Pancakes Taste Like Poverty: And Other Post-Divorce Revelations

by Jessica Vivian

  Later that day she left a comment on my blog saying she'd read the message and wasn't angry and for me to please email her so we could talk.

  I did.

  She shared with me that, indeed, she cared deeply for him to have traveled so far. As a matter of fact, she thought she was coming to meet me and the kids because she did think that she was going to be a step-mom.

  However, upon arrival, she noticed that he was different. He was neglectful and, in her words, “obsessed” with me. I told her that was unexpected as he didn't spend much time with his kids anymore and didn't send any child support anymore. She said he didn't talk about the kids much but he spent a lot of time lamenting the loss of the marriage.

  I should have felt some sort of satisfaction in this but really I just felt sad for him.

  The entire trip, ultimately, only served to show her that she has problems with attachment. She said she'd been in treatment for Love and Sex Addiction before and this experience inspired her to go back to meetings and get her boundaries and standards together. She even suggested I find some groups when I move to Mobile. I said I'd look into it.

  We ended the conversation wishing each other well in our future and vowing never to give him any part of our hearts or bodies ever again.

  It was, by far, the shittiest and most awkward birthday I've ever had and just the sour taste needed to shut the door on Tampa once and for all.

  The Wendy Syndrome

  I'm Wendy.

  This particular round of emotional archeology started innocently enough.

  My oldest and I were watching the 2003 live-action version of Peter Pan. Typically, PG-rated children's movies based on early 20th century books should not create physical manifestations of anxiety in one's body. But there I was, watching aghast, palms sweaty, experiencing a myriad of emotions I couldn't explain.

  OK, Self, time to pull out the picks and shovels.

  Later that week, Kelley was razzing me over my bizarre attraction to Chef Gordon Ramsay.

  "Ewwww! You think Gordon Ramsay is sexy!? He looks and acts like some bad little boy!"

  I think I found something!

  And later that week I had a discussion with my ex-husband that made it very clear to me that I was dealing with a boy who refuses to grow up. He is textbook "Peter Pan complex."

  If he's Peter then I am most definitely Wendy.

  Oh goody.

  I looked up "Wendy Syndrome" on the inter webs and learned that there is little about it but the descriptions of Peter/Wendy dynamics in relationships pointed to men treating their wives like mothers and wives using their husbands as protection from their own taboos or negative impulses.

  Here it is. An emotional brontosaurus to dig up and assemble.

  I'm sure I have never seen a more accurate description of mine and Johnny's marriage. And all the players were present. My living room had a diverse and constantly rotating tribe of Lost Boys, in the form of drinking buddies and other addicts, and he “adventured” with fair share of Tiger Lily's and Tinkerbells (six or seven while we were married, that I know of) and while my Peter Pan was out fighting battles and having adventures (in bars and concerts and yoga retreats) I was at home crying, fretting, fussing, doting and playing mom - to everyone.

  But don't feel sorry for me. I don't. Apparently, that is what I wanted.

  I believe people only do things that work for them - even dark, sad, harmful things. I have always wanted that guy. That untamed, over-confident, feral, playfully wild guy. I have never wanted the chivalrous giver/protector/provider.

  On the surface I do, but deep down, no. But why?

  I am close to the answer but more on that later. For now, let's talk about this Peter/Wendy dynamic.

  To understand Wendy we must first understand Peter.

  Men displaying Peter Pan tendencies have an inability to cope with what they perceive to be the perils of "the real world" and, namely, adulthood. These men tend to glorify adolescence and cling desperately to that state of entitlement and egocentricity.

  To do this, a Peter needs a Wendy to handle all of the adult aspects of his life. Women who take on the "Wendy" role are often multifaceted, but Peter doesn't notice or care. Once his Wendy has been designated, she is never anything other than a loyal caretaker from his perspective, not unlike the way some adult children struggle to see their mothers as women.

