Part Three

As the run of my play, ‘Venus Envy’, winds down, I am facing Part 3 of 3 of my own attempts at recovering and reviving the man I have been.  Part 1 had been the film I had written entitled ‘Ceremony’ and Part 2 had been ‘Venus Envy.’

2012 has been a gruesome year full of multiple stages of self-analysis and panic, to say nothing of the ones attributable to grief.  My marriage snapped in two like a turkey’s wishbone, and I was largely left to my own devices to figure out why and how and when and who and where it fell apart.  I did most of my barbaric yawps in public and online, as bellowing outwards seemed more therapeutic  than just listening to the sound of my own voice.  My ex-wife was of no help, save for the occasional caustic text she would send: “I am getting emails from people on Facebook again.  I hope you’re not saying anything too tacky.”

This sick isolationism led me to start writing a journal, which, at last edit, appears to be around 250 pages in length.  The journal, in which I have changed all the names to protect the profound lack of innocence, is harrowing reading.   Watching this fellow – me – reach for every thread of hope just to have it snap is horrific.   However, it was a necessary exercise; as I have suggested, I was left on my own to find out the reasons.  I found most of them out, or at least enough for me to finally understand how it all happened, and have come to a certain level of peace.  But getting there has been a series of more heartbreaks than a movie marathon on the Lifetime Channel.

A few excerpts follow.

December 7, 2011

After a long weekend with my mom and extended family, and after a three- or four-day cross-country road trip to bring to our home my childhood bedroom set, things grew quickly sour.  I had noticed problems in the summer of 2011 and tried to address them with my usual barrage of ‘let’s do this’ or ‘let’s do that’, thinking as I do that shared activity leads to other shared things, but they were increasingly rebuffed.  On the weekends, Beth would stay in bed until noon or after.  Some days, I would try and rouse her with the idea of brunch or shopping.  On other days, I would let her sleep, trying not to be resentful that she would give her time to anything and anyone except me.

But it was in November that Beth hit me with the idea that she wanted a separation, mentioned casually over a couple of steak burritos and horchata.  Even with things not being perfect and steady, I was beyond surprised to hear this.  Looking back on the trip to visit my mother, we hung out almost all the time.  It was fun.  We took pictures and laughed.  So how it got from there to here in a few weeks, I couldn’t fathom.

December 29, 2011

Loving Beth is like having a life preserver made out of equal parts air, rubber and concrete.  It buoys me up but also risks drowning me.

January 26, 2012

As of today, Beth and I haven’t spoken in six days; a couple of texts and emails here and there, that’s it.  I find it hard to believe she cares or even wants to reconcile.  Could she have lied that blatantly when we drew up and signed the separation agreement, complete with four witnesses?  When she agreed in writing that she wanted to work on the marriage, was she just …kidding?

I’m fighting to prevent that from sinking in.

February 19, 2012

The conversation started ok but quickly went south.  ”I miss you,” I said.  ”I was going to call you tonight,” she said, “but there was a party in secondlife.  And then I took a nap.”

February 24, 2012

We discussed Beth’s dropping off the grid – her removal of FB, twitter, pinterest, etc.  She said she wanted to clear the decks of all social media altogether.  I was very encouraging (as I am truthfully pretty encouraged by and impressed by anyone who could chuck the 24-second news cycle we find ourselves in as a species).

It did strike me, though… if she dropped off social media because presumably people who know her and care for her could contact her… why keep secondlife?  Isn’t that like dropping gummy bears but keeping crack?

March 20, 2012

After therapy, I called Beth back.  We exchanged small talk – more inane small talk about how she hates her work or how hot her apartment is, and of course secondlife (one cannot have a chat, I guess, without mention of that fucking video game) – until I pulled out, ‘what do you want?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We have shit to deal with.  Even if you want to be pals and talk like two passing colleagues at work – how are you? fine. bye – we have shit to deal with.’  I went on to stress that I had been fair in the separation – no argument – and had given her space – no argument – and had been kind – no argument.

She asked where I was, dodging my line of inquiry.  I told her I was pretty disappointed.  I have held up my end of every deal we have made to simply see her give up.  And have been told I was not loved.  Not missed.  That the relationship was a mistake.  Etc.  So, yes, I was pretty disappointed.  I returned the favor, asking where she was.

She said she was ok.  What does that mean, I said.

She said things were ok, she felt relaxed.  What does that mean, I said.

She said she was fine.  What does that mean, I said.  In simple language, what does that mean?

‘I want to proceed with the divorce.’

‘Fine,’ I said, ‘have fun on your video game.’

And hung up.