I feel angry but not homocidal; this may be unlooked-for progress.
Suzanne Finnamore
Bushwhacked, I examine my hands. Same hands. Rings still there but no longer valid.
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It´s like watching someone do a triple backflip dismount and land on two feet, solid, arms splayed in the air. I know I could never do it, don´t even know where I would begin to learn, but some people are built for it. He was handcrafted to leave, had practiced on other women since adolescence. I was one of an unnumbered series.
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Soon he was online every night until one or two a.m. Often he would wake up at three of four a.m. And go back online. He would shut down the computer screen when I walked in. In the past, he used to take the laptop to bed with him and we would both be on our laptops, hips touching. He stopped doing that, slipping off to his office instead and closing the door even when A was asleep. He started closing doors behind him. I was steeped in denial, but my body knew.
I travel back in time, falling back into what I know for certain, the historical data I cling to in order to not go mad, not assume I made a suicidal and well-informed error in marrying this man.
I am not ready to think of him as either insane or evil, to consider in full how I could love and have a child with such a person. I am not ready to think about anything, except ways in which this may still be averted.
I should have known then it wasn´t, as he called it. But I was eight months pregnant. No sense closing the barn door now, or so I thought. I swallowed the, straightaway after the usual tears and denial.
I played possum. I did this, as the possum does, out of fear.
They ought to do away with divorce settlements. Instead, both parties should flip a coin. The winner gets to stay where he or she is and keep everything. The loser goes to Paraguay. That´s it.
The whole world seems tilted, my inner ear displaced by a hole where my spouse used to be.
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My mind floats like ash. I blame myself most cruelly.
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Flannel shirts should be outlawed for ex husbands; I realize this now. Flannel shirts are to women what crotchless panties are to men.
I want to own this transition, not to simply swallow the shame of it entire. I will push for every little irony.
Irrationally, I think, Will You Marry Me? Four words. I Want a Divorce. Four words. I would like time to count the letters as well, but there is not time.
The abandonment came, and now this shabby bacchanal.
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