  Wendy replaces the "mother" and Peter ping-pongs between his feelings of devotion and reverence toward her and his urge to rebel against her in displays resentment and false independence. For Peter, as long as there is a wild, earthy woman, a destructive, adventurous peer group to play with (Tink and the boys) and a civilized voice of reason holding down the fort at home (Wendy) then all is right in the world.

  Eventually, however, Wendy grows tired of her maternal role and his narcissism and wonders if her Peter is capable of giving more. When he can't give her a straight answer, she moodily retreats.

  I recognize this classic Wendy-style emotional manipulation. I was a master.

  This is the dance Peter and Wendy perform day after day, year after miserable year. Wendy is using the ol' magnetic "opposites attract" routine. When Wendy withdraws, Peter feels two things: guilt from hurting the woman who obediently cares for him while he disregards her feelings, and panic, because he knows he is completely incapable of taking care of himself.

  Unable to cope with his feelings, Peter angrily storms away only to be so overcome by his feelings of insecurity that he runs back to the arms of his Wendy. She is now sated, reaffirmed and knows her place in his heart. And also fully aware of the control she has over his emotions.

  But why did I become Wendy and choose suffer all that neglect and drama in the first place?

  But there is a little-known, secret side of us "Wendy girls." It is a dark, vengeful, dangerous side.

  In the Peter Pan tale, Wendy is fond of telling pirate stories to her two younger siblings - much to her parent's dismay. In their eyes, it is time for Wendy to start acting like a young lady and the night Peter steals her was to be her last night sharing a room with her brothers – no more pirate tales, no more playing pretend.

  Peter Pan seems such a convenient and well-timed form of escapism now, doesn't he?

  Mom and Dad want me to be a woman but this cute, flying dude says there are pirates and mermaids in his 'hood? SOLD!

  Of course, Peter never meant that she'd get to hang out with pirates. He needed a mom figure to tell stories to him and his boys. It's a bait and switch I know well. Remember that pirate tales were Wendy's favorite and pirates are cunning, crafty, violent. Fantasizing about Captain Hook offers Wendy something Peter and her parents could never give her – true adventure and a taste of danger.

  So what's this have to do with my Wendy complex?

  Pretty much everything.

  I met my ex when I was 19 years old. I had just "taken a break" from college. I put it in quotations because the truth is that I wanted nothing to do with college. I hated it. I didn't want to be there. I worked at Urban Outfitters and at a skeevy modeling school. I had a roommate and we lived in Ybor City - Tampa's version of Bourbon Street. I remember having this near constant feeling of "I don't want to be here."

  I know now that "here" was adulthood. I wasn't ready. I just didn't want to.

  My ex wasn't exactly a "put together" person when I met him. Actually, he was the extreme opposite of put together. But I think that, subconsciously, I knew that the only way I was ever going to "grow up" was through outside force. I would never choose to. Something was going to have to make me.

  My "forbidden impulses" included laying around, drinking and a lot of other things involving men. Hitching myself to someone more impulsive let me live out the full reality of those forbidden impulses without actually experiencing them. He took the hits for me. He had the "fun."

  But he's not happy. He has indulged nearly every impulse that has been prese
nted to him. I was able to see what would have happened if I had indulged my impulses, too. In a way, I used Johnny to protect me from myself - my destructive self, my shadow.

  And there was a time in our marriage when I took to a life of "piracy." I had my own Captain Hook. I became “Red-Handed Jess.”

  I had three children in five years, so the years between 20 and 25 were spent breastfeeding, changing diapers, and calling Johnny at three in the morning, telling him to come home or else. My life was not mine. My dreams, goals, thoughts did not matter. I was dealing with three children at their most needy and volatile and a husband with addiction issues.

  At 25, I finally poked my head out of the laundry pile and got a job. It was quite a bit like stepping on the pirate ship.

