It was my brother.

“Hey. Mom thinks Dad’s had a stroke.”

“What?”

No.

My call waiting beeped, distorting his response.

It was my husband.

Hell no.

“What do you mean ‘she thinks’?”

I tend to look at strokes like having a baby.

Either you’re having one, or you’re not.

My brother then explained that Mom had noticed Daddy had been stumbling around the house for a couple of days, speech slurred, eyes not focused, but he refused to let my mom take him to the hospital.

He’s stubborn as hell sometimes.

My mom (on the third day mind you), finally called a neighbor who happens to be a nurse, who took one look at my dad and herded them both into the car and took him to the nearest ER.

“He’s getting a cat scan now to determine the severity, but…he can’t talk, or walk apparently.”

No.

You know that feeling that you get when an elevator drops too fast for a couple of floors, and you panic for like 5 seconds?

I knew from that feeling and from the fact that Daddy wasn’t speaking, that something was very wrong.

Only an act of God could keep my Dad from talking.

I have had the unfortunate pleasure of actually watching my father have a small stroke a few years ago when I took him out to dinner for his birthday at a Philadelphia steakhouse.

But even though his speech was slurred…he could talk.

From that experience, I also learned that a small stroke, (also called a T.I.A.), can last from anywhere from a couple of minutes to a few hours.

It had been two days since my mother noticed that my dad was stumbling around.

My call waiting beeped again. I didn’t even look at it.

“If it’s a small one, he could be home in a couple of days, like before…”

“I don’t think it’s a small one.”

“Don’t say that..y-you don’t know for sure. Don’t…”

One of my brothers is very sensitive.

“Ok. Ok you’re right. I’m sorry. Where are they now?”

I put the phone on speaker and stopped putting the folded laundry into drawers and started putting clothes into an overnight bag I grabbed out of the closet.

The phone beeped again.

Still not looking.

I can’t do this right now.

As my brother rattled off logistics, I sent a text message to my other brother up on Boston.

Daddy’s in the hospital.

I’m aware. In a meeting. What’s his status? What’s your ETA? Who is supervising mom?

My other brother?

Not.as.sensitive.

They’re twins. Go figure.

Getting cat scan. Can’t talk. Can’t move. Packing now. Neighbor’s with her. Your brother thinks it’s a T.I.A.

Don’t think it’s a T.I.A.

Agreed. You tell him.

In the middle of texting with my brother, my husband’s text cut in.

Why are you ignoring me? I really need you to pick up the phone. I need to talk to you.

I may or may not have smacked myself in the forehead with the phone in exasperation.

I made a decision.

At that moment, whatever his crisis-of-the-week was just got voted off the island.

I called him back.

“Look, I wasn’t ignoring you. My dad had a massive stroke and he’s in the hospital.”

“Oh my God. Is he alright?”

Did you not hear me say the words “massive” and “stroke” in the same sentence?

“I don’t think so. He can’t talk.”

“Oh my God. Is there anything that I can do? What do you need?”

“I don’t know. I have to get down there. I’ll text you later.”

I hung up before he could respond.

He kept committing random acts of strange.

He would call me and ask how I was doing, I would say “fine” and then when I asked how he was doing he’d say the same thing. Then sometimes he would just stop talking.

Just sit on the phone, like he was waiting for me to say something.

My therapist advised me to keep quiet and just let him say whatever was on his mind.

Instead of my usual coaxing and probing, of “Are you ok?”, “Are you sure?”, “What’s wrong?”

One time, we sat on the phone in silence for a full 4 minutes.

I timed it. (What? I was bored.)

Then I told him I had to go.

No less than 10 minutes later, I got a scathing text message about how he’d had an awful day, but I apparently I was too selfish to notice.

WTF?

Another time, I had lunch with a friend and although we had agreed that I would meet him at the house later, I had not agreed on a time.

He proceeded to text message me 14 times.

I counted. (What? I couldn’t turn my phone off because I have tenants ok?)

The abridged version went a little like this:

When are you coming home?

Soon.

You said you would help me.

I will.

What time are you leaving? 

Soon.

Look, if you don’t want to help me, just say so.

At that point I really didn’t.

My lunch date was concerned.

“Are you ok?”

“Yep. I’m fine. Sorry.”

“Do you need to call whoever that is?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Who is it?”

“My husband. We’re separated.”

“Oh,”

Awkward silence.

Then another time I agreed to meet him, (in public) for lunch just to “talk”.

I knew it wasn’t going to go well when he aggravatingly picked a place that was not only difficult to get to by train but near impossible to find parking near.

The “talk” consisted of him explaining how well he was doing staying at his brother’s house. And that even though he didn’t have much, it was nice not to have to deal with the tenants, and the cats, or the bills or…well…me.

