On Valentine’s Day, my partner of 11 years and I decided to call it quits. We cried, we laughed, we called our realtor. Thus began a month of painting and packing, contractors and comfort food. Now, we are stuck in the house we’re trying to sell.
Early on, we discussed one of us moving out. I was looking at apartments fairly often. As the frenzy of home tasks heightened, the idea of moving out only to return over and over again to work on the house started to weigh on me. My now-ex and I were getting along just fine, so we decided we’d both stay in the house for the time being. (I moved into the guest bedroom.)
A word about us. The break up was a long time coming, but it was not angry or bitter. It was a mutual recognition that we’d been trying for a long time — years — to make something work, and it just wasn’t going to. For about half the relationship, it worked, and it worked gloriously. Then it didn’t. We can’t say we haven’t tried. We have tried just about everything you can think of — counseling, travel, stuff I’m not going to name on the internet. So we decided to go our separate ways.
Prior to this relationship, I’d always been the one who’d been dumped. I grew up queer in a wild, conservative place. When I came out, I got physically hurt and lost friends. Being in the closet gave me a sense of unlovability so deep, that I thought my first girlfriend was my only shot at love. Naturally, we broke up. I dated others, and was dumped by them as well. The pattern held until my now-ex, where the decision was mutual. Empoweringly mutual. I could have — and would have — ended it unilaterally that day if I had to. Even though the break up conversation was crushing, I felt like I had a handle on my life in a way that had eluded me for the years our relationship was circling the drain.
So after a month of civilly living as roommates, we’re finally ready. The house is immaculate, the yard is tidy and ready to burst into spring bloom, and a virus is upending the globe.
Fantastic.
We are now spending all of our time together. She’s been furloughed from her job, and I’m working remotely. On top of all of my dis-ease about the spreading disease, I’m trying to be kind to the person who broke my heart and whose heart I broke while we complain about the gym being closed. How exactly do I emotionally disentangle myself from someone when my options for leaving are so limited?
So far, I’ve tried to keep a normal work schedule. Which is not easy when my days typically involve multiple site visits in a day. We are going for long walks — separately. We retreat to separate rooms each night to watch Netflix or read when we used to do that together. In moments like those, we slowly drift apart.
When the realtor emails us, our years of teamwork snap back into place. She’s been shouldering more of the cleaning since furlough. Before that, I used my job’s flexibility to make sure anyone who needed to come to the house (electricians, energy inspectors, and so on) got what they needed. We have always been a good team. In fact, that probably kept us together for the last few years.
Every so often, though, the reality of being quarantined with my ex hits me hard. When she remakes my bed because I didn’t do it to her liking. When we have that argument over again. When I’m snippy because I’m stressed from work.
We need each other more than ever right now, and the trust we built up is still there. We are trusting each other not to endanger each others’ health. We are trusting each other with our separate financial futures with this home sale. We are trusting each other to be as kind as possible under the circumstances. But my god, it’s hard. I want nothing more than a return to normalcy, but with my own apartment instead of this house full of memories. It’s the opposite of a clean break, but we can’t afford to ignore each other when we’re relying on each other.
The house will go on the market some time this week, and if our realtor is right, there’s a market for it. Here’s hoping. I could use some space.
