I look up. I’m surrounded by grey and red nylon. There’s a peep of moonlight above me. Underneath me, a soft mattress. Around me, whistling trees and rustling leaves.
I’m not dead, but I thought I would be by the end of this.
Thunderbolts is next to me, breathing quietly, remaining the impartial warrior he has been throughout all of this. Unfortunately, I feel like anything but a sparkly unicorn at the moment.
Two nights ago, my soon-to-be ex wife and I sat down and had a “business meeting” as recommended by our marriage counsellor.
Quite honestly, it’s one of those revolutionary approaches that we really should have thought of sooner. Given that we are both business-focused, and we both are quite adept at operating in a mostly non-emotive way inside business environments (me definitely less so than her), it’s probably the most logical and annoying suggestion made to date. Annoying because it’s logical – and we seemed to have skipped straight over that part (yay, feelings!). If we’d have implemented business meetings before we got to the point of catastrophic failure, maybe things would have ended differently.
That being said, things have ended. We are currently in no-contact, as requested by me, and we are in the throes of finalising this union. She will relocate her shit (after all, “home is where you keep your shit” as another fabulous ex of mine once said) to somewhere else, and I will find another warm body to pay to occupy space in the marital home with me. At the bare minimum, it should subsidise her share of the mortgage and other “why did we buy this house?” related expenses. You know, adult aggravations. The furbabies shall remain with me and I shall inherit all of the fabulous responsibilities that come with owning a tiny plot of land with a structure on it. Cleaning, gardening, general adult-sized despair: tick. I’ve got it all, kid.
The lethargy and general state of Christ, I am useless has started to wear off. I feel different. Not spritely – that’s far too optimistic, but less like death warmed up. I’ve stopped praying for the earth to open up and swallow me, which I’m counting as a considerable advancement.
I’ve resolved to let this seething rage dissipate. So, we aren’t good for each other anymore. So what? Worse things have happened – war, famine – what kind of first world problem is a separation?
Fear of failure is next level when you’ve ventured into proper adulthood. Here I am, mid 30s, no children, effectively single (in that I’m no longer bound by the institution of marriage and am dating; Thunderbolts would vehemently deny the ‘single’ part of that statement) – I’m ok. I still have a home. I still have a business. I still have most of my sanity and a small amount of dignity. I still have hope – for what, I’m not sure, but I’m at peace with the idea I might wake up tomorrow, which seems like a generally positive mindset based on everything I’ve seen on the internet. Things are ok.
Things will be ok. I don’t have to hate. I don’t have to hold on to anger. I don’t have to hold on to resentment. She made mistakes. I made mistakes. Collectively, we made a series of fairly substantial fuck ups that led us to this point – standing in front of signposts that demand we choose between a future together, or not. For the first time in months, we are actually unified. We have made the same decision; we have chosen the same signpost, but different paths.
I feel like I’m almost too zen about this so I’m convinced the wall of angst and regret will hit me hard in the next however-long, but for now, I’m ok.