Men’s Divorce Stories | A Ghost of a Chance

• Posted: November 18, 2010
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• Author: adminadam
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• Filed under: Divorce Stories
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Just in from a reader... This is pretty compelling. I often examined the battles I had with my ex wife. The discussions, the slamming doors. It all seems pretty silly now looking back....how the hell did i get there in that relationship? It really all boils down to compatibility and respect...and lack of complacency. A relationship is work. Enjoy the first chapter of this story by Chris.

It is said that there are three sides to every story: the teller’s side, the opposing side, and the truth. The following account will likely seem partial or biased, but this is necessarily so. The details are culled from my subjective experience of a tumultuous event that was life-changing, for better or worse. I can’t possibly speak for the other (opposing) parties, nor can I give a third-person account of what “really” happened.

With that in mind, please note that certain names have been changed to protect the guilty.

In contrast to previous months, October of 2007 seemed fairly innocuous. Karen and I had been legally separated since July, and I was trying (in vain) to interpret her ongoing litany of mixed messages and vague implications. Despite the resolute tone that marked every phone call, her disposition often changed the moment we were in close proximity. The resentment and general acrimony would dissipate, and we would find ourselves communicating again. Over the phone, Karen repeatedly assured me that our marriage was a dead issue. She wouldn’t deny having delivered the coup-de-grace, but felt no responsibility for its dissolution. She refused my pleas for counseling or other forms of reconciliation because she “couldn’t” be married to me; as if she didn’t have a choice in the matter because some cosmic presence was pushing her away.

In person, I would see a dramatically different side of Karen’s complex persona. She never failed to greet me with a tight embrace, and the level of affection would increase if we happened to be alone. Naturally, this was rather confusing and only compounded the emotional turmoil that characterized those early months of separation. I believed that through these one-on-one encounters, she was giving me a reason to hold on. Maybe she was confused about her own feelings and just needed time to sort them out. Surely a few months alone would give her enough perspective to realize that divorce was a rather extreme proposition. I refused to believe that she really wanted it; no more than I did, at least.

As the months passed, I began to see a side of Karen that was starkly unfamiliar. While always a bit dramatic, her personality took on a belligerent quality that seemed puerile and vindictive. One of her more insidious methods involved disregarding my attempts to contact her. I had witnessed Karen’s tendency to brush off friends and family members who violated her abstract code of fairness or principle, but never imagined myself on the receiving end. Even carrying out the simplest of tasks (e.g. picking up personal effects from the house) became a debacle that would go on for several days. Typically, the sequence of events would begin with my initial phone call, which would be ignored.

Every time.

Attempts to contact her by e-mail would be similarly deflected. I wanted to believe that she was just overwhelmed by work-related stress or the difficulties of managing a household by herself. However, there was a convenient irony in Karen’s tendency to leave multiple voice messages (usually 45 minutes apart) whenever she needed me to sign a check or remove my name from a joint account. I eventually came to realize that she saw very little of the world outside her own suffering and dissatisfaction, and truly felt entitled to some form of universal restitution.

It was 9:00 pm on a Friday when I received a rather unexpected (not to mention uncharacteristic) call from Karen. As promised, she had put our house on the market and was in the process of painting and having some electrical work done. She didn’t want my help with any part of the process, and was quick to let me know that several friends and co-workers were lending a hand. Naturally, I had a few questions about how she planned to carry out such an ambitious plan without my assistance.

“So someone is taking care of the electrical work?”

“Yes.”

“I thought we were hiring an electrician for that.”

“Well…we don’t have to.”

“One of your co-workers is an electrician?”

“Um, no.”

“So who is doing the work?”

A brief pause ensued.

“His, uh…his name is Eric. He’s an electrician.”

I was hearing Karen’s tone gradually decline from indignant confidence to an awkward stammer. Out of necessity, I braced myself before proceeding with the next question.

“Is there something going on there?”

Anticipating another pregnant pause, I was taken back by an irritating giggle.

“Please! He’s mama’s age!”

I marveled at how the southern charm that once enamored me had become little more than a blank affectation. She went on to explain that Eric had been introduced to her by a co-worker. Given that she was struggling financially (as tends to happen when one eliminates a spouse’s income from the monthly ledger), he was willing to donate his time and talent. She considered him a friend and supporter. In other words, he provided blind validation for those times when she needed to excoriate me.

“But there is something I should tell you.”

Once again, I felt my stomach wind into a spring.

“I asked Eric to go through the house yesterday and remove all the knives.”

A cyclonic blur of emotions came over me. She continued talking, but I couldn’t focus beyond the images flashing in front of me. I heard running water and saw pink rivulets trailing from the bathtub to the white tile floor. I saw the steely glint of a paring knife on the kitchen counter and static puddles of crimson against a linoleum canvas. I heard her muffled gasps as I resignedly blotted the angry red gashes across her thighs with Q-tips and antiseptic solution.

“God, I…I’m really sorry to hear that. Are you okay?”

“I am now.”

“It sure doesn’t sound like it. You should probably see someone.”

“I saw Dr. Gibson the other day. He gave me an antidepressant and a sedative. I’ll be fine.”

True to form, Karen had spent fifteen minutes with our family doctor and believed she was cured.

“You’ll need more than that. Take it from someone who knows.”

I was referring to my own penchant for self-destruction, which had a tendency to surface in turbulent times. Despite the difference in method (she turned to a knife, I turned to a bottle), I had always seen parallels in our respective coping mechanisms. But Karen would never acknowledge any such likeness, preferring to operate under the pretense that she was healthy and I was not.

With a petulant huff of exasperation, she proceeded.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a little busy at the moment. I’m having to sell a house by myself, you know.”

I was all too familiar with this line of reasoning. She had abruptly kicked me out of our home and refused my help at every turn. Just the same, it was my fault that she couldn’t keep the house and stood on the verge of bankruptcy. She “had” to do everything by herself because she “couldn’t” accept my assistance. She had not made a choice in the matter, because there was no other option. Therefore, Karen bore no responsibility for the stress that had seriously diminished her quality of life.

Slighted by her insinuation, I tried (churlishly, I might add) to reason with her.

“And whose choice was that?”

A deafening pause ensued.

“You arrogant fucking prick.”

Each word met my ears about a second apart, every syllable bursting with menace. I was admittedly shaken, but felt guilty for steering the conversation into such parlous territory. Taking a deep breath, I attempted to explain myself.

“I’ve tried to help you, but every time I reach out you push me away. I’ve given you everything you’ve asked for, and–”

“I’m done talking to you.”

With a sharp click of the handset, the discussion had ended.

On Karen’s terms.

The full story can be located on Chris’s website

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