What screws us up most in life …..

A day does not go by where I do not think about a blog post.

I  run the idea of what I want to post about, or more importantly what is running around inside my head and think of the words I will use to get it out.

Then I sit and stare at the screen.

Right now I need blogging — it is my life raft in what appears to be a rather chaotic ocean.

The default thought that overpowers my thinking is “divorce.”  I do apologise as this is going to be a recurring theme of this blog moving forward.  I can’t tell you when I will stop bleating about it.

If you can’t bear to watch, then please click away.

Kennith was hoping we could discuss the details about us parting company like adults and be amicable about the entire thing.  My guess is a spreadsheet and the possibility of a pie chart of some sort would be what moved across the table.

I realised that  is just not going to be possible.  Even with the best hope in the world.

And I love a pretty graph or pie chart.

The problem with a partner of 20 years who asks you for divorce, is that you are thrown into a situation where the person who was your best mate, your partner through it all, the person who was always looking out for you, is no longer THE person who is looking out for you.

Their agenda, their focus has shifted.  It has to.  We are both trying to survive this and get to the other side with as little damage as possible to ourselves and our children.  Kennith’s desire to cut his ties with me, does not mean that he is reaffirming his need to remain connected to me forever.

He is looking at ways that we can be independent of each other – and that unfortunately flies in the face of  what is good for me, or in my best interests.

“Divorce” or “being divorced from” has become a constant in my day – a feeling of rejection, of concern for my welfare, worry whether my children are going to be okay, worrying where we will live, what form our lives will take from here on in and and and …

There is an overriding sense bit of humiliation because I could not make this work. I failed.

This is not what I had planned and FUCK YOU UNIVERSE!! THE UNIVERSE IT APPEARS DOES GIVE YOU MORE THAN YOU CAN ACTUALLY DEAL WITH.

I wake up and it is the first thought that rolls through my head, and the last thought as Morpheus takes me away somewhere quiet.

Sitting across a table with Kennith and working out how the next few years of our lives will pan out is not something I think he is the best qualified to decide on. Admittedly I lost my voice a long time ago in this relationship.  So maybe I might not be the best person to make the BIG decisions either.

I don’t think Kennith is a bad person, or a person who plans badly.

Nope, I think he is jolly good at looking at something logically and divvying up a home and making plans in a very logical and calculating manner.

The problem is that nothing in this process is logical.  It requires me to negotiate with someone who is no longer my ally, and who emotionally is just not on the same page as me.

He is not the person I can trust in my darkest hour.  He is not the guy I can run to when I have had a scary day.  He is the guy who asked to leave the island.

I know he says he will look out for me and the kids, and you know I believe he believes that he will.  I do.  I believe he believes that.

But he has not been through this divorce.

I have had a little over 60 days to absorb : a divorce, my partner who I have lived with for nearly 20 years will no longer be living with me.  Every plan, every goal I have needs to be revised.  Every way I saw 2014 going will no longer be heading in the direction I thought it would.  Every solitary aspect of my children’s lives with be altered, revised, and changed and possibly change again.

Everything I know being broken down in some way.  I am feeling under constant threat.

Someone asked me last week what is the thing I fear the most about getting divorced and I said “being more broken ….. making my kids broken people…” and then I cried so many snot bubbles I could not finish my thought or the sentence.  I needed to move along as people were staring at me in the fruit and vegetable aisle at Pick ‘n Pay.

I cannot and will not get into a discussion with Kennith about how we should decide our lives from this point on wards.

I cannot afford a divorce lawyer.

I have asked Kennith that we use a mediator and facilitator, who was recommended to me.  He met with her and has agreed that we will work through her.

I am not suggesting that mediation will be pretty and lovely and have rainbows shooting out of unicorns, but it seems like the best option right now.

Next hurdle – Kennith moves out at the end of the month.

How the fuck did we get here so quickly?

140224_quote

Please note : I appreciate that this process is one that Kennith and I are both going through.  Please be gentle and careful with your comments.  I am not painting Kennith as the villain and me as the superhero.  

I think we will have different hats to wear throughout this relationship – and some days we will be the dog’s bullocks and some days the shit on the sheep’s arse.  No doubt we will take turns with who gets to wear the white hat.

What I share here is “public knowledge” to a large degree, and I would also appreciate it if you would be as kind and as gentle as possible.

I need this blog as “my place” – I have thought about having a private blog, but that is just not the way I can do things — and all of these things are part of who I am and how I got here, or where I will be going.  I need this blog right now.

I am not talking on behalf of Kennith  – this is my blog and this is about how I feel on a particular day.  I reserve the right to be selfish with my feelings and to write about what concerns me most – my perception may be blurred by the fact that I see things from my own perspective.

