Pancakes Taste Like Poverty: And Other Post-Divorce Revelations

by Jessica Vivian

  Yes, my kids are amazing and I can look at the last ten years and be thankful for that.

  But now that I know what I want, and I have developed standards for what I want in a man – the man I want may not want me —because I have three kids and I am forever attached to the person who helped create them.

  Let me give you a clear picture of what I am feeling right now. My marriage was something like this:

  Let’s say I'm on the beach with a friend, and in the distance I see a really beautiful island. In my head, I visualize myself living on that island paradise in a really cute bikini, sipping drinks out of coconuts and basking in the sun. So I start to swim out to it.

  My friends warn me,

  “Do you have any supplies? What is out there? Do you have bug spray? Is there food? Do you even know how to build a fire? You don't know anything about that island!”

  I ignore them. I’m swimming out to that island. It looks awesome.

  As I get closer, I realize the island is really dirty. I reach it and can hear the wild cries of unknown animals. It appears there are no fruit bearing trees. I can see snakes and spiders in the brush.

  I turn and look back toward the beach I came from.

  It’s far. I have been swimming for a long time. I’m tired and I’m already here. I figure I’ll just hang out for a while, gather my strength and then leave again.

  But days turn into weeks and weeks into months and into years. Wild beasts can attack at any moment so I have to be alert, but eventually learn how to protect myself from them. I learn to build fires. I forage for nourishment.

  I learn to survive.

  I start talking to myself – replacing any needs for actual human interaction. I'm on the verge of losing my sanity.

  Now ten years have passed. I have been wearing the same tattered remains of cloth for the entire decade. I am malnourished; a mere shell of who I used to be. I am hardened. I am bruised. I have infected sores. I am tired of fighting snakes. I am tired of roasting tarantulas for food. I cannot stand one more day on this stupid island. Even if the swim kills me, I am going back to the beach I came from.

  I swim through the shark-infested waters back to the beach to find my old friends. Everyone is so clean and so plump from food. They have enjoyed full spectrum of the richness of life. They have homes. They have affection. They have clean clothes. They wear shoes.

  Suddenly, I feel extremely foolish.

  I left civilization for that bullshit, for a fantasy, and meanwhile, I could have had all this!? What was I thinking!?

  Friends answer, “You were really determined to live on that tropical island. We tried to warn you – holy God, you look like shit.”

  I’m completely dazed. Ten years gone.

  I have forgotten how to be among people. I have forgotten how to care about the way I look. I only needed to know how to avoid death. I forgot how to use a fork. I have been so isolated that I am now an alien. I’m unable to understand human interactions, but desperate to experience them and also terrified.

  That was my marriage. It was complete hell. But I had been there for so long and had adapted so well I didn’t realize quite how bad it was until I left. And it’s not some terrible thing that just happened to me – like a car accident, or cancer. It’s a hell I chose. I walked right into it. I signed the papers. I was at the party. And I was looking right at it, cringing “shit, that looks pretty treacherous,” and still did not turn back from it.

  Why?

  And then Mother’s Day comes around and I know I need to remember that three amazing little souls chose me as their mother and I am so blessed and so honored that I get to have them as my students and teachers for a while. But it’s hard to compartmentalize the joy from the shame, and the grieving of the time lost and the things I have given up.

  And the things I may never have – like a relationship or marriage based on love and respect; not fear and pride.

  I was simply too proud to admit I’d made a mistake. It was an emotionally expensive mistake and I can’t get that time back. But anyway, it is Monday I am finally done grieving. I was not at the cookouts or playdates. I spent the week crying in my shower. But then I spent Sunday cleaning out the things I don’t need. Removing the items that no longer serve me.

  Awkward

  Just when you think you're over the hump your ex-husband walks in with a Brazilian woman.

  I haven't had a week this emotionally challenging since the garbage can incident.

  It all started last Friday when I ran to my kids' grandma's house to drop off the little one to play with her cousins. His car pulls up. Another car pulls up behind. And in it is a tiny, moderately attractive Brazilian woman in yoga gear.

  Hmm...

  They come in. She is completely unable to make eye contact and Johnny tries to make a combination version of himself and make small talk.

  Then the Brazilian asks my daughter the most irritating question:

  "Can I touch your hair?"

  Excellent.

  I feel my throat closing and my heart pounding and my cheeks hot.

  I leave.

  Five to ten minutes later, I am fine.

  I rationalize my feelings.

  I am not jealous, necessarily.

  My ex-husband is in that yoga world. Every woman he meets is going to be much smaller than me and more flexible. I am not even attracted to him anymore. I do not want him back.

  But, it's irritating that I put in ten years of drama and another woman might reap the benefits. He might be a better husband to someone else.

  As a matter of fact, he probably will. The unfairness of it all is disgusting.

  Later, when I compulsively asked him about her, he snapped, "you won't approve of anyone I date until you're dating someone."

