CHAPTER FIFTEEN - MIRRORS

One month in, and I’m already the resident expert on how to leave your husband.

Dearest Nurse,

A few days after I left Paris, I got a surprise text from an old neighbor of mine. She and her family hadn’t lived in my complex long, but we made fast friends. She was from Queens and had the most delicious New York accent. Everything about her made me feel like home. We were also very close in age, our birthdays were a day apart, and we even had the same feather tattoos. We knew right away we were kindred spirits.

During the pandemic we didn’t co-mingle much, but we did text from time to time to check in on one another. And then before the shroud of the pandemic had lifted - if it will ever really be lifted - she and her family up and moved to Hawaii. I still miss shooting the shit with her in the parking area, the sounds of her loud ass boys, and her deserts. Bitch made the greatest fucking deserts you’ve ever tasted.

I hadn’t texted with her in months, and then all of a sudden, just a few days after leaving Paris, she checked in.

How’s my girl? How are things?

I couldn’t believe it. It’s like she knew.

And so, I texted her about leaving Paris, how the girls and I were adjusting, and how, in spite of all the craziness, I felt like a weight had been lifted. Her response shocked me.

Talk me through the I’m done thing please. Cuz I’ve been done for a long time and can’t seem to cut the cord.

What? This was crazy to me. First off, her husband is dead sexy - but we all know that doesn’t mean much. But secondly, they always seemed so happy. They had things in common. They were both from New York City… They were both cooks… and…

Yeah, maybe I was seeing what I wanted to see.

See, my thing is I’m just too ambitious, and I feel like I carry the weight of that. If I had a partner who carried the same fire we’d be so golden.

I felt her when she texted that. I felt her hard. But what I didn’t realize at that moment, was how common an issue this seemed to be. Not just women in defunct marriages feeling like their husbands weren’t motivated enough, but women in defunct marriages who stayed in them when they were long past done, fantasizing about getting the fuck out. Mercutio had been in that position with her husband, I discovered. K with her first as well. Benvolio with her girlfriend. And even my mother with my father the second time around. But what I really didn’t realize until today, was just how much of a downtrodden wife’s wet dream my current single life had become.

I got a very surprising e-mail the other day from one of Paris’s friend’s wives, who we’ll call A. She had heard about our split, and desperately wanted some advice because she was done with her husband.

I was floored, and for a number of reasons: 1. A and I are not friends. We only know one another because her husband and Paris have been friends for years. 2. I had been told through the gossipy-married-people grapevine that the husband in question wanted to leave A, but was afraid she’d take the kids and move to another state. And finally, 3. Because I had also been told through the same network that A was fucking batshit.

But, like I told you, Dear Nurse, I have been reveling in my female friendships lately. Just overjoyed and honored to have all this lady love bestowed on me for no other reason than I needed it. I needed it and they gave it. So, when I saw this e-mail from A, I knew it was my chance to give back. And it also occurred to me in that moment, that I might have been sold a bill of goods when it came to A’s sanity. Unhappy men love to call women crazy. They love it almost as much as having a beer while they diddle on their cellphones for hours. It was time to hear the other side of the story. And, funnily enough, that was part of why A had reached out to me, too.

“He kept going on about poor [Paris], poor [Paris]. How could [Juliet] do this to him?” A said, Starbucks green tea for me in hand, as we settled down on my deck. “And all I’m thinking is, I bet there’s another side to this story.”

It’s funny, until that moment, I hadn’t even thought about Paris’s side of things. He had been so humble, so ready to claim fault, that I just figured that’s what he had been telling people. That he was a sad sack who treated his wife badly because he was depressed, and that it was ultimately his fault the marriage ended. Now, however, it was becoming clear that - for better or worse - Paris was getting his balls back. And I should have known based on the text he sent me this morning.

Listen. You don’t owe me anything. I may have been a shitty husband, but I’m a good person and a great father. Bash me to your friends, but all I ask is that you don’t talk shit to our acquaintances.

The fuck was this nonsense? I stopped my workout, immediately feeling like I had to defend myself. What had I said? What had he heard? Oh fuck, what did I do?

And then I remembered. I’m not with Paris anymore. We are going through a divorce. And I don’t owe him the honor of my silence for one. more. second.

I don’t bash you or talk shit. I only speak my own subjective truth, and you should feel free to do the same.

Whatever.

Yes, Paris, whatever is right.

But regardless of whatever Paris had sold A’s husband, she knew better. And I am so glad she did. Because, as it turns out, A isn’t crazy at all. In fact, she’s a whole hell of a lot like me.

A has two little girls, her husband is in the same line of work as Paris, also floundering, and like both Paris and my old neighbor’s husband, lacks motivation. A also makes more money than her husband, works harder, and is shamed for it. A’s husband also judges her, makes no effort to resolve conflict or communicate, and A also feels her precious light going out. There, however, is where the similarities end. Because, you see, A’s husband is an addict.

