After the incident at the house, my husband apologized for upsetting me.
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.
Posted by storm on August 31, 2012
https://theburnpile.com/2012/08/31/ghost/
“Well, I see that you don’t want me here, so I’ll go. Do you mind if I leave the equipment? ”
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?).
Posted by storm on July 19, 2012
https://theburnpile.com/2012/07/19/conflict/
I think the thing I always attempt to do when in the middle of a crisis is assess the situation as objectively as possible. After the initial shock dies down, I tend to sitrep the events in my head (and sometimes on paper) to start looking at the “truths” of a situation at any given moment.
Not the emotions. Just the facts:
But how did I get here?
Posted by storm on June 12, 2012
https://theburnpile.com/2012/06/12/choices/
I haven’t updated in awhile, because honestly, I’m having a hard time remembering what happened to me after my husband moved out and I came back home after Christmas.
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.
Posted by storm on May 5, 2012
https://theburnpile.com/2012/05/05/amnesia/
I wake up the morning before Christmas in a full on panic.
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.
Posted by storm on April 15, 2012
https://theburnpile.com/2012/04/15/cancel-christmas-2/
“I’m not asking you to take everything that you own, just maybe take 2 large suitcases and your computer and your drives and your shoes and…”
“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 10th 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.
Posted by storm on April 13, 2012
https://theburnpile.com/2012/04/13/leave-2/
After weeks of going back and forth, we were living like boyfriend and girlfriend as opposed to husband and wife.
Oh wait, no. Boyfriends and girlfriends have sex don’t they?
So yeah no.
We were like roommates who happened to share a bed.
He would do small things for me, like paint things, but not pay any bills or make any commitments.
Although he’d asked for the separation…
he.just.wouldn’t.leave.
In fact, most days, he would act as if nothing was wrong at all.
It was weird. He was still going to his part-time job, (I think.) Still working on his various creative projects. Acting like nothing was wrong to his family and friends.
He was still coming home every night.
He seemed to be completely ignoring the big-ass neon sign that was now hanging over his head like a mutant SIMS plumbob that read:
Posted by storm on April 12, 2012
https://theburnpile.com/2012/04/12/neon/
He didn’t leave.
Not that day, not that week.
He didn’t even pack.
I wasn’t even sure where the suitcases were.
Are they in the basement or in storage with the summer clothes? Should I offer him one of mine? How does this work?
He was calmly going about his days as if nothing had happened.
And I was slowly going crazy.
I looked up the definition of separation in my computer’s dictionary just to see if somehow Webster had been brought back to life and had decreed that the word actually deemed a new meaning. Maybe there had been a moratorium on the subject and I missed out. Which is why I hadn’t been informed of the fact that the meaning of separation in the english language had now been rescinded, and the new meaning actually was synonymous with change-nothing-in-fact-feign-amnesia-and-act-as-if-nothing-is-wrong-and-maybe-she-won’t-notice.
Posted by storm on April 6, 2012
https://theburnpile.com/2012/04/06/definitions/
Over the next week or so my husband became increasingly helpful and thoughtful. Morphing into the attentive loving man that I had missed for months, possibly more than a year.
And I became more and more uncomfortable.
I mean honestly, the man told me that he wanted a separation. I wasn’t hearing things, I wasn’t drunk, I was wide awake when he said it. And I made him repeat the words out loud to make sure the he knew what he was saying.
However one week, four meals and a bouquet of flowers later, I came in the house after work one day to find him painting the stairs going to the ground floor.
I spoke quietly, using the voice I reserve for small children holding sharp objects or escaped mental patients wielding incendiary devices.
“What are you doing?” He looks from me to the paint brush in his hand and then back to me.
“Um…painting the steps.”
“Great! Why?”
Posted by storm on April 5, 2012
https://theburnpile.com/2012/04/05/paint/
The day after my husband told me that he wanted to separate, I stayed in bed late. Thinking. Calculating. Making lists in my head. It’s what I do to try to take control of a situation.
My process, so to speak.
Deciding that I needed sustenance in order to figure out how best to handle my soon-to-be status as a separated spouse, I went upstairs to our renovated Brooklyn brownstone kitchen and was greeted by the smell of breakfast and to the image of a bright sunny clean room, with my husband puttering around. When he saw me he smiled.
He smiled.
If this had been any other morning, I would have smiled back.
“Good morning!” He moved so quickly to kiss me I almost didn’t kiss him back.
I stood there taking in the whole scene, and wondered for one brief minute if I’d dreamed the whole separation thing up. But no, that would require me sleeping, which I definitely did.not.do.
Posted by storm on April 4, 2012
https://theburnpile.com/2012/04/04/eggs/
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