WEEK 2

Teacup Tuesday

Today I sat at 3 kitchen tables and drank gallons of tea. Probably needed to re-hydrate as the lachycrimose glands show no sign of moderating their output. I visited the 3 Sisters; Sisters 1 and 2, both older than me and Sister 3, younger than me in years but immeasurably older than me in common sense. That’s according to her. My husband refers to the 4 of us as “The Coven”.  With Sister 1, I drink 3 cups of tea and snuffle my way through 2 chocolate biscuits. With Sister 2 (the champion tea drinker in the family) I end up being forced to drink 3 large mugs of tea, accompanied by a sandwich and two homemade buns.  With Sister 3, it’s just a coffee as I can’t look another cup of tea in the face. I’m not very hungry these days either. With all of them, I spill my guts out. They want to know what they can do to help. Their kindness makes me bawl even more. I have to stop them beating themselves up because they never realized that my situation was what it was. How could they? I was always making the best of things, counting my very real blessings and always hoping that somehow things would magically come right. Plus we were raised like all others of our generation not to talk about stuff like that. Don’t be selfish. Always put others before yourself. So that’s what we did. 

Anyway after all that it’s only surprising that we’re not wading across the kitchen floor through a sea of wadded tissues. Al least now The Coven knows what the story is.  That’s something. They decide we are going to go out to dinner on Friday, together with Nieces 1 and 2. Niece 3 can’t make it.

Research Wednesday  Blues

I don’t know how to cope with a broken heart, a broken dream, a broken spirit and if I keep wallowing in tears and self pity like this I’m going to need a wetsuit and flippers soon. Stop. Be sensible. What’s the first thing to do when you don’t know how to do something? Plenty of research.  Visits to Chapters, Easons, The Gutter Bookshop and Bargain Books yield the following books;

“When a relationship ends.”

“Re-claiming your creativity.”

“Finding your own North Star.”

“Flourishing”

“Thinking Fast and Slow.”

“Anam Cara.”

“The Game of Life and how to play it.”

“I can mend your broken heart.” (CD with this one)

“Feel the fear and do it anyway.”

“Discovering you.”

I throw in a “Mindfulness Meditation” set of CDs for good measure.

That should cover all the bases.  I’ll start with Discovering Myself and Mindfulness Meditation.  Surely I’ll be ok in no time with all this help... I start reading…

Why do they always assume that a new hairstyle or some new clothes does anything other than dress up a walking heartbreak?  Calling it a “breakover” instead of a “makeover” doesn’t change anything either. I don’t particularly like shopping even when accompanied by a latte and a lemon meringue slice… New hairstyle?  New clothes?

I have lots of clothes. I spend most of my off-work time in tracksuits and jeans anyway.

The realization hits me in the face; my self esteem is in ribbons. I’ve been in denial about this the way I’ve been in denial about everything.  I need to reclaim every bit of myself;

My voice, my sense of joy, my feminine self. I need to become my own woman again. Why DON’T I just go out and buy some new stuff?

This week I’ve started attending a weekly yoga class, although I find myself wishing the tutor would just get on with it – it’s all very slow.  I’m mindfully meditating i.e. falling asleep listening to the CD and waking with a sore ear from lying on the hard plastic earpiece. I’m writing 3 pages of affirmations every morning when I’d rather just eat my cereal and go to work.

“”Looking good makes you feel good. Start from the inside out. Buy yourself some nice new lingerie. You need to feel good about you, appreciate yourself, and cherish yourself. Reclaim the unique woman that you are“

Um…ok. I’ll kick-start the “I love me” campaign with some new things. “Because I’m worth it.”  I’ll go into town on Saturday morning and pick shops I’ve never been in.