  "No, I won't approve of anyone you date because I am here washing thirty pounds of YOUR KIDS' LAUNDRY, scraping together change and lugging laundry baskets and pissy sheets up and down the stairs, while you get to have the time to date someone just because you're too incompetent to raise the kids yourself."

  He accused me of being childish.

  I pointed out that if the tables were turned, he'd be just as affected.

  He insisted he would not.

  Then I did something I am not at all proud of.

  I told him I slept with someone else since we've been apart. I will not share whether or not that is true. It was not my finest moment, and that is exactly my point.

  He and I still have our hooks in each other and we completely bring out the absolute worst in each other. We have way too many years of resentment and we simply cannot see each other. All we see is the last ten years. We see all the insults, all the fights, all the neglect.

  When people asked me why I didn't move back home I felt really noble in my answer. He and I "got along well" and it's what's best for the kids.

  I think every person getting divorced believes they are the exception to the rule.

  We are better than that. No vile courtroom battles for us. How immature!

  Fuck that. I wish I'd moved home. I still wish I was back home.

  The problem with staying close to your ex is that you are still sewn into their life.

  My social circle consists of his mom, his sister, and one of his friends who recently confessed she hooked up with him before she met me.

  Fucking outstanding.

  And since the largest connecting factor in all three of these friendships is the fact that we are both in his life he is often the topic of discussion.

  I am sick to death of him. I am sick of talking about him. I am sick of complaining about him. I am sick of seeing him.

  My job (oh yeah, I got a job, more on that later) is isolating so I don't meet anyone else.

  On one hand, I like having other single-mom friends. On another, I can't handle any more female energy in my life.

  Well-meaning female friends with bucket loads
of advice about how I should handle him.

  Really?

  Is that all I am? Kids and him?

  Either we talk about kids or we talk about him. Do we not have interests?

  It's like blow after blow after blow lately. And the re-ignition of the fact that we still affect each other just fueled our most base and demonic selves.

  After learning of my possible tryst with someone other than himself, he went into a short depression, unable to focus. I loved it.

  Then I asked him about a discipline issue with our son and he pointed out that he thinks it's because I am a bad mom. Ouch.

  And funny, I know it's not true. But it still hurts and he knows it. That's why he said it.

  And I know that he believes he has the right and freedom to date and sleep with whomever and I don't. Hearing that I possibly slept with someone else would emotionally kill him. That's why I said it.

  It's this constant back-and-forth emotional stabbing. We are both highly skilled and well trained.

  We lull each other into a false sense of safety. We get a little friendly. We have some laughs. We start to think "oh yeah, we are friends. We can do this."

  And then WHAM! Emotional assault. And one of us is left bleeding.

  You can almost feel the anger like a disease. He is miserable so he infects me with it. I try to pretend I am not infected so I can trick him into thinking he's gotten away with it and then TAG! You're it!

  It's exhausting. And it's boring. The whole thing has gotten so, so boring.

  I am not one of these people who likes to roll around in misery. I am ready to move on.

  But the community I've created is, like, addicted to it.

  I need a vacation.

  Homesick

  When I first left Mobile, Alabama at eighteen to live in Tampa I could have never predicted that I would want to run back home so much. I am so homesick. I haven't been home in a year.

  Usually around the year-away-from-home mark I become so nostalgic it is unbearable.

  I may be romanticizing because life is so shitty right now but whatever. I miss my mom and my sister and my grandma. I miss azaleas and oak trees. I miss southern accents and smiling at strangers.

  I want to go home.

  Rollercoaster – July 2011

  I quit.

  I just quit.

  If I’d taken the time to read a post-divorce self-help book like a normal divorced person I would have probably learned all about the rollercoaster.

  One week you’re all “BEING SINGLE IS AWESOME! WHY WOULD ANYONE GET MARRIED!?”

  The next week you’re like “being single sucks, I wanna get married…today…to anyone with a pulse.”

  There are two Jessicas occupying my thoughts.

  There is the one who watches the Bachelorette, cries during romantic comedies and is already planning her next wedding. You know, the real one for the real marriage – the first was a run-through.

  The other keeps reminding sappy Jessica that after the bachelorette party and the wedding – the thing no rom-com ever dares tackle – is the actual relationship with another human being.

  That part I’m still a little gun-shy about.

  It’s all so much work – my eyes are literally rolling just thinking about all the damn work. The ego-stroking, the negotiating, the (gulp) compromising. No!!!

  Seriously I am shuddering!!!!

  For a second I thought I was ready to dip m’toe in the dating pool. I set up accounts on three dating sites. None went well. On the first I met one guy, Zack, who within two weeks was chastising me for not calling when I said I was going to call.

  FAIL.

  On the second I was contacted by a man whose profile pics were his various mug shots. Aside from that Romeo were the dozens of men who messaged me to find out “what I was lookin’ for tonight.”

  NOPE!

