The Day My Marriage Died

The day my husband said ‘I want kids’ was the day my seven and a half year marriage died.

Cue the monsoon tears, or as Oprah likes to call it, ‘the ugly cry’.

We had an agreement from the get go that we were not going to have children. I never misled him. I never lied. I was very clear on my stance about not having children. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t allowed to change the rules.

Then he told me he changed his mind about kids three years ago.

THREE BLOODY YEARS!!!!

As I fell apart, my husband left the house, leaving me to cope with the mess he dropped at my feet. I had no choice but to watch the car pull out of the driveway and drive off. I waited for him to turn around, to return to tell me he had just made a huge mistake; that this incident would somehow make us stronger down the road.

 Five minutes passed. Ten. Twenty. I called his cell phone only to get voicemail.

I had been with this man for ten years, my entire adult life. I built my life around him. I gave up my career path to support his career choices. Everything I did was for him. I wasn’t sure I had an identity outside of him. 

I immediately zeroed in on the big picture, the how-am-I-going-to-survive-I-am-a-desperate-housewife-I-have-no-job-I-have-no-car-we-have-a-boatload-of-debt picture, and I panicked. We are talking full blown meltdown. My world was coming to an end. I was sure I was going to shrivel up and die.  

When I finally admitted to myself that he wasn’t turning around, I called my mom. All I said was ‘he left me’ through my tears, and she was by my side thirty minutes later.

I spent the first night of my separation at my parents’ house. I didn’t sleep. I checked my cell phone every fifteen minutes or so throughout the night. I filled his voicemail with sobs and hang ups. I willed him to show up on my parents’ doorstep.

He never showed.

On the second day, I focused on just making it through breakfast. Then I focused on making it through Christmas shopping with my parents. Next I focused on eating lunch, followed by reading a magazine for an hour.  The big picture was just too scary, too intimidating.  I found that when I broke life down into surviving hours at a time, it became more manageable.  And that was how I survived the first few weeks, putting myself back together a few hours and then a few days at a time.

I spent the second night back at my house, and there I stayed for another eight months while I pieced my new life together. I got alimony. I got a car. I got a job. I didn’t fall apart. I didn’t curl up and die. Not only did I survive, I thrived. 

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