A’s husband and I had been roommates for a year back at the Wilcox apartment in 2010/2011. Like I said, he was a friend of Paris’s, and when one of our roommates moved out, he coincidentally happened to be looking for a new place to live. I remember my first thought was, this guy is too fucking nice. No one is this nice. He’s hiding something. I from New York, okay? If you don’t drop at least three F bombs in your first conversation with me, I’m just not going to be sure about you. I feel the same way about people who have never done drugs. Like, never? Really? The fuck you trying to prove?

Turns out, though A’s husband was really and truly a nice person, he was hiding some sad truths. He had been a rising star at one point, but self-sabotaged and fell. That’s a hard thing to contend with in this town. You get the chance of a lifetime, win the Hollywood lottery, and then piss on the ticket. But harder and sadder than that was when it became abundantly clear that A’s husband was an alcoholic.

He drank every single day. On his birthday he ended up shirtless at an outdoor bar, and I’m pretty sure he puked right there on the street. He fell down the stairs in our townhouse a few times. I found him at the bottom once, dazed and reeling, as was the girlfriend he had taken down the stairs with him. It was a sight. But the time I remember most was when I was almost asleep. I heard him come home, stagger up the stairs, go into his room, and WHUMP!

Dude fell so hard the entire house shook. I thought for sure he was dead. I told Paris as much, but he just mumbled… “He’s fine. Does this all the time.” And went back to sleep. When I saw A’s husband the next morning, he laughed it off. I think now, however, me might not have remembered it at all.

What I did not think about A’s husband, however, is that he had an anger problem, too.

“He was completely plastered, and came at me while I was holding the baby.” A told me. “He held out his hands like he was going to choke me, so I shoved him away, and that’s when he threw me onto the bed.” A’s husband had been standing on A’s foot at the time, and ended up spraining her ankle in the process. She had to physically shove him from the room and lock the door, with her and her baby inside, to get him away from her.

Rage is a terrible thing. We all have it, it’s all destructive, but it doesn’t have to be violent. Aside from that one time Paris put his hand on my throat after he found out I had cheated on him, he never laid a hand on me. Never threatened me. Never scared me. And I’m sure he wanted to. Hell, there were times I wanted to claw his fucking face off. But we never did. Paris has anger problems, too. Like I said, I knew it the night we met, but aside from that one bad moment, he kept his hands to himself. That was just a line we would not cross. But semi-violent alcoholism wasn’t the only area in which A and my stories differed.

Come to find out, A has told her husband she wants out numerous times. The reaction?

“I’m not leaving.”

Jesus. What the fuck do you do with that?

A is very concerned that when she does hand him the papers, that he’ll refuse to leave the apartment she pays for. She’s also concerned that a lot of the gossiping he’s been doing about her to friends like Paris, is laying the groundwork to claim she’s mentally incompetent, and make a play for custody of their girls. What she’s not concerned about, which I am, is that with all her husband’s drama, he might just refuse to sign the papers altogether. Because what I have just discovered, which A doesn’t yet know, is that your spouse has to sign the preliminary papers needed just to file for divorce, before you ever even serve them. How’s that for fucking up your movie moment?

“It’s just the declaration of property. Here.” I said this morning when Paris came to pick up the girls, holding out four copies of a thirteen page document, all conveniently folded over to the signature page.

“What?” He stared. I had told him I needed a few signatures, but the stack of papers was daunting. “I’m kind of in a rush. Do I need to read all this?”

“You can if you want. But like I said, I just listed what’s yours as yours, and mine as mine.”

Paris knows I want nothing from him. It wasn’t that. It was the finality of the whole thing. One month into separation and I was already having him sign divorce paperwork. I could tell he was hurt and pretending to be annoyed to cover it up. But what could I do? This is where we are now, and I want it done, because if I have to do his taxes again, I’ll throw myself out a window.

“Fine.” He said, shaking his head as he scribbled off four signatures, and flew the kids out the door.

It wasn’t the most pleasant moment in the world, but it was easy. Paris had promised to make this easy on me, and even though he didn’t want to, he was keeping his word. I didn’t know if the same will be true for A. I hope it is, but it doesn’t sound good.

In many ways, listening to A go through the trials, tribulations, and downright troubling details of her marriage, was a mirror. As I’ve told you, Dear Nurse, I too felt judged, unfairly ridiculed, even despised at times. I was starved for affection and also lost my libido, just as A has. But mirrors aren’t just useful in terms of seeing similarities. They show important differences too.

Paris has his moments, but when it comes to ex-husbands, I kind of hit the jackpot. Not that he has any money, he doesn’t, but with the things that matter. He’s not fighting the divorce. He’s going to sign what I ask him to sign, and he’s even agreed to split the cost with me. Yeah. I know. I wasn’t expecting that one either.

He’ll always be there for the girls. He says he’ll always help out, do whatever needs to be done so that I have the time and space to continue pursuing my career. And most importantly, he’ll never make some bullshit play for custody. Smear my name for his personal advantage, try and take what’s mine, or come after me physically. Never. ever.