He’d come to the masterful conclusion that my crazy behavior was to be expected and that he was going to be patient.

My crazy?

So as to not cause a scene, I politely and quietly asked him what the actual fuck he was talking about.

He proceeded to outline the myriad of ways in which I was deficient as a wife. How I was uncaring, and often very cold and callous. How I never seemed to notice when he wasn’t doing well emotionally and that I often hurt his feelings whether I realized it or not. How often he’d waited for me to come to him and talk to him and I just never would.

In one of the most awkward cases of role reversal ever, I proceeded to explain to him that although he wasn’t working at the time, I had never held that against him. For the past year or so, when I asked him how he was doing, he told me that he was fine and that he just needed some space. I worked to support both of us, I cooked, I cleaned, I helped him with his projects, and tried to find more freelance work while he seemed to just be in his own little world.

I told him I’d tried to talk to him so many times, but he’d always give the same answer.

That he was “fine.”

He said that I should have tried harder.

He felt that as his wife, I should be willing to ask him 7 or 8 times in a row if necessary until I could get him to talk.

What?!

He said he was trying to figure out when I had stopped caring about him.

I said I was trying to figure out when he had turned into a 16 year old girl.

That went over about as well as can be expected.

Something was very wrong.

I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

I was beginning to wonder if we were ever going to get to couple’s counseling, or if at this point it would even help.

I like my therapist. I started going to him not long after my husband moved out and he even reduced his rate a bit to see me. He never pushes me too hard, or blames everything on my childhood. (I hate that).

And he seems to abhor Dr. Phil as much as I do.

But right now I feel like punching the shit out of him.

“Wow Doc, is that your professional opinion?”

I look out the window and chew on my bottom lip before I have to see him smirk.

I hate when he does that.

“Yes. Yes it is.”

I’ve tried very hard over that past few weeks to stay as even tempered as possible. Even with things going missing and his random “appearances” and the bills getting larger, because I thought he’d be there to help me pay them. (I don’t know why.)

I’m trying to stay calm.

I read somewhere, (Sun Tzu was it?), that anger throws your opponent off their game, makes them lose focus.

I do not want to lose focus.

When we both get to therapy everything will work out.

“No. I’m ok. I’m keeping it together.”

“Explain ‘keeping it together.’”

I sigh and close my eyes, rationalizing that hitting someone whose professional opinion you’re paying for is not a correct response and that if I focus and “observe” my feelings, it will pass.

“I mean that, there’s nothing for me to really be angry over right now, so I’m just rationalizing things one day at a time. Trying to focus on the facts.”

“And what are the “facts?”

I sigh.

“That he has been depressed about being out of work for the past year, that I haven’t always been sensitive to that and that in my panic about needing to work and trying to pay the bills, I think he feels neglected in some way.”

“So you think that the fact that you’re separated is your fault?”

I smirk.

“Isn’t it? Isn’t everything? He certainly seems to think so.” I say sarcastically.

“You get sarcastic when you’re angry.”

Yep. Still wanna punch him.

“I’m not angry. Really. I’m ok!”

I’m  surprised by the volume of my voice.

Judging by his raised eyebrow. He isn’t.

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

“I’m…” I slam my jaw shut and glare at him because I realize what he’s doing.

And I don’t like it.

After what feels like forever he says, “Why do you feel like the separation is your fault?”

I don’t want to answer that.

I’ve laid awake at night trying to sort it out. I can’t figure out exactly when things started going wrong, but I can say when I noticed it , (over a year ago) but I didn’t press him more than usual about it.

When I would ask him what was wrong he repeatedly would tell me nothing, or that he just needed some space, some time.

I remember making notes in a little notebook about the things he would tell me, (he always complained that I didn’t listen), just to make sure I was doing exactly what he asked. But it never seemed to be the thing he was talking about.

I would jot down the days he was working on projects, or the things he mentioned that he was doing that week, (he complained that I never would remember anything related to his schedule) so that I could bring them up in conversation. But it never seemed to be what he was working on at the time.

When we went out and were around other people, I was to say “our house” and “our car”, (even though they both were technically mine long before I met him), which made sense, because he didn’t want to look like I “owned” him or anything. The few times I slipped up he was pissed.

I wasn’t to interrupt him or speak for him in conversation, (that could make him apoplectic).

I shouldn’t walk ahead of him when we were out, (he couldn’t help me if I needed it).

I even took it upon myself to not talk specifics about the projects I was working on around his friends or family, just so I wouldn’t get that “look”, or so he wouldn’t complain that I was talking too much.

I had added his best friend’s info to our calendar, so that I could always buy flowers for his wife on her birthday or their anniversary, (he really wanted us to be friends). Or buy their children presents on their birthdays. (He’d skipped getting me an anniversary present once, demanding that I buy their 3 year old a flower arrangement even though it was the same day).Yes, really.