Knicker Saturday

First stop is a swish Lingerie Emporium on the Boulevard of Rich People Shop Here.  It’s a tiny shoebox of a place. I’m looking through racks of this, that and the other, when a man enters the shop accompanied by a small ambulant man-child and another man-child strapped into a buggy. The assistant who has been hovering round me leaves me to attend to the newcomers. The man would like to see some silk nighties. I’m busy wondering if it’s for him, the children’s mother or his own mother. The way to a wife’s heart is not via a full length long sleeved Victorian nightdress, me thinks. But each to their own.  In the meanwhile the children are bored. The elder boy is behind the counter playing “shop” with the cash register. The Knicker Seller appears not to realize this. The Buggy Monster is screaming the place down – not happy that older brother is free and he is trussed into the buggy like a chicken on a supermarket tray. He kicks the footplate repeatedly. I narrowly avoid getting kicked myself- it’s a very bijou establishment.  “Let me ouuuut” he shouts. Papa is examining a lace trimmed version that wouldn’t disgrace a Mother Superior and appears oblivious to the fact that his younger offspring is screaming and kicking at a rail of feather trimmed basques. Oh my.   Older Brother has been busy rummaging in the Bargain Basket.  He is now pulling on the elastic of a black satin thong, aiming it at Little Bro’s head, and releasing it like a slingshot. Little Bro is in danger of getting concussion – from a gusset.  Still screaming blue murder, the Buggy bound One manages to reach up and grab the credit card terminal off the counter and is now bashing it off same. This gets the Knicker Sellers attention. The shop is so tiny, I’m surprised we’re not all deaf and the plaster isn’t falling off the walls from all the noise. Finally Papa takes control of the Juniors, pays for the Victorian Cream silk number (good luck with that one) and peace reigns in the little shop. The assistant returns to me. I’m not impressed with any of it. Still. Inn the end, I bought a nice little cornflower blue ruched chiffon number embroidered with little blue forget-me-not flowers and a hot red ribbon lace set styled in the French tradition. Oh yeah. The book said something about black stockings…Don’t you need good big meaty legs, like the women in a Rubens or a Toulouse Lautrec painting, to wear stockings? I don’t HAVE legs that could kick start a jet. I’m slender.   I add a pair of black stockings to my little pile on the counter and throw in a pair of ivory silk Italian lace top stockings as well. With the High Cs of the little brat still ringing in my ears, I hand over the equivalent of two weeks’ grocery shopping.

Later in the quietness of my bedroom, I try on my purchases and survey myself in the mirror. I’m wearing red lace and black stockings. There is only one thing to do. The Can Can.  La la la la la la la, la la la la la la, la la la LAH LAH LAH LAH.  I high kick round the bed and then collapse, breathless, on top of it. Just as well I didn’t attempt to do the splits. I’d have had to call an ambulance.

Weeping, Wailing - and Flashing

WEEK 1

Weeping and Wailing Wednesday.

After the session with the counsellor, I went back to my office and tried to concentrate on my

work, all the time trying to stem the tears gushing like an oil well when the drill finally hits the

mother lode.  Due to unfortunate, completely unexpected and impossible- to- plan-for

circumstances; we were down 2 members of staff.  Every day was spent running between 3

desks in 2 different offices, besides which urgently trying to recruit temporary help. I was

determined; everything that needed to be done would get done. I can’t let my colleagues down.

 Exhausted going to bed, exhausted getting up. The days are a blur.  I’m trying to drown out all

the thoughts in my head and get some sleep with the help of crisps and wine, cocoa and toast.

Valerian and camomile tea.  Nothing works. I’m running on empty. And the tears keep coming.

And where’s my sense of humour gone?

That Wednesday passed slowly. Eventually I got home and slumped on the sofa. When he came in from work I was still sitting on the sofa, still crying.  “This ends, and it ends now” I say.  I have absolutely no idea how to sort things out. We have been married 24 years.  My home is my sanctuary.  But today has forced me to acknowledge that things are not all right and my body is telling me I need to do something about it. It seems my soul couldn’t get through to me.

We agree that he will move out and rent an apartment for 6 months while we think about things. We will jointly pay all the bills for both establishments. 

Later in the week, as one landlady doesn’t get back to him and an estate agent turns up an hour late and without the keys of the apartment he is to view, he is getting pretty annoyed. Eventually he gets to view a few places. He is considering one in particular that would suit.

Enter the Dragon Friday

We go to see the Chinese State Circus and bring my nephew. A circus without animals; wonderful.  I am entranced by the balletics, the rainbow costumes, the Shaolin monks and most especially the silk Dragon. But always, “what to do what to do what to do” beats like a pulse in my brain regardless of what I am doing.   It loops endlessly through my days and nights now.   We drop my nephew off and return home in silence. There is no war between us. But there is no ease either.

         Skype Saturday

Followed my usual Saturday night routine; had a shower, threw on my bathrobe and slumped on the sofa. Samsung Notebook on my knees, film on television and snacks on the coffee table. A friend calls me from Canada on Skype. I installed it this week, not used it yet. Love the idea of being able to see people as well as chat. His face pops up on my little screen. “Hi” I say, delighted. “I can see you!”   He replies “I can’t see you.  Do you see the little video symbol at the bottom of your screen? Click on it and I should be able to see you.”  So I clicked. “Can you see my face now?” I ask. “Hell yeah” he says laughing. “Never mind your face; I can see your nip-“OH, NO!   I didn’t realise my robe had fallen open. I’m so used to being on my own that it never occurred to me to check what I was wearing. I don’t DO wardrobe malfunctions. I’m a person who would never sunbathe topless or be anything less than appropriately dressed.

