“I’m afraid I’m going to end up hurting you like my dad did my mom.” Those were dismal words said by David, my ex husband, to me in 2010, two months after we began dating, if dating could even be considered what we were doing given the thousands of miles of distance that lay between us. He had said those words to me over a late night phone conversation, the context in which escapes me. I recently stumbled across this memory via a 4 GB external hard drive I discovered with much writing from my “New York days” upon it. I had written him a lengthy letter after one of our more serious fights in which I referenced this particular conversation. I discovered these words, this memory, this past Friday after “discovering” that our request for “default” within our divorce was rejected because of various reasons.
“I feel trapped,” I have repeated these three words many times this weekend given my less than subpar encounter with the downtown courthouse’s city personnel. My last name, my free will to marry again one day, my outrageous tax accountability – all of these things and more are dependent upon David’s ambition and drive to finalize the flood of paperwork it requires for a no contest divorce. I have repeatedly thrashed myself for what I know now that I didn’t know then – marrying him was the worst decision I’ve ever made in my life and yes, it may have come with a lesson or two or three but it was still a horrid decision and consequential mistake on my part.
“Hindsight is 20/20,” my therapist uttered as if reading from a cliché teleprompter. Duh, I internally think. This discernable observation does not make me feel better about the fact that I should have known better before hindsight even had a chance to fucking kick in. Thereby continues the self-thrashing.
I’m sincerely contemplating changing my surname all together these days once this “lengthy divorce,” as David so accurately and narcissistically described it, is finalized – Why not?