I tried really hard to do everything he’d asked. Yes, I thought that some of it was excessive, but I also knew we hadn’t been married that long, (3 years), he’d moved across the country to be with me, (his choice) and that these were just growing pains.

Right?

I had done absolutely everything he’d asked, but as usual, my self-deprecating side just couldn’t let go of the fact that I didn’t do enough. That I’d somehow failed.

On the one hand, I was doing everything and I knew it and part of me resented it, but on the other I felt I’d become this desperate wife trying to do anything to make her husband happy.

To save her marriage.

A woman that I swore I’d never be.

I felt pathetic.

I looked up at the clock in the shrink’s office, gratefully realizing that the 10 minutes left in our session wasn’t enough time to deal with my rapidly plummeting self-worth.

“You’re right Doc. I’m pretty pissed off.”

In a text message.

He stated that he could see by how upset I was that I was obviously hurting as much as he was.

Huh.

The mask might be working too well.

He suggested that if it made me feel more comfortable, he could let me know when he needed to stop by the house.

I suggested that he not come by the house at all.

That went over about as well as can be expected.

We compromised.

From that point on, he came by the house when I was at work during the week and was out before I got home. We also agreed to meet in public from time to time to talk until he got his money together to get us to therapy.

I still refused to find us a relationship counselor myself, or pay for it on my own. (Not that I could afford it, I was in therapy myself at this point). If he wanted to save this relationship he was going to have to invest in it just like I felt I had.

With all the new parameters, I felt more comfortable at home knowing that I wouldn’t be ambushed by an onslaught of unscheduled crazy every time I walked through the door.

I like my crazy to stick to schedule whenever possible.

Apparently, my husband did not share the same view, because after a couple of weeks, things started getting weird.

Like the day I came home and couldn’t find my car.

Living in New York, I, like many other homeowners, own a car, but only on very rare occasions do I drive said car into the borough of Manhattan on weekday during rush hour.

It’s just not worth the aggravation.

So I walked home from the subway one evening, rounded the corner to my block, walked through my gate and stopped dead to realize that my car is not where I’d parked it the day before.

I’m absent minded on a good day, so I looked across the street, then down the block, then around the corner. I could feel panic rising in my throat until my phone buzzed a few times with texts and emails that I’d missed while I was on the train.

I moved your car.  

(He moved my…what? Why?)

Why?

Did you forget?  Alternate side of the street parking. Tomorrow is Thursday.

(No dumbass I didn’t forget. Why did you…)

Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.

No problem. Have a good night.

Wait. WHERE is the car?

Oh right. It’s at the other end of the block down by the church.

Thx.

I ran through the gamut of conflicting emotions. I was happy that the car was not, in fact stolen, but angry that he’d moved it without telling me. (Ok, yes, he did tell me, but not before I’d had a mild heart attack, which I realize that he had no control over.) I knew I should be grateful that he’d helped, but I was also angry at his meddling.

I didn’t want to rely on him.

We were separated.

I couldn’t count on him.

I vowed to try to be nicer.

And I was too, until I came home and I was out of seltzer water.

Um…hey, where’s the seltzer?

Oh, I finished it.

(He finished it! I’d had exactly 2 sips.)

I had noticed food in the fridge disappearing a bit faster than I thought, soap getting smaller, laundry detergent running out quicker. I just thought I was going through it and I wrote it off as me being absent -minded again.

Then one day I ran into a neighbor and a friend, (the only one on the block who actually knew that we weren’t living together anymore at the time). Jokingly, he said to me,

“You know since y’all have been separated, I see your husband now more than I did when you two were together.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your husband, he’s at the house like every day.”

I ran back across the street, up to the kitchen and threw open the fridge.

Dammit.

Apparently, when I was at work, my husband, (who was no longer living there), was apparently using my house as his base of operations. Free hi-speed WiFi, food, laundry, storage and all.

I would come home and it wasn’t just the car that had been moved, but food, clothing, mail. Tons of things would not be where I’d left them. There was always something I needed that I couldn’t find because he moved it.

It was like living with a ghost with OCD and temporary selective amnesia.

Very disturbing.

I had to ask him on more than one occasion if he’d fed the cats. There was always something that I would have to contact him about to help me locate.

After awhile, I got tired of the game, and stopped contacting him entirely.

I would usually just pour myself a glass of wine and hope by the time I’d finished the glass, that whatever I was missing would either magically reappear, or I would magically forget and just not care.

By two glasses, it was usually the latter.

What?! No you can’t leave it here!

(My inner voice was getting angry).

“…I can come back early in the morning and get it.” he said.

