Text Me When You Get Home

After ten years with my husband Derek, on the heels of an intense year of marital funk and couple’s therapy, I call our therapist and deliver some dreadful news: our next appointment will be our last because I’ll be asking Derek for a separation. The therapist pauses and says, “I’m sorry. I know how hard you both worked on this.” My eyes flood with tears as we talk about what I’ll say in the session, as if somehow she can help cushion the blow. But on the day of our appointment, whatever carefully rehearsed words I manage to choke through, my request for a separation screams betrayal. My husband sits next to me, speechless and blurry eyed. Years earlier, I had ugly cried in front of our closest friends and family and vowed to cherish this man for life. But now the truth is: I have to leave…because I feel like I’m drowning in slow motion.

On an electric fall night in 2006, I met Derek at a party – he was one of the deejays on the roster. After his set, I went up and introduced myself. I thought he was handsome but so modest he was completely unaware - in LA, that was refreshing. He had this other quality so uncommon nowadays: he paid attention. I mean, eyes-glued-to-me, not-looking-to-see-who-else-is-in-the-room kind of attention. He had excellent manners, an admirable knowledge of music, and was genuinely caring. The kind of guy who, at the end of the night, asked you to text him when you got home to make sure you made it safe.

After a year of friendship, and semi-stalking him on Facebook, we started dating. Being together was fun and easy, like a warm LA night at home with a good friend, a Fleetwood Mac record and a bottle of wine. We enjoyed listening to music and having dance parties in our underwear on Sunday mornings. We entertained each other by coming up with silly lyrics to well-known songs: Tupac’s “Nothing but a Gangsta Party” chorus became “Nothing but a Pizza Party.” Parliament’s “We Want the Funk” became “We Want the Butt.”

My friends adored him. He had three cats and the way he loved them prompted my secret daydreams of him holding our future imaginary baby. He was emotionally available and interested only in me. If you’ve ever lived and dated in LA, you know that finding true love is rare, like finding a parking space in Santa Monica.

We married in our 30’s and I felt like I’d won the husband lottery. I was crazy happy, a notch below Tom Cruise jumping on Oprah’s white couch. We relaxed into our married lives: we stayed up late talking and laughing, we traveled, drank too much, and binge-watched TV shows. We worked hard but didn't plan for the future beyond next Saturday night, drunk on promise and a foolhardy sense of time being on our side.

Then one day, sorrow snuck its thorny tendrils around our marriage and started to squeeze. First came the death of Eli, our beloved cat with a 5-star rating for brightening even our worst days with his cuteness. Next, my husband’s grandmother, a walking saint of a matriarch who we all adored, passed away. Then came the hardest blow of all: after months of teeth grindingly expensive in vitro and a slew of doctor visits, tests, prods and hormones that literally make me want to puke, I miscarried with twins at 8 weeks. At the 6-week ultrasound, I was filled with bliss upon seeing and hearing our babies’ heartbeats; however, at the 8-week checkup, there was no sound or movement on the monitor – only dead gelatinous matter, a sight which crushed down on me with the force of a tsunami. My soul was free falling with grief and, harder to admit, raged with anger because I was not the infertile one. Getting pregnant again meant more soul draining treatment with slim odds at success, not to mention exhausting our bank account. After some thought, I refused to go through with any further treatment. On some primal level, I secretly blamed this grief on my partner and that made me feel ashamed.

Laughter and music no longer filled our home. We stopped gazing into each other’s eyes and, instead, stared at the screens of laptops and smart phones. We withdraw into the recesses of our minds, in search of something that was missing in each other’s presence. I landed my “dream job” and moved us across town. I strove for perfection on the outside while on the inside, I felt broken, alone and lost. Briefly, I escaped into the arms of a man who I found extraordinary. He was attentive and I felt truly seen. Post miscarriage, his attention cast a warm glow over me, then lit my imagination ablaze with desire. Realizing this romance was a dead end road, we ended it for all the right reasons. Not long after, my husband found out about the brief affair and, even though it was over, the damage was done. The chasm between us just widened, thanks to my transgression. We were not even fighting and we should've been at this point. Instead, we made polite conversation and coped in silence. As hard as we tried, we couldn't escape it. We were trapped under the weight of everything that, for years, had gone unsaid.