  Once I got the teeniest, tiny-winy taste of freedom and debauchery I went all the way. Those after work, coworker bonding trips to the bar became nightly events. Many things that my tamed "Wendy" side thought were just irresponsible and childish and rude, Red Handed Jess was out doing with absolutely no conscience. I was not so different from my ex after all.

  My version of Captain Hook was man's man with hair on his chest who pretended he was my boyfriend when creepy guys leered. He spent time with my husband to calm any jealousy and promised him he was no snake in the grass. He drove me home when I was too drunk. He always bought the drinks and he never tried to take advantage of my drunkenness. He never wanted me to be his mom.

  I thought my ex-husband would understand that it was finally "my time" to be a girl in her 20s and be supportive and hold down the fort at home for once, but it didn't work out like that. But for a little while I got to feel cared for and protected while I indulged..even if it was by someone else.

  But ultimately, Captain Hook and Peter Pan are both playing pretend at love. When I started spending more time at home, trying to appease my Peter - my Captain Hook ignored and replaced me. This is right around the time of the garbage can panic attack so I knew it was time to make a choice and, as it turns out, mine and Wendy's choice was the same.

  Peter taught her how to fly and offered her solace from societal pressures. Hook let her indulge in her darkest fantasies. But who did Wendy choose in the end?

  Herself.

  And that's why now, finally, my Wendy complex has paid off.

  I choose myself, too.

  You see, Peter Pan is not the hero in the story named after him. And my ex-husband, similarly, is no hero in my story. The hero is the one who grows, shifts, changes, realizes something. Peter wasn't willing to grow or shift. He feared adulthood and responsibility more than he feared death. In the end of Peter's story, Wendy goes back to the real world to grow up. She will take the risk. The lost boys decide to go with her, realizing they don't want to live a loveless life. Captain Hook is dead.

  Peter Pan just lost everything. The family he created left him and his favorite enemy slain.

  All he has left is his fairy, Tinkerbell, the only one who doesn't realize she's being used. The only one who continues to indulge him – who still idolizes him. There is no one to fight. There is no woman to care for him. There is no one left to play with.

  He goes home to an empty Neverland.

  Peter and my ex were unwilling to make sacrifices. They both do what they want to do. They both, ultimately, alienate people.

  Like Wendy, I choose to just go home and grow up. I am leaving Tampa for Mobile today.

  Like Wendy, my attempt at stalling adulthood backfired.

  Like Wendy, I will not waste another moment on flying boys who want me to play mommy. I would rather take on all this responsibility alone with the whisper of a chance that I will eventually fall in real love.

  I mean, I could fall flat on my face.

  But all of that would be better than playing pretend.

  Mobile

  Move – March 2012

  So, I got the eff outta there. I'm moved into a three bedroom house, sight unseen. My totally dope mom checked it out for me and handled all the business end. Transactions are still practically spit-handshakes in Mobile. The landlords liked her so they, by default, like me and my three kids. My mom is good PR.

  Kelley called me the morning of the move because she had something for me. It was mattresses.

  She just gave me three mattresses.

  She said a friend of hers was getting rid of them and she knew I could use them.

  Who does that?

  I don't think I've ever experienced kindness and sistership like the kind I got from Kelley. I don't know if I will ever be in a position to pay her back for her unconditional love. She just saw me. She just saw me and gave me help.

  Like Bridget.

  I can't move away and fail. If I can't pay them back, I at least owe them my functionality.

  As for my ex, he was astoundingly supportive. He insisted on helping us move because it'd be better for the kids to see their Dad as part of the process rather than us “leaving Dad behind.” He was right. It was good plan.

  But I knew things were too good to be true. And he has a compulsion to sabotage good times. Sure enough, as we were packing, we disagreed about something. He threw a fit and said he wasn't going to help me move. Some shift had taken place within me and I just didn't care. I let him leave and called his sister's husband, who was on standby because of my ex's tendency to tantrum out of things, and he said he'd help me move.