WTF IS HE SMOKING? HE DON’T LIVE HERE ANYMORE! 

(Why does my inner voice suddenly sound like Afro Samurai’s alter ego Ninja?).

I took a deep breath and concentrated on not raising my voice.

“No.” I said calmly, “I would like you to take it all with you tonight…now.”

I didn’t even wait for a response, I just went downstairs and washed my face. I could hear him slamming things around upstairs as he packed things up. He stomped his way down the stairs and out of the house repeatedly getting the equipment out, making as much noise as possible I’m sure to try to get me out of the room, but I wouldn’t budge.

I couldn’t understand why he was getting angry.

He asked to leave.

He had moved out instead of making any changes.

He had said that we were going to go to counseling, but it had been a few weeks and he’d said nothing about it.

I went into the bedroom through the adjoining bathroom door and sat down on the bed. His closet door was open a bit, still full of his clothes, there was even a bag of dirty laundry of his in the corner of the room which I refused to touch in silent protest.

Do NOT help him, he hurt you girl. (Shut up Ninja!).

But at the same time, I could see something in him breaking as well, and I didn’t want to be the one responsible for tearing him down.

I still loved him.

We will get through this. It’s only been three years. As soon as we get to counseling, we will find the tools to get through this.

I went back into the bathroom to get something and he was calling my name through the door.

I opened it and that’s when the yelling started.

I can’t remember everything that was said, I just remember being in shock because I’d never seen him this angry before.

He was seething.

I wasn’t scared that he would hurt me or anything.

‘Course not! The man might be crazy, but he ain’t stupid. (Really Ninja?)

I was more concerned with the sharpness of his gestures, the volume of his voice, the way he spat words out at me.

I was stunned. What could I have possibly done to make him this angry?

Was I that horrible of a person? Of a wife? 

“No.” I said it more to myself, than to him I think.

“What?”

“I don’t…”

“You don’t what? Want me here? Want me around you? What do you want? These?”

When he’d moved out I’d asked him to relinquish all the keys except the one to the downstairs entrance.

Those he now dangled angrily in my face.

“I didn’t say that.” I said quietly. Part of me wanted to hold him until he calmed down.

The other part wanted to rip the towel bar out of the bathroom wall and beat him with it.

All of my emotions had me paralyzed and rooted to the spot.

“Well?!”

I was exhausted from walking around everyday like nothing was wrong.From taking on multiple freelance gigs to pay all of the bills. From keeping my mask on straight. I didn’t want to tell neighbors or friends what was going on, I didn’t want anyone to know that my marriage was falling apart, that my husband and I no longer lived together. That I’d somehow failed as a wife, a previous miscarriage had proved that I’d failed as a mother. I had done everything he’d asked of me. I had left him alone when he’d asked for space, I’d paid all the bills when he pursued his acting career, I’d cleaned the house when he was “going through it” and was too depressed to lift a finger. I never bothered him when he was off singing karaoke, or visiting friends. I always tried to make sure there was enough food in the house to eat, that he had everything he needed, but none of it was enough. I’d even paid for a storage space and set up an office area in the corner of the living room so he’d have a place of his own to work. But none of that mattered, none of it was enough.

For some reason, the man standing in front of me, the man I had married was currently acting like he hated me.

And that hit me like a punch to the gut.

When I tried to speak, all that came out was an angry sob. And I couldn’t stop.

They were angry, frightened tears that blinded me momentarily. It was like trying to see through a windshield during a downpour on the highway. You’re petrified that you’re going to crash, but you can’t see and so you try to slow down, looking around desperately for a safe place.

But in this case, my safe place was the source of my panic.

When I had finally caught my breath I looked up and he looked like I’d slapped him.

He expected me to fight, not, apparently, burst into tears.

He reached for me apologizing profusely.

My confusion and conflict was still evident however, because seconds after he held me, I pushed him away angrily, sloppily wiping my face with the back of my robe and said as calmly and as clearly as I could…

“Get. Out.”

I was walking up the block, on my way home from work one day when I stopped dead at my front gate.

He’s here. I thought to myself.

My heart sank a little. He’d barely been out of the house three weeks.

why.was.he.here?

When my husband decided to move out, something told me not to change the locks. When I talked to a friend who’s a lawyer, my intuition was correct. Not only would changing the locks be mean and vindictive, but because the house was also his legal residence…it’s illegal.

And realistically, he’d only left with a couple of suitcases, (I’m assuming by the full closets and drawers that he’d left behind, because I wasn’t actually present when he left), so it was inevitable that he would have to come back to the house for something.

But that day, I’d been working with a rather difficult client, who kept making time-consuming changes to a project but not moving their ship date, so in all honesty, all I wanted to do was get changed, gnaw on whatever was left in the fridge and plop down on the couch with some fan fiction until I fell asleep.

