fewer chores and more free time. I thought I could do both and have an efficient household and be a loving wife, but the former often left me totally exhausted and incapable of doing the latter.
What did I want? I wanted the life that was consciously stitched together. Good clothes. Good food. Good times. I wanted us to feel assembled, pulled together; a young, ambitious power couple. The lawyer and the doctor. For whatever reason, I had assumed that once we moved to The Big City, the Ex would become an urban explorer with me. We would go to museums, and cafes and see shows. Fine dining would be involved, possibly shopping at quirky boutiques. We would grow and blossom in this city together. Instead, I found myself heading to cafes alone and going to off-Broadway shows with Robby. Reflecting back on it now, I understand it was unfair of me to expect such a drastic change from the Ex - why would I have married one man and expect him to turn into somebody completely different? He had never once, in the years we had been together, shown a disposition for constantly going out. He was a homebody. But he was my homebody and now I was losing him.
I cried for well over an hour, leaving The Ex to try to console me with the suddenly new limitations on our relationship. How much could he hold me without it crossing the boundaries? I didn't think I would ever stop bawling; I was shaking so hard, hunched over and hugging my knees. A mountain of crumpled tissues built up around me. I kept thinking back to the wedding, the 200 guests, the vows, the pomp and circumstance - what did all that mean in the end? Nothing? How would I be able to face anybody, ever again? The deep mortification that I had failed in such a spectacular and public manner loomed. The label of ex-girlfriend doesn't carry the permanency of Divorcee. First Wife. Starter Marriage.
Failure. That's what I was. I couldn't even get my marriage right.
When I calmed enough to speak without hiccoughing, we discussed logistics. We agreed nobody would move out; we even agreed to continue sharing a bed. But most importantly - we agreed to seek counseling before anything drastic and final took place. This calmed me the most; I was sure I could wrestle this relationship back from the brink. You just don't toss away something special and we had something special.
If I hadn't been working hard and fighting for my marriage before - dammit, I was going to do it now. I just hope it wasn't too late.
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