“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/
It wasn’t long after the holidays, when our “separation” took effect. It wasn’t legal, just physical and I had been holding out for the counseling sessions that we’d agreed to. It was winter and I remember the cold clearly because I could still see my breath in the air, even at night.
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?
Posted by storm on July 17, 2012
https://theburnpile.com/2012/07/17/confusion/
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 Which is why I hadn’t been informed of the fact that the meaning of separation in the english language had now been rescinded, and the new meaning actually was synonymous with change-nothing-in-fact-feign-amnesia-and-act-as-if-nothing-is-wrong-and-maybe-she-won’t-notice.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/
Hey there. *waves* This is the first of a series of posts about the subsequent end of my marriage. Let’s get one thing out of the way right off. THIS BLOG IS NOT ABOUT BASHING MY HUSBAND. This is not going to be another blog about some woman wailing about how unfair life is and what an evil man her two-timing spouse is, or how she set fire to all of his belongings stuffed into his late-model luxury car in a vicadin-vodka-induced rage. (Although nothing about divorce is really fair, and I do reserve the right to wail at will). This is also not going to be about how you can “stick” it to your spouse and get him for all he’s worth if you too are going through this process.
This is a recounting, a journal, a memoir of sorts of what is proving to be one of the most difficult times in my life.
Ever.
I’m just starting this journey.
Posted by storm on April 3, 2012
https://theburnpile.com/2012/04/03/welcome/
theburnpile 