Since becoming single I have heard so many horror stories. It’s funny, when you’re pretending to be happily married, other married people pretend to be happily married, too. The minute they know you’re on the way to D town, the stories suddenly come out. And I’m not just talking about people who are divorced or want to get divorced, I’m talking about everyone. Folks I thought had great marriages, and now I hear how husband sleeps in the guest house regularly, how wife isn’t attracted to husband anymore, and just how generally fucking unhappy married people are. Paris’s aunt even reached out to me to offer condolences and tell me how hard her forty-three year marriage has been. She hasn’t even said shit to Paris yet!

It’s triumphant in some ways, hearing these things, because I’m out now. That’s not my life anymore. You all can stay stuck in your shitty relationships. I’m free, biatch!

But it’s also really fucking sad. What are we doing to ourselves? What’s the point? And is there even such thing as a happily ever after? Does anyone have a blissed out, fun-as-shit marriage where they bring out the best in one another, and wake up every day like, Yes! It’s you again! Let’s go have the best fucking day! Or is that just a fantasy?

I shudder to think Romeo and I could end up like that. All this. Sixteen years. Ten without any communication whatsoever. Our fucking intense, magical reunion. The intense, less-than-magical mess we made, and this whole month away from him… It’s been hard. Really hard. I feel stupid saying this, but I miss him every day, and have to physically restrain myself sometimes from unblocking him. I want to text him a song that made me think of us. I want to look in his eyes again, and the helplessness in them; helpless against the feelings he has for me. To hold his hand. Shit, I even had a moment today while walking Dog where I admitted to myself that I love going down on him. I’ve never loved going down on anyone. It’s boring, hurts my jaw, and doesn’t make me hot at all. But with Romeo? I don’t know how to explain it, Nurse. I just want to make him feel as good as he makes me feel. Could it be that all of this, the epic journey back to one another, could end up like just another bad marriage? Bickering and contempt? Judgement and cruelty?

I couldn’t bear it. I just couldn’t. And until today, I didn’t even consider it a possibility.

But if I’ve learned anything from my recent weeks of being a mirror - a mirror for those who have been where I am, and those who are headed here - it’s that I am not the exception. In fact, my life became a trope. Husband and wife sleeping in separate rooms. A sexless marriage. Posting pictures of my fictitious happy life on social media. Telling friends and family everything was fine. Thinking, just like every other married person I know, that it’s not okay to talk about the things that are going wrong. That you owe it to your spouse, or - I don’t fucking know - the marriage gods, to not speak ill of the one you’ve legally chained yourself to. But what if we didn’t do that?

What if married people openly bitched to one another about their problems? What if we stopped hiding them, glossing over them, and posting stupid “look at my perfect spouse” pictures on Facebook for our asshole high school friends? Would it really be as bad as we think? Would it really be a betrayal? Or would it be healthy? Would commiserating with other married couples in an open and honest, judgement-free arena bring greater clarity? Togetherness? Relieve the guilt and oppression of pretending, and maybe even lead to healthier marriages overall?

I’m going to tell you something, Dear Nurse. I think so. I really think it would.

So, in closing tonight, I’m going to ask something of you. If you are married and you aren’t happy, talk to your married friends about it. They might not be your mirror, but then again, they might. Either way, take a moment to stop pretending, and see what you find.

A and I found a whole lot during our two-and-a-half-hour talk. We found out how alike we are. How much of the same bullshit we were dealing with. And when our stories diverged, we found out that we wanted to be there for one another. We found a sisterhood where before we had only found an acquaintance. We discovered we really like each other. And most importantly, we discovered we weren't alone. A isn’t batshit. She isn’t even close. But she hasn’t talked to anyone aside from her sister about what’s going on with her, and it’s eating her up. She’s in a shitty situation, and she needs support. I support her, and I made sure she knew as much before she left.

So, let’s start talking, people. And I’ll offer myself up first. Talk to me. This project isn’t just about me venting anonymously, it’s also about you, Dear Nurse. So, if you have something to say, if you need to be heard and seen for the beautiful, vulnerable, romantic you are, hit me up on the contacts page and write to me about it. I will respond to you, and I will give you all I have to offer. Because silence is deadly. A and I know all about that, and if you’re in a similar situation, I’m sure you do too.

And if you are in one of those blissed out, gorgeous relationships with your soulmate, there are two things I want you to do: 1. Reach out to your other coupled friends. Ask them how they are, and let them know you’re there for them, judgement free, no matter what. And 2. Fucking write me and tell me about it. I need some hope, here, people. I need to know that after all the stories of marital woe that have been dumped on me in the past month, that there is still hope. That lasting, inspiring, soul-filling love is possible. So, if you found it, you better fucking tell me.

Lastly, there’s an important point I need to make here. This story is very female focused. I know that. I am female, and I have been blessed to discover I have fabulous female friends who root for me, share their stories with me, and cheer me on. But this project isn’t meant to only address the cis female experience of love, marriage, and divorce, and it is not about man bashing. Or anyone bashing, for that matter. So if any of you out there reading this are not cis female, and in search of something better, trying to find your way into or out of something, or just want to get to the next level of being, know I am here for you, too. People are people, and we are all worthy of happiness. Every single one of us.

And now that you have your marching orders, Dearest Nurse, I am off to bed. I have a big day tomorrow, as I will be officially filing for divorce. Wish me luck.

Sincerely yours,

Juliet