I commanded myself to take charge and heal whatever was broken - as if that could be done by me alone. So I ran off to a weeklong meditation retreat. And that’s the magic wand that made everything seem better for a couple of months. I returned home feeling spiritually enlightened – at least, that’s what I told myself. I felt happier, healed and committed to making my marriage work. We moved back to the East Side, where we were happy once-upon-a-time. "Things will be great again," I told myself.

The thing was…we weren't in our 30’s anymore. Now in our early 40’s, my husband’s

relaxed approach to life caused my blood pressure to rise. There was no plan…ever. And I needed a partner who’d sit at the table with me and map one out in vivid detail. And I was no longer the woman who broke out into silly songs or dance moves. I was filled with expectations of myself and of him and, because they were unmet, I became a nag. Our old dynamic of the past ten years now felt obsolete. We didn't make sense anymore.

And yet, I felt as though I was the only one who could see that our boat was sinking. And that painful loneliness was too much to bear. During a rare fight, I started sobbing and heard myself scream into his face, “I hate my life!” Not once but three times, transforming me from ‘spiritually enlightened woman’ into petulant teenager in about thirty seconds. The next morning, I apologized. I didn’t like the partner I’d become. He didn't deserve this. We both deserved happiness; unfortunately, I didn't think we could find it with each other anymore.

Early in the separation, I asked my parents, “Do you think I’m making a mistake?” They’re divorced but remain friends. They both love Derek, so I was surprised when all they said was, “We’re not in the marriage, so we can’t make that decision for you. We’re sorry.” I so wished I could pick up a book titled something like, The Complete Idiot’s Guidebook to Life, where I could flip to the chapter on “Marriage Troubles,” look up our symptoms, and boom - read exactly what I should do. Alas, no such book. We must ask ourselves the hard questions, live with the discomfort of uncertainty, offer no resistance and then, one day…we just walk into the answers.

Six months into our separation, Derek and I sit together having lunch. We’ve just filed our taxes and are getting a return, so we celebrate with a cocktail. This moment feels good and easy, an echo of “the old us.” I ask him, “Do you even want to get back together?” His eyes tell me he understands there’s no right or wrong answer. With his usual Zen-master calm he replies, “I don’t see how it’s possible.” He says he has to figure himself out, decide what he wants to do with the rest of his life, and continue working on stepping outside his comfort zone. There’s a sting of rejection and yet everything he says resonates. I tell him I’m proud of him: he’s got a great apartment and he’s initiating all kinds of new things. I love seeing him in action, sucking out all the marrow of life. Because the truth is, I still love him and want him to live his happiest and most soul-fulfilling life. I tell him that I don’t see our marriage as a failure but rather, as a success. It’s been a good ten years, filled with joy, growth and love. He agrees. He doesn’t return the pep talk. He doesn’t say he’s proud of me and I admit it’d be nice to hear. But now I know he’s not the guy for the pep talk and I’ve made peace with it.

Post separation, I cry often and without provocation. No one ever tells you how excruciatingly painful the breakup of your marriage can be, even for the initiator. Guilt and fear slap me hot across the face without warning. Am I a rotten person for giving up? Am I ruining my life? Oh God, am I ruining his life? Maybe someone once mentioned how painful divorce was. But I just blew it off thinking, “That’ll never be our story.” And now as I face the end of our story, all I can say is, “Goodbye darling. You were the easiest person to love and the most heartbreaking one to leave.”

Our divorce is on the horizon. But recently I discover there isn’t so much an end as a to be continued…an evolution of “us,” a prism that is ever changing. With time we move on, follow the new desires of our hearts and find a sense of belonging again. We settle into our new version of home, though not in the same literal or figurative place anymore. Still, in some small way, I hope we continue to honor the ten years of intimacy, joy, struggle, and love that marked our relationship. It was quite a party. Now that the party’s over, although we head our separate ways, I hope we still text each other when we get home, simply to know we’ve made it safe.