Goodbye Love

Just came to say…

A few weeks ago, I signed my divorce papers.

I went to the office of the big, expensive NYC law firm representing me, climbed their over-the-top grand staircase, sat in a sterile conference room, and waited for my lawyer and the notary to bring the papers. The hotly contested, much-anticipated papers. The lifelong contract that will now exist in the same place that my marriage certificate used to. Both contracts, just one with much less hope.

I had been waiting for this day. It had been over seven months since I learned about my husband’s affair, and every day, hour, and minute had been hurtling toward the eventual signing of these papers. My lawyer and I had spent many expensive hours going over the terms of this contract, dissecting every paragraph, every line, and every word. Everything was carefully considered and thoughtfully amended until it resembled something agreeable enough for me to want to sign. We spent months negotiating back and forth on the price of my husband’s indiscretion, landing on numbers I can live with (although it still, in my opinion, is far less than I deserve). The contract discussed our past collaborations, our two sweet picture books, our leased orange Subaru, and our joint bank account that we started after getting married. If you look closely, you could find the remnants of our life together there among the legalese—pieces of shrapnel that weren’t entirely incinerated when my husband burned our life down to ash.

By the time the papers were dropped in front of me, the months of slogging through negotiations had made seeing them a non-emotional experience. I was closely aquianted with the contents of the papers by now— there was no surprises hidden in the sprawling text that would elicit a flutter in the chest from me. I could nearly recite them by heart at this point.

And I wasn’t making a big to-do about signing them. I sandwiched this appointment between other daily tasks: after I stopped by the office and before my shift at my day job. It was just another thing to check off the list. I knew there would be no catharsis in signing them, no Nicole Kidman meme moment. I just had to stop in, sign, and go.

What I didn’t expect was the little pang of pain I would experience seeing his signature. There, in blue ink, staring back at me. His handwriting. I had not thought of this—hadn’t emotionally rehearsed for this momnet. I felt my breath catch for a beat, and then the moment passed. But it’s intimate to know someone else’s handwriting—how they curve their letters, cross their T’s, and dot their I’s. It was the signature I would watch him scrawl on playbills, the signature he would sign on checks, the signature on our marriage license. And now it’s on the divorce paperwork, in black and white (or, in this case, blue and white?), co-signing the end of our marriage.

That was weird.

I was grateful we did not have to be in the same room to sign the papers: he signed them and then mailed them to my lawyer where I signed them seperately. But that also made seeing the signature even stranger, like seeing a disembodied limb. Without having to look at the person the signature belongs to, it seems so foreign just to see it laying there, simutaniously feeling totally inanimate but also full of the life that we used to have together.

Sometimes I remember that I have enough rage inside me to level a city.

I am not inclined toward rage. I certainly wouldn’t say that I am a rageful person. I don’t often “crash out” or throw tantrums. I don’t have urges to break things or scream or punch a pillow or whatever. But sometimes, something will trip a wire in my brain that ignites such deep anger that it must be something ancient. It’s part of me but doesn’t entirely belong to me. Seeing that signature awoke something in me, just for a mere second, that made me believe that I could burn a hole through someone’s skin if I looked at it hard enough. That I could scream and crack the foundation of this skyscraper, bringing the law office and everything else in it crumbling to the ground.

Seeing it reminded me of what a spineless coward my ex is, and how every minute that I simply act like he doesn’t exist, I am granting him mercy that he does not deserve. That I am doing him the ultimate kindness by never speaking to him again, which is exactly what he wants, because as long as he maintains his comfort, it does not matter what happens to me. I’m pretty sure he is planning on hiding from me forever. I think he is probably pretending I am not a person on this planet, and because I don’t and never have existed, he never needs to acknowledge the pain he caused. But what I want more than anything, more than an apology even, is for him to stand in the path of my rage for even one second. That he would meet my rage at eye level, and look directly at it. I don’t know if he would survive it, he would probably turn into dust or something. But he will never do this, because he is a pussy.

These thoughts shot across my mind like shooting stars, then I signed the papers, thanked the lawyer, and walked out of the building. I put on lipstick and clocked into my day job. I did customer service and ate a salad and scrolled through dress options for a friend’s wedding. Like I don’t have a whirling, shifting, all consuming pit of rage alive inside my body at all times.

Me and my rage are like two cordial roomates who occupy the same space (my body and brain, I guess). We acknowledge each other respectfully, but tend to stay out of each other’s way. We have a fondness for one another— an admiration even. But there is no point in becoming entwined. When I see my rage, I give myself permission to let some of it out, but it always falls limp, as if my conciousness is calling my bluff. It feels like when you try to throw a punch in a dream: all the vigor you need is behind it, but all of a sudden you feel like you’re punching through thick molasses. I wish I could harness the powers of my anger and be an Airbender or something. I really do think it is powerful enough to control elements.

The sad thing is, the rage lives where the love used to be, I think. Love used to be the feeling inside me I thought could control elements. Not anymore. Maybe one day again.

A lot of my rage comes because I never feel adequately recongized for the pain I’ve endured. Not only by my ex, but by most people. Someone else’s pain is really gross to look at. I get that I am strong, and therefore people don’t worry about me. But I really want people to worry about me. Not because I am not doing well, I know that I am doing well in the face of this incredible life-fucking event. It’s just lonely to always be the only person worrying about yourself. Just because I am doing a good job of carrying this burden by myself doesn’t mean it’s not back-breakingly heavy.

My rage scares me and it facsinates me. I don’t know if I will ever “use” my rage properly— or why I even look at my emotions as things to be used. I guess because we are always being told to exploit ourselves as artists, and USE everything to make things. But I just want to leave it. It feels like a fact of me, the same as my brown hair or my blue eyes. I think a lot of people view rage as a failure: a loss of control or an inability to harness your emotions. But rage feels so important to me. It’s almost holy.

In general I’m trying to be less self aware. Self awareness is a great thing in many instances, but it really gets in the way sometimes. I don’t care to think about why I am feeling things so much, or how I look feeling those things. I just want to feel them, all the facts of me, and accept it all for what it is. Which is…I don’t know. But it doesn’t feel important to find out.