How long does it take for a repressed, depressed, anally retentive, ultra-sensitive, terrified, divorced woman to become normal? 10 years. Well, 9 years and 4 months for sure but I’ll be positive and give myself an extra 9 months to get the job done.
I’m not going to tell a long, sad tale of abuse; a lot of people have those. Too many people have those. What I will tell you about is that moment when I was feeling like shit because I had just had my gall bladder removed. I was lying on the sofa, sort of whacked out with drugs, listening to the husband holler because he had to warm up a bowl of soup for me. When he handed it to me I looked in his face and it hit me.
On the day I die, I don’t want this man to be anywhere near me.
Death is such a personal thing. It’s intimate and heart-breaking. It is vulnerability and hopelessness and fear. And a man that can’t bring me a fucking bowl of soup after major surgery doesn’t deserve to be there at the end of my damned life. Especially that guy who has been coddled for more than 2 decades by yours truly.
I went to see the Psychologist who had saved me from myself several years earlier. I asked him if I was making the right decision because once you’ve had depression you learn that sometimes your emotions lie and you can’t always trust them. I told him I didn’t want to end a 23 year marriage because of fucked up reasoning and emotions. It took him 32 minutes to say that my logic and emotions were just fine and he wasn’t sure why I had come to see him to begin with. I needed to be sure though.
Having embraced the idea that I would rather die alone and homeless than be married any longer, I moved on. I found a lawyer. I bought a condo and a car and found a job I loved. Dissolving a marriage doesn’t transform one overnight; it doesn’t quiet fear and it doesn’t make one care-free. There’s baggage. And I carried all the baggage alone. I was worried about the kids and my future and money and because that’s just what I do. I had determination though and I was bloody well going to learn to love life and love myself, even if it killed me.
I met an English, childrens book writer. He was….well…..English. He was also the second man I ever had sex with. And he was the first guy who’s approach was “It’s not the size of the army but the fury of the attack!” I went for a glass of wine and ended up on my back on the floor with an impressive rug rash. I thought of my childhood dog that used to hump my stuffed tiger the whole length of the basement. I drove home slightly stunned and wondered if all Englishmen are so enthusiastic and if so it’s a wonder the entire world doesn’t speak with an English accent. I didn’t see him often; he wasn’t looking for a relationship, just very fast sex. When he found someone else for speed screwing he asked if we could remain friends. I said we never were friends so why would I want to be his friend now? I figured he kept women as friends so when he hit a dry spell he could always call up a friend who had a spare 5 minutes.
I met a couple other guys but none were of note. And then I met The Viking and fell in love with his mantra of “Who gives a fuck?” before I actually loved him. He won me over with things like:
“I was an asshole! You should have just said so instead of having hurt feelings for 6 weeks.”
“Who cares if you farted?!”
“I filled your car up with gas.”
“Why in the fuck would you spend your money on lingerie when I just have to waste time getting it off?!”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s burnt. I’ll eat it anyway!”
“It’s just a sex store! Everyone has sex! There’s nothing to be shy about!” and “Yes, he’s creepy but we’re only buying the dildo from him, not inviting him to join us.”
“I’m going to make supper for you.”
“How could I not love you? You drive a manual transmission car and it’s not a piece of shit Ford!”
He introduced me to his friends in Denmark and I learned about loyalty and who has your back. It came in a pub where a guy called me Canada and kept touching my ass and brushing (accidentally) against my boobs. I thought I might have to punch him but if I got into a fight then The Viking would be in a fight and if The Viking was in a fight then his best friend would be in a fight and if the best friend was in a fight then the best friend’s giant of a son would be in a fight and then the whole pub would be in a fight……so I decided to maneuver closer to the corner away from Mr. Too Friendly.
Over the course of 9 years and 4 months I’ve changed a lot. I’m not afraid anymore. I can let things go. I don’t hold a grudge for more than a day or two. It hasn’t been easy and sometimes I thought I’d never make it but it seems that as good as The Viking was for me, I was just as good for him.
There is a school of thought out there that no wo/man is complete without a partner, that alone s/he is only half of what s/he could be. The right partner brings the balance and harmony that is required to be whole. Despite being married I was alone and, to be fair, so was my husband.
Now, together, The Viking and I have been transformed into one viable, complete human being. But just one. I could never be so impertinent as to suggest that we could possibly be two complete humans. He curses too much for that. And yells. And throws things. While I drop things. And fall over things. And get lost.
So as long as I don’t curse and he never drops things we qualify as one whole person. Which is all we ever wanted to begin with.