 Nothing here is in Kennith’s words – and he is free to disagree with me on all and everything.  He is quite entitled to those thoughts.  This blog is written for me, by me and about me.  Kennith gets to tell his own story, when and how he pleases.

Please play nicely on this blog – no shit talk, no slandering and no being a dick.  Please, I really do not have the energy for trolls rights now.

Advertisements

I really am dreading Valentine’s Day this year …

140211_Fuck Valentines Day

Valentine’s Day is usually not a big day in my calendar.

I think Kennith and I were whoop-di-doo into it for the first few years.  But then it just got naff, and turned into Woolworths dinners brought home.  And then after time, even that sort of faded away.  It’s also jammed in right after Xmas, and right after Kennith’s birthday.

I am not a bit Valentine’s Day person.  I am not going to burden you with the usual moaning stance of “it is such a retail hyped day” and and and …..

The brilliance about being in a long term relationship is you can sort of be a bit snide and blasé about the whole V-day thing (valentines day, not vagina, one can never be blasé about vagina day).  Because you are in a relationship, and you can sort of a be a bit “oh, we don’t have to worry about that sort of thing…” and watch Valentine’s Day kind of shift past you, and hardly raised a well defined eyebrow at the entire thing.

As divorce looms, and the idea of being a 42 year old single mother with three children appears to be my potentially new Facebook Status Relationship update, the fact that Valentine’s Day is coming around on Friday does make the bile in my gut sort of sneak out my sphincter muscles.

Both sides.

Valentine’s Day is just another day on the calendar, but this year it sort of marks the “first Valentine’s Day” in two decades where I have had to feel a bit “spare” on a holiday/retail hype day/Friday.

It does mark the beginning of a road of “days” where I am not quite sure how to deal with it, or how to prepare myself for it.  Uncharted territory shall we say.

Today is Kennith’s birthday – again the first birthday in two decades where we have not celebrated his birthday together.

He did invite me to dinner with the kids and his family, but I can’t do a polite dinner when I feel there is a huge freaking elephant in the room, and I just cannot smile that long ….

There will be my birthday, the children’s birthday, Christmas and every other holiday and high-day that I have always known where I will be, and who I will be doing it with.

Right now I feel a bit sick at the thought of this new journey.  Every one of these stupid days that will be the sign post of this new life, called Divorced, or Soon to be Divorced, or Nearly Divorced …. or Reluctantly Divorce … or “yes, it’s all a bit of a fuck up” … choose the term that you feel the most comfortable with.

I am still trying out various version of each, and haven’t quite found “my one” yet.

I really would like to hide under the covers, watch back-to-back seasons of Games of Thrones, and hide from the world.  With a large bottle of wine, and an equally large bag of Chuckles.  But I need to wear my Big Girl Panties, and actually just get on with it.

But it’s Valentine’s Day, so I just may go and work at the school’s fete and butter rolls for hotdogs.  That is actually an option open to me at the moment.

You should date an illiterate girl ….

Girl-Reading-in-a-Forest

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you

Originally written and published by Charles Warnke – see more of his stuff here ——->>  on 19 January 2011.

Officially a Mrs …….

One of the issues I had to throw around in my head when getting married was whether to keep my surname or take Kennith’s.

The other was whether 16 years is really sufficient in terms of courtship and whether we should not rush it, and wait a while.

Kennith and I got married last year July in case you were not aware, or are new to the blog.  We got married on our “16th” anniversary, 3 kids present, I wore white, we had wine being served while the ceremony was going on, it was that sort of wedding.

I can honestly say it was not an easy decision, but one fraught with imaginary potholes and other traumas, for me.

For Kennith it seemed “logical” that I would take his surname and just flip mine aside, like a giddy new bride.

I did in the end decide to take Kennith’s surname.

Part of the reason was that I would carry the same surname as my kids.

The other part of the reason was that I knew it was important to Kennith.

I really did not want to lose my surname.  It was part of me.  The part I recognised.

It was not quite right to make my surname a double barrell surname as I would still be “different” from the kids and Kennith, so that would sort of defeat a certain part of the exercise.

I settled somewhere in between where I could feel comfortable.  I opted to take his surname, and go through a name change so that my surname became my third name.

<note, this really confused home affairs officials, and their foreheads get a crease, and they need to call a supervisor over to deal with it……>

I also decided to keep my “surname” until my new ID came into play.

Then it was official.

I got my new ID today. Suffice to say the photo is this side of hideous.  It is pretty bad.

But I have it and I have my new name.  So I plan to use it from today onwards and also alter my signature.

I know to a lot of people this would appear to be an insignificant day and really not something to even fuss about.  But I am my name, or my name is me.  Well that is how I feel to a certain degree.

And today I have a new name.  According to South African Home Affairs at any rate.

<I stood in the queue today and there was a woman in the queue behind me who insisted on playing/fiddling with my hair.  I was too mortified to tell her to stop!>