But that was not going to happen.

I felt uneasy as I unlocked the gate. First of all, I couldn’t actually see him from the window or anything, but I just knew he was there. I looked up and down my end of the block and although Brooklyn blocks tend to be very long, I saw no sight of his car.

If he drove, did he park where I couldn’t see the car? Why would he … I stopped myself before I started replaying CSI episodes in my head.

I took a breath, steeled my resolve, fixed my mask and stepped into the house.
Immediately the feeling of unease grew stronger. Both of the cats were sitting right by the door waiting for me. And the older one looked absolutely freaked-the-fuck out. (I mean like tail up, big eyes and all). The younger one, just kept looking back and forth from me to his stepbrother nervously.

Huh.

I purposely didn’t say anything, I just hung up my coat and slowly removed my boots as I heard him walking from the living room, through the dining room to the edge of the kitchen stairs above me.

“Hey.”

I made sure my face betrayed none of the fear and hurt I was feeling at the moment when I looked up the stairs to the landing to see my husband…just standing there like nothing was wrong.

For a fraction of a second, I thought maybe I dreamt it all.

Maybe I’d dreamt that he hadn’t left me and a pile of bills that was sitting next to me in a folder by the door.

Maybe I’d dreamt that he moved out on Christmas Eve.

Maybe I’d dreamt that when I asked him if he was still attracted to me that he didn’t answer.

I blinked slowly once.

“Hey.”

What the hell are you doing here? I wanted to ask, but didn’t.

“Hey.” He said smiling. He smiled!

“I don’t know what’s up with them,” he gestured to the felines hiding behind me. “…I tried to feed them, but they won’t eat.”

That’s because animals can sense crazy, you dumbass.

Yeah, no. I didn’t say that either.

I just shook my head and went down the hall to the bedroom to change clothes, repeating the same phrase over and over like a mantra.

He is not going to stay here tonight. He is not going to stay here tonight. He is not going to stay here tonight.

Then I went upstairs to even more confusion.

As I peeked into the living room, there he was with a brand new computer and parts lying all over the place. When I stared at him bug-eyed in shock, he had the nerve to look like I had interrupted him!

“Um…so what’s all this?” I said calmly masking my anger.

“Babe..”

don’t call me that, you lost the right to call me that when you left.

“…I told you earlier that I was helping the guys at the hardware store get their new computers and POS stuff installed and that I needed to stop by.”

“Yes. That was at four.” It was now 10 o’clock at night.

Never mind the fact that over a year ago when money was really getting tight, I had all but begged him to find work around the neighborhood. He’s really good with computers and as much as Geek Squad were charging for computer help, I figured he could make some good money on the side. He never followed up on that venture.

Until now.

Now that he was no longer living with me, he had somehow found not one but two part-time jobs fixing computers at the local hardware store and the café. Which aggravated me to no end, because I was forced to drive to Home Depot or Dunkin’ Donuts whenever I needed something so I didn’t accidentally run into him.

But I digress.

“I told you that the computers for the hardware store were coming today.”

“Yes you did.” I agreed sincerely.

“Well, I don’t understand what the problem is then.” he was getting agitated.

“Well, I don’t understand why the computers are in my living room and not at the hardware store.”

“Because I ordered them to come here.”

“Why?”

None of it was making any sense. Why was he there? What did he really want? Because even I wasn’t dumb enough to think that he had to do tech support that night in my house. I was tired, frustrated, and really just wanted to go to bed. Normally, I would have just said Forget it and gone downstairs and got in the bed, or worked on something in my office.

But I couldn’t do that.

Because we were separated.

He didn’t live there anymore.

And I had two cats hiding in my bedroom, an agitated husband in my dining room and parts of a brand new iMac all over my living room.

(sigh)

It was going to be a long night.

Not the emotions. Just the facts:

• I was now living in my house alone, (save for the tenants).
• I was physically, (but not legally) separated from my husband.
• I was working a steady freelance gig that paid my rate.
• I had new tenants.
• I had to wash the dishes.
• I had to get the clothes out of the dryer.
• I had just fed the cats.

But how did I get here?

One night I was sitting on my couch, (which was basically my new base of operations) drinking yet another glass of red wine and I thought back to November. Back to the moment that I realized that something had to give.

After my new tenants had signed the lease, they luckily waited until late December to move in, so that we I could finish the reno of the apartment.

My last tenants had stayed in my house for 6 years. There wasn’t any major damage, just some normal wear and tear and a plumbing problem that I needed the space empty to deal with. My contractor was a blessing. I’ve known him forever, and he did all the reno on the brownstone after I’d first bought it, and well…fired his two predecessors. You see, sometimes men see a young female owning her own home and think that she can be taken advantage of. He was the only one who treated me like the well-paying customer that I was, and I, in turn, paid on-time and never bounced a single check on him.