  Minutes later, after pacing and waiting for me to call him and beg him to help me to no avail, my ex came back and said he'd help for the kids' sake.

  Fine.

  Shortly after that, all was back to normal. We had a pleasant trip up. He helped us move things into our new place. The kids were completely bonkers bananas at the fact that they could run around in an actual yard. And be as loud as they want without the bang bang, which was a signal to shut up, against the wall from The Other Single Mom back in the apartment complex in Tampa.

  We took my ex-husband to the bus station and off he went.

  I was free.

  I was really free.

  Feeling Alone Again – April 2012

  I've been in Mobile about a month and my day-to-day has mellowed considerably. Yet despite being in a town where I have so much history, I feel overwhelmingly alone.

  I do not thrive in solitude.

  I admire people who do. Y'know, like those people who jog and take a sculpting class and read a book and go have coffee alone? That's impressive.

  I can tell I’m going through one of those post-divorce phases they catalog in self-help books. This must be the Overcome By Loneliness phase. There are fleeting moments when I think I want a boyfriend. And I think it is at that moment when many of my single parent cohorts actually start dating.

  But I am an investigator. I am more apt to examine my feelings than act on them.

  And if I ever have some sort of psychotic break where I think I would actually ever want to get married again I want to be sure I am not jumping into the relationship as some sort of salve for my heartache. Divorce rates for first marriages are high, and higher still for second or third marriages.

  I guess the simple answer to my loneliness is that humans are pack animals. At least I think we are. We like belonging to groups. We like connecting.

  But the reason my loneliness hits me like a suffocating vice around my chest is probably due to Solitude being the biggest theme of my life thus far. And Solitude is the catalyst for every negative and life-altering mistake I’ve ever made. I don’t trust myself alone. I don’t trust myself anymore generally, but especially not alone.

  Chris and I were commiserating over our mutual parentless childhoods and the subsequent effects. He reacted by becoming a high-maintenance need-machine. I did the opposite. I am a serial nurturer always choosing the broken misfits as my comrades. Because if I am caring for someone then I cannot be alone.

  Both Chris and I, when left alone, turn into uselessness. I stare at w
alls. I don’t eat. I don’t want to make the mess or go through the trouble of cooking. It’s just me...

  It’s just me...?

  And there it is. I typed it and I didn't even know that was how I felt. I’m not worth the effort to me. That’s what it all boils down to. Damn, subconscious.

  If in my Solitude I do not feel I am worth the effort of basic self-care, then how could I possibly land in a healthy relationship if I choose to seek one?

  Any man I meet would be coming in with a job to do.

  Give me a reason to care about myself. Prove to me that I matter.

  That’s a lot of pressure. I would never do that to someone consciously. And now that I am conscious of it I have to just sit in Alone until it feels okay.

  The easy solution to this loneliness problem would be to just go out and meet people, but I fear my 10 year relationship to an addict has left me feeling quite small and socially inept. Plus, I have three kids with me all the time. It’s just easier not to. I’m way too insecure right now. I’m always worried that other breeders are judging my parenting. Then I worry that people without kids think I’m lame for breeding. Then I worry that people think I am a teen mom because I look 19. Then I worry that I dress too young for my age. Then I start feeling sorry for myself because I am poor and only have two pairs of jeans. Then I am depressed because I have fifteen pairs of pajama bottoms. And at that point I am content with playing with bubbles with my kids in my backyard.

  So for now, since it makes me so uncomfortable, I will sit with Loneliness and we will get to know each other better.

  Naked

  We separated almost a year before we got divorced so I've been single for almost two years. I wonder how I will know when I'm ready to date and I keep coming up with one tiny problem.

  Someone new will eventually see me naked.

  A shocking secret I've learned about a lot of divorced couples, including myself and my ex, is that they still sleep together if they can. Almost everyone I know who has gotten divorced continued to sleep with their ex - some for years after the marriage ended.