  The intelligent matching system over at the third dating website had me regularly matched with men who tighten their belts below their asses, pose for pictures crouched down next to their rims and are “lookkn fo dem SeXY Azz biG BoOtyy HoEzz”

  What!!? Noooo!!!

  So I quit. I just quit. I am officially turning the part of my brain that craves companionship off for the next decade or so.

  I hate rollercoasters. I hate feeling hopeful about dating and then remembering that I have three kids and am therefore a single man-repellant. I still have such a long way to go on my own. I have to keep reminding myself what my goals were for this year.

  Me

  Me

  Me

  Me

  and me.

  A lone wolf.

  ….but I am starting to get lonely..

  I think this is the perfect scenario:

  Single man, no kids (and therefore no babymama), lives in a different state, flies in once a month for a long weekend, we rent a room on the beach, have awesome hotel sex (because it’s always better somewhere other than your bed) and then on Monday I am back to real life. No cleaning up his dishes. No fighting over the remote. I don’t really want the whole cake – I just want to lick off the frosting.

  There. Solved.

  Fear

  Single momhood has rendered me androphobic. It is completely irrational. I can step outside myself and recognize intellectually how unhealthy it is. But it’s there nonetheless.

  At some point in the demise of my marriage, my subconscious decided that if I had not been so obsessed with male attention/acceptance I would not have been in that ridiculous marriage in the first place. And a switch flipped. The pendulum has swung very, very far in the other direction and I am starting to believe I am being controlled by my fear. I have hit a wall and I am at war with myself.

  On one hand, I crave human interaction. I miss having people over for dinner. I miss hugs. I miss flirtatious glances. I miss sexual tension. I miss wearing heels and thinking I’m attractive.

  On the other hand, there is a constant panic alarm going off.

  Men are dangerous! You are all your kids have! Stay away from men! Men will hurt you! Men will try to take you away from your children! You don’t need the distractions! Men will suck the life out of you!

  Again, intellectually I know this is not true.

  One man sucked the life out of me. And I wasn't very “awake” yet so I let it happen.

  But I feel like I don’t have the time to take a chance on anyone else. My walls are up. Way way up. My fat is a wall. The chunkier I am, the less attractive I am. The less attractive I am, the less likely I am to attract an emotionally manipulative person. Or murderous sociopath person. Or child molester person. Or any person.

  I never considered myself an extremist before but I am noticing a pattern. I want all the attention, all the men, all the time. Or I want none.

  Don’t. Even. Look. At. Me.

  But I’m a little lonely and isolated. And I need support – really, really bad.

  I’m not sure where to go with this or how long it will last. But identifying the problem is the first step, right?

  Thankfully, I am going to Mobile soon and my friend, Chris, has become my therapist since I am sure no one on Earth knows me as well as he does. I mean that. Maybe he can help me sort this out.

  And Now This Shit

  My nine year old had a panic attack.

  We were at a birthday party at Chuck E Cheese. She's always been painfully, painfully shy and extremely attached to me. At her first day of daycare, when I was pregnant with her baby sister, she stood at the door for the entire day waiting for me to come back. She didn't eat. She didn't go to the bathroom.

  At her brother's fifth birthday party, she locked herself in a tiny closet and refused to come out. My best friend, Chris, sat outside the closet and talked to her through the door.

  In school she always gets marks for being “good” but even she confessed to me that “teachers only say that because I don't speak.�
��

  She's been in and out of the emergency room with asthma for as long as she's been alive despite my extended breastfeeding and her completely organic toddlerdom. She wet the bed until we moved into the apartment. I always knew she was a tense kid. But for a child to have a panic attack at nine...

  We were enjoying one of her cousins' birthdays and when I looked over at her her eyes were huge and glassy. She couldn't breathe and couldn't speak. She eventually squeezed out that she didn't like Chuck E Cheese and we left early.

  What is happening?

  I can't wait for this trip home. I know the kids will enjoy being near my family and I need a break.

  I will find us some counseling when we get back. No nine year old should feel stressed out enough to have a panic attack.

  Playing House

  My mom was worried I was going to crack.

  “I can hear it in your voice!” she'd say.

  I was going to crack. I was fantasizing jumping off the balcony of my apartment. But then I remembered that it wasn't high enough to kill me, and I'd probably just break my ankle and I don't have health insurance.

  So she offered to pay for my gas so I could drive up to Mobile. I coordinated it with Chris's visit to Mobile so we could spend time together. Mom took the kids full time. I left them with her and moved into Chris's house for the week.

  It was idyllic.

  He was working from home during the day and I slept in.

  By eleven or so he'd bring me coffee. I'd curl up on the couch and he in a chair and we'd talk about what we wanted to do that day.

  One day we rented the Final Destination movies and watched all of them in order while eating junk food. We then ended up at a dive bar and chatted with the bartender and a random patron about horror films into the wee hours.

  Another day we attempted to make homemade pumpkin gnocchi with sage brown butter. They were hard and chewy but we ate them appreciatively. We had toasted pound cake and raspberries for dessert.