I believe in treating people fairly, and giving them the benefit of the doubt, tipping well, and giving unwarranted compliments. I don’t know, it’s just how my mama raised me and I guess I’ve been sort of paying it forward. Because this man saw the plumbing work and the amount of painting that I had to do and quietly set to work. I told him I was low on cash, but if he could at least take care of the leaky bathroom tub and I’d somehow handle the rest myself. At the time my husband and I were still together, but he was conspicuously absent. He must have sensed this, because when I came home from work one day, he’d finished fixing the bathroom and one of his men was painting it and the kitchen.

I panicked, because I really only had enough money for the bathroom.

When I called him he simply told me that he knew I was “good for it” and that he’d bill me the following month and to pay him “whenever”.

I love that man, I swear.

My husband was nowhere to be found.

He was working on a new show which he said was taking up all of his time and didn’t I understand that he was exhausted when he got home and no it wasn’t paying anything but it was an Equity production and that meant a bunch of press and didn’t I get that? Too exhausted to argue, I agreed. And I set out to prime and paint the entire top floor of my brownstone by myself.

I remember getting up early in the morning before work to paint the apartment and then coming home at about 7 or 8 and scarfing down a sandwich or cereal only to run upstairs and do it again until 9 or 10pm.

I remember one night, it had to be about midnight that the roller I was using just stopped working. I tried yanking it off to replace it, but it just wouldn’t come undone.

And then of course, it did.

I splattered paint everywhere, all over me, the wall and of course the one part of the floor that didn’t have the drop cloth over it. I remember my hands shaking as I wiped up the mess from the floor, just trying to get it together before it all dried. But the more I tried to rub at it with my damp cloth, the more I tried to fix the giant mess around me the worse it got.

The irony (for once) was not lost on me.

I just sat down in the mess and wailed like a child lost at the mall. The only thing running through my head was… 

You’ve failed. You can’t fix this. This marriage, your career, your health, your weight, children, all of it. You’re done.

I bawled and bawled until I was an exhausted, paint-covered mess. It was an ugly cry because I think I was facing all the things that I did not want to accept.

How is this my life?

My nose ran so much I thought it was bleeding. And as I swiped the back of my hand across my nose in an effort to clean it up, I only succeeded in smearing more paint across it. Which, for some reason, seemed incredibly funny at the time. Next thing you know, I’m rolling around a paint covered floor, crying and laughing hysterically, absently wondering if the neighbors behind the house can see me all the way up on the third floor losing my mind at 1 in the morning on a Thursday.

As I set about cleaning up the mess, I thought about how for months, instead of forcing the issue with my husband, I had been just quietly trying to “fix” everything. He said he needed space, so I gave it to him, he said he needed help paying some medical bills, so I paid them, he wanted me to help him with his own project, so I helped. (Even though it was not making us any money, nor helping me with my career any). He needed help recording an audition, I’d stop whatever I was doing and help him…for hours.

Then stay up late to finish my own work.

He complained that I worked too much, so I stopped going to social events, and other work-related things and came home trying desperately to figure out how to pay all of the bills, (guru, ODesk, anything), he said he was depressed, I sent him to a therapist. Every new problem that he brought up I tried to fix with as much efficiency and as little complaining as possible.

Because this is what I thought good wives did.

I was wrong. I was trying too hard to be patient and loving and kind, (and occassionally sarcastic) instead of basically telling him to grow a set, and deal with his own problems. Or at least to meet me halfway.

Instead the pressure was making everything slowly erode around me. Falling apart slowly at first, and then much more quickly. We were living like roommates, the last vacation we took was our honeymoon, he was hardly around and when he was, he was cranky or sullen, and giving off an energy that I just didn’t want to be around. Sex? What sex? I realized that (very messy) night, two very important things.

One, the demise of my marriage was picking up speed and Two…

I was powerless to stop it by myself.

That night, as I showered and scrubbed paint from places it had no business being, I made some priorities:

1. My health and well-being and happiness were just as important as his.
2. Unless a task had to do with food, cleaning, tenants or making money, I was not.going.to.do.it.
3. Our marriage needed help, but I had proven incapable of fixing it on my own, so I would talk to him about going to couples’ counseling, so we could set about the task of fixing it together.
4. It was quite possible that he might reject the counseling idea, and even our entire marriage at this point and I might lose my last (healthy) chance at becoming a mother (biologically).

So be it.

By the time I was all cleaned up, my fingers were all wrinkly, my hair looked like the cats had slept in it and I was shivering like heroin addict without a fix, but you know what?

I felt better.