Now I’ve flashed – and on the Internet.  Mortified.com. Even if he is an old friend. Probably especially as he is an old friend.

Smiley Happy Sunday

He goes a-visitin’ and if Dr Jekyll went out, Mr Hyde came back. He has changed his mind. Apparently I’m the only one with a problem.  I should be the one to move out. Hello?  If I move out, the house will most likely go to rack and ruin, although the goldfish will be fed. Nor will he do anything to sort out the relationship or deal with figuring out new living arrangements. I’d just be in limbo in a rented place. Forever.

What to do?

Talk to family and visit a lawyer. There must be a way to sort out this mess. There must be. The jack is out of the box and there is no forcing him back.

Things would be so much easier of I didn’t love him. But in spite of everything, I do. Or do I? I’m not sure of anything any more. I don’t even know who I am anymore. Sometimes I feel trapped, a bird beating its wings against glass. But there is also a shared history of many years and many memories. Nothing and no one is ever all bad. Not him, not me, not our relationship And the tears keep flowing and flowing. The bloody tap won’t turn off.

Reading back over this, I detect serious levels of “Oh, poor me” Oops. Better lighten up. And fast. Before Pollyanna turns into the Princess of Darkness.

Next step; talk to the family and make an appointment with a solicitor who deals with Family Law. I am absolutely determined to do whatever has to be done with grace. There will be no fighting, no nastiness and no bitterness. I wouldn’t be able for that anyway. No.  I must manage things with weapons of grace and dignity. Honesty and generosity are a given already. He knows this. Hopefully he will respond in kind.

PROLOGUE

I regard the state of my hair as a metaphor for the state of my life. Many times have I said to myself; No wonder I can’t control my life- I can’t even control my hair. Probably as I sailed into yet another business meeting attired elegantly and appropriately in a nice business   suit and sensible shoes – topped by hair that made me look like I had been dragged through a hedge backwards. Here are just some of the hair-related remarks that have punctuated my life;

At school; Sr. Benedict; “You” …she’d say as she dug her knuckles into my shoulder. (A move I’ve seen martial arts practitioners use to paralyse people). “You…don’t come to school again without brushing your hair.” Useless to protest that I had already shed tears that day as my poor mother strove to untangle the riot of curls with a comb.

At work; a male colleague remarked that he could always identify me from the back – as no one else on the workforce had “leonine” hair like mine.

My brother-in-law; “It’s funny but that kind of scraggy hairdo or whatever you call it, suits you.”  (Was that actually meant to be a compliment?) And I think “bedhead” is the correct technical term…

The Postman; “Are you just up?” This at 2.30 in the afternoon…

No, I don’t have neat and tidy hair.  But then, life is not neat and tidy either.

I had to get my photo taken a few months ago for my CV. The instructions for women were; no jewellery, plain dark top, straight hair, not pinned up. So I went to the hairdresser and got my hair straightened for the photo. The result? A photo of me that doesn’t look like me, to show people what I look like in real life, only of course I don’t.

A while ago, I decided to try a different hairdresser. One who had obviously qualified in a different country, if not on a different continent.  Got stuck into the coffee and magazines and paid no attention to what my new, non-national hairdresser was doing. The result? By the time I surfaced from photos of the royal wedding I had been given a short –back- and –sides and scrunch dried. I looked like a very fetching dish scrubber.  Lunch time hair activities over, I went back to work. One of my Company Directors observed me in silence for a few minutes before he came out with; “I don’t know how to describe it, (allow me to describe it for you- brillo pad) but it suits you”.  Later another Director came into my office; “I like the new hairstyle –it takes years off you Oh God I suppose I shouldn’t have said that”. Hello? Do I normally look a hundred and ninety and just hadn’t noticed? I had to stop him in his tracks before he upset himself. It didn’t bother me in the slightest, not after all these years.

The piece de resistance? On Christmas Eve I had my hair done and headed straight from the hairdressers to visit my Mother in her nursing home. She took one look at me and said: “Did you not  get your hair done for Christmas”

I rest my case.

So is it any wonder that I’m now divorcing? I decided to write a divorce diary, a week by week, blow by blow (no, not literally, we haven’t resorted to fisticuffs -yet) account. As you see, my blog photo is obviously not me but it does reflect my feelings which are hedgehog-like. I just want to curl up in a ball. When this is all over I will close this divorce diary and my last post will be a photo of me, the new me or rather the old me in the new life. That’s my intention anyway. In a way, this will be a sort of going backwards, forwzrds and sideways journal. One thing I will promise; everything in it will be true. No matter whether I want to admit it or not.