Sitting in my inbox is the final work up of the divorce agreement. The agreement needs to be on a judge’s desk by December 13. I’m having trouble opening it. I’m sure the document is fine; I just can’t seem to make myself look.
I get attached to things as they are. Even if that means maintaining a connection through disappointment and unpleasant events.
The quiet disaffection between myself and my husband, the nagging dissatisfaction which bloomed into more open conflict, began around 2007. One of my best friends suddenly died of a brain tumor, leaving behind two small children and a husband. He found a way to avoid seeing her in her worst state, admitting later that he didn’t want to see her when she was dying. My respect for him died a bit with her.
I had a dream in early 2008, while I was vacationing in Costa Rica, involving a Peter Pan- esque experience where a man of slight acquaintance and I visited bizarre scenes supposedly from my past. In the dream my husband slept, unaware, on a luxury plane. The dream was so profoundly striking I immediately wrote it down on loose pages I took from my daughter’s notebook, I had no journal with me. The next day, I broke my foot in Costa Rica boldly galloping a horse over slippery ground. The horse fell and my foot was underneath.
When our family returned from the trip, my husband watched me drag a heavy boot (you’ve seen them) up and down our vertically sloped driveway for three months, starting in the icy January of 2008. I didn’t know I needed more care and attention, even when my first of three breast biopsies was performed that very month. I didn’t know to ask, and he didn’t see.
But when an old friend reappeared, what could have been a rather uneventful renewal of association became something else.
Is it my fault for being weak? An interloper’s fault for needing something and finding it? My soon to be ex’s inattention, lack of courage, naive innocence, laziness? I don’t know.
My daughter brought over a series of pictures in a frame..each one a different shot of the two girls and I together on a beach in Cape Cod. They are still young; not tiny but the older not above age 12. We are laughing and my ex must have taken the photos. My daughter brought the framed photos from her father’s apartment, lying and saying her father wanted me to have them. It’s not true. He can’t stand to look at them. I get it.
2006 was a very different year.