Jump forward some 30 odd days later, tenants all settled in (they loved the paint job btw), I was home from work and I was sitting in my house alone, (well, with the cats), wondering if I’d made the right choice.

It’s like I’ve blocked it out or something.

I don’t remember driving back to New York, but I know I did, because I was booked on a pretty hectic job that week.

I have no recollection of talking to my tenants, but I know I did, because they’d just moved in.

I seem to remember random mundane tasks:

Taking out the trash.

A warm, floppy hat he gave me last winter that I liked to wear.

My favorite pair of fingerless gloves.

The way my youngest cat had taken to finding the most expensive garment I own (cashmere, silk, etc.) and dragging it around the house in some sort of silent defiant protest whenever I worked late.

A pile of laundry with my husband’s clothes mixed up in it that I bagged and avoided like some sort of HAZMAT contaminant.

Balancing my laptop bag and a large hazelnut from Dunkin’ while trying to inhale an old-fashioned donut on a crosstown bus on my way to a gig at a studio so far west of Chelsea it should have had a Hoboken address.

It’s like my brain shut down and was only working in Safe Mode or something. All non-essential tasks were relegated to be handled at a later date.

I didn’t reboot until around New Year’s.

Maybe it’s shock, or transient global amnesia, or PTSD or something.

Whatever it is, it’s probably for the best really.

It’s funny what I do remember though.

I remember clearly sitting in a friend’s apartment at a sparse New Year’s Eve party feeling slightly over dressed and slightly overweight, staring at my engagement ring and my wedding band wondering what lie I would use to explain why my husband wasn’t with me.

Of course I played it all off and said that he was away on a project, which he frequently was, so no one questioned it.

I don’t think anyone noticed that I quickly downed my drink and shoved a handful of hors d’oeuvres in my mouth so I wouldn’t have to talk for a few minutes after that either.

When the clock struck twelve, I deftly sat between two single folks I’d just met and clinked glasses. I stared at my lap until the moment had passed so I wouldn’t have to see anyone kissing.

Yep. I definitely remember doing that.

After the party we walked a few blocks to a bar that was still going strong and everyone seemed to be excited to attend.

I decided I was leaving about 30 seconds after I got there because I was not ready to walk into a room full of college aged kids in a bar in Prospect Heights all grinding and drinking and young and thin and…

Yeah. You see where this is going right?

For some reason I remember those feelings of inadequacy quite clearly.

As I was leaving, I realized that I was going to have to walk down a few Brooklyn streets at 3am, in heels.

…by myself.

This is only temporary. Once we get to counseling this will all work out and we’ll be fine. This is only temporary.

As if the gods were listening, a young man (he looked to be about 15) and a woman (closer to my age) I recognized from the party both walked out behind me.

I decided to give them a lift home as a thank you for being my escorts. We struck up a rapport in the car and ended up at a 24 hour diner eating waffles on New Year’s Day.

I can’t remember either of their names.

I do remember thinking how easy it was for me to break bread with people I’d just met, but how impossible it was to even have dinner with my husband over the past few months.

This is only temporary. You’ll be fine.

I drove home as the sun was just coming up and just kicked off my heels and crawled into my empty bed. Little black dress, makeup and all.

I don’t remember what I did the next day.

Not about the holiday itself mind you.

Years ago my brothers and I stopped exchanging gifts because of the sheer angst and fights the event would cause.

Nope. My fear is entirely based on one frightening thought.

What if he doesn’t leave?

Now that I’ve gotten on the separation train, I’ve been impatiently waiting for it to leave the station.

But the doors are closing, and he’s still not on board.

Funny thing is. He bought the tickets!

So I do what I always do when I’m stressed or a little confused.

I make a list.

I list all of the things I need to pack for the holiday weekend. Including food and clothes and gear needed since I’m going to drive back into the city and right to a freelance gig when I return.

This calms me down a bit, because the only thing I can think about when I’m making a list is the list itself.

Not the half-packed bags of his in the bedroom or the shoes out all over the place, or the general chaos that my house is in when we’re leaving for a trip.

And that’s what it looks like really.

Us packing for a trip.

I stop to think about the last real vacation we’ve taken together. One that required 7 days worth of packing. My hand reflexively flies to my mouth pushing back a sob as I realize that the last real trip we took was

Our honeymoon.

Well, there’s half the problem with this relationship right there.

I make a mental note to bring that up in our couples therapy.

Whenever the hell we get there.

It’s funny, at that moment, I don’t really want him to go, but I hold people to the things that they say.

Especially the things that hurt me.

And he said that he needs space to figure things out and that he would find us a therapist when he makes some more money, which he can’t do if he’s here.

After getting dressed, packing and waiting around for his brother, I look at the bed and it slowly begins to dawn on me.

Next week when I return, I’ll be the only one sleeping in it.

My youngest cat must have sensed something, because right on cue he walks into the bedroom whining. (This cat never meowed, the vet doesn’t know what the hell is wrong with him. He only makes noises like a frustrated 18 month old that’s about to speak their first words any day now.)

Said feline sits down and looks up at me curiously, then hops up on the bed next to me and curls into my side purring,  blinking big adorable eyes at me.

And I realize for a fleeting moment, I won’t be alone.

Because I have cats.

*sigh*

I am going to be the middle-aged crazy cat lady with the house near the corner.

I suddenly have the urgent need to not be anywhere near the house.

So I say a silent prayer asking God to strike him dead  make sure that he leaves the house after me safely and I go upstairs and announce…

“I’m leaving. I can’t wait any longer, because you know I don’t like driving in the dark and mom’s expecting me. Please leave the keys on the counter, especially my spare set of car keys and the front door key  and…”

“Are you serious?” he’s angry. I’m not taking the bait.

“About the key? Yes. Because I don’t have a copy and I need to be able to make a new copy for the new tenants if they need it.”

“So you’re not going to wait?”

“I’ve been waiting.”

I wonder if he catches the double-meaning there.

He suddenly softens and takes a long look at me. I start to move away and grab my things.

“Um…I’ll help you get your things to the car.”

“That’s ok. I’ve got it.”

“Please?”

He doesn’t say it sarcastically, in fact, he sounds really really sad.

But since my softer side is still in ICU, I don’t give in.

My mask stays strong all the way out of Brooklyn, through the Holland Tunnel and onto the New Jersey turnpike.

But somewhere around Exit 10, I’m having trouble seeing the road because of all the tears.

I have to pull over.

Twice.

I will the tears to stop but I don’t get to my mom’s until nightfall, (which I hate because I have bad night vision), and as I make my way into the house she looks past me and asks where my husband is.

I say nothing, I just shake my head.

My mom just sighs and looks at me knowingly because she’s my mom, (and because she’s secretly an Omega level mutant with both empathic and telepathic abilities when it comes to her children), then hugs me and rocks me back and forth like she did when I was 5 and I got a boo-boo and says…

“Merry Christmas.”

“All right, all right. Stop.”

“Ok. Ok.”

I had both of my palms up facing him in the universal body language for ‘no offense, calm down.’

I’ve swung to other end of the spectrum.

Now I can’t get him out of the house fast enough.

The dance continued until the week before Christmas when my mother had asked for the 10^th time whether or not we were coming or not and could we bring our own food, since we don’t eat turkey and she has no idea what to make for us and my brother brought a gallon of soy eggnog for us and we had better be coming because Daddy’s not going to drink it.

So thoughtful, my brother.

By that time, a suitcase had materialized, but was still empty and sitting ominously in the small hallway outside the bedroom.

“Look. I need to know exactly when your brother’s coming to get you. Because I have work and then I’m going to mom’s.”

“You’re taking the car?”

No. I’m walking to Philly you idiot.

“Yes. I’m taking the car.”

“I’ll talk to him. I think he can get me on Friday.”

Finally.

“Ok.”

Friday comes and I end up working really late on location. Like the server-crashed-and-I-had-to-rebuild-2-hours-of-graphics-and-the-client-still-had-late-changes-then-re-render-and-post-late.

I had sent him a text earlier asking him what time his brother was coming and he had said about 7.

He was home when I got there.

Apparently, I should have specified the day, when I sent that text.

“Hey.”

“Why are you here?”

He stares at me, obviously pissed.

“You weren’t home.”

“What does where I am have to do with him picking you up?”

“You know what—?”

I wave my hand around not even looking at him.

“I don’t want to hear it. Tomorrow I’m going to my mom’s and I don’t really care what you do, or how you do it, but you’d best not be here when I get back.”

“He’s coming for me in the morning, I swear.” He says quietly.

Now he looks sad, like he’s trying to appeal to my softer side.

Unbeknownst to him, I’d beaten my softer side into submission weeks ago.

In fact she’s somewhere in the recesses of my psyche as we speak, in the infirmary, still recovering from massive head trauma and excessive internal bleeding.

Her heart stopped twice.

I have perfected hiding these “soft” emotions from my husband since he began using them against me.

I wipe my face clean of any and all emotion, level my gaze at him in my fiercest unblinking stare and dare him to protest.

“Forget it.”

If Agent Coulson were real, he’d hire me.

I’m just that good.

I push past him and go to the bedroom to change clothes, wipe off my makeup and prepare for a long night on the computer in my office waiting until he’s asleep, further nullifying anymore interaction.

I completely blame my watery eyes on the fact that I’ve been staring at computer monitors all day.