10 Things To Do When They Tell You They’re Leaving
Won’t somebody think of the children?
A marriage breakdown is more of a zigging and zagging mess than it is a linear unraveling.
At first there are To Do lists in neat columns that create a fleeting sense of control. And fleeting is all it is, because control is a whore: seductive and satisfying for a short time, and when it is gone you can’t help but feel ripped off.
Time is of the essence in getting things locked down while he is feeling guilty and while you are yet to process the full brunt of the rejection; before the fantasy of being genuine friends gets shattered.
This was my list:
- Get my own bank account. Do I stop the joint accounts so that they can’t be used? Do I trust that he won’t stop them on me? Who’s going to pay the exorbitant childcare fees?
- Change the passwords on EVERYTHING.
- Get his house keys back.
- Call the Child Support Agency to get an estimate of entitlements before commencing negotiations. The amount he is required to pay per month determines what percentage of the assets I will ask for.
- Find a lawyer who is well versed on family law court matters but who isn’t intent on taking my ex to the cleaners.
- Organise valuations on the houses so that I am clear about the amount we are negotiating with.
- Change electricity, gas, Internet, and a myriad of other joint assets and services into my name.
- Get a borrowing capacity estimate for when joint debts need to be refinanced. Can I afford to stay in the family home? Not likely.
- Update insurances. Who is going to pay for the family private health insurance and who is going to be the single? Reduce the amount of contents insured now that he has taken a chunk of the stuff.
- Hide my relationship status on Facebook rather than publicly declare my failure.
Thankfully we were able to come to an agreement on most things one afternoon over a stiff drink, before we retreated to our mutual lawyers to have the agreements formally written up and signed off. Some of my friends have avoided the meaty part of the negotiations altogether by splitting everything down the middle and forgoing a child support type arrangement, opting to share the costs of raising kids as they arise. This can be dicey as it implies a relative equalness of income and personal situation which is rarely the case. And even when all is said and done and agreements are signed, any one of you can submit a variation for review or just renege altogether. Basically from this moment on, the implied security that comes with ‘I Do’ is replaced with a lifetime of simmering uncertainty. You remain tied together because of the children and, to some degree, are at the mercy of a man who may feel very little goodwill towards you now or in the future.
Unless you are a psychopath all of the above is highly distressing. The practicality of a separation calls for an heroic self-control that is at times unrealistic. The Stoicism school of philosophy teaches that destructive emotions result from errors of judgement and that maintaining will is virtuous. In essence, they celebrate those who can compartmentalise and whose actions are guided by rationality rather than emotion. I’m fairly sure that none of these guys living in 3rd Century BC had their wives wake up one day and decide they preferred vagina.
This is why navigating a relationship breakdown of any kind is like moving through a heaving Middle-Eastern marketplace: his actions are as off-putting as the sloomph of a sweaty body sliding up against you in the bulging, narrow alleyways. The glimmer of an escape from the sensory assault is squashed as you round the corner and see more of the market sprawling out in front; just when you think all of the un-doing is done, it is not. At your periphery the responsibilities of work, kids, animals, and the house are aggressively spruiking their wares, demanding your attention. All the while you just want to get everyone out in one piece. There are times when it is deathly quiet and then there are these times: where the world is crashing in on you, when your everything has been violated, and when your best efforts at virtuousness garner you a B. That even the most expertly executed separation has far-reaching and ongoing consequences was a bitter pill to swallow for this straight A-grade student.
The kids are sitting on the lounge watching TV when he arrives. They are two and a half and five. This afternoon we have decided to tell them that daddy is not going to live here anymore.
My ex-husband is firm on not delving into the detail with them. He says they are too little to understand. Who knows if he is right.
I sit down on the top step and he sits next to them on the lounge.
‘Kids, daddy has something he wants to talk to you about.’
At this point they could care less. The Bubble Guppies are singing some repetitive tune about it being time for lunch. He switches off the TV. Deep breaths. I can barely watch.
‘Mummy and daddy have decided that we can’t live together anymore.’
You have decided! Is what I want to shout but instead I stay quiet with an ‘everything is fine’ half-smile locked in place.
‘Daddy is going to live in a new house and you can come and stay there sometimes. You can even choose your own bedrooms.’ A thin attempt at making the prospect of living in two houses exciting. ‘We want you to know that we love you both very much and nothing will change that.’
Silence. I don’t think the littlest understands and my five year old has his hands clasped in his lap and is concentrating on the floor.
We wait a few minutes and still nothing. He sees this as a good sign and switching the TV back on, he gets up to leave. He hugs each of them tightly, and after exchanges of I love yous and see you soons he is off to live his shackle-free life.
I see him out. ‘Isn’t this all so strange,’ he says.
‘Yes.’
‘I wish it could be different.’
‘But it’s not.’
I walk back up the stairs to find my mother silently weeping over the broccoli that she is cutting up for dinner. I can’t bear to see her sadness, to have the unfairness of this situation reflected back at me. This moment was exactly what I had been fighting to avoid. I didn’t want my kids to experience the schizophrenic life of divorced parents: two sets of rules, two sets of clothes and toys, carting their treasured belongings like their bedtime bunnies in backpacks. Total bullshit.
I head back to check on the kids, biting the insides of my cheeks to stop the tears at the rims of my eyes.
‘Have the Bubble Guppies gone to lunch yet?’ My two year old nods.
I sit down between them and wrap an arm around each of their tiny shoulders.
My five year old looks up and says, ‘Is daddy gone?’ I nod. ‘Is he coming back?’ I shake my head, ‘No darling, daddy is going to live in another house now.’
‘Can we go there?’
‘Sure you can, whenever you want to.’
‘I want the biggest room.’
‘I’m sure you can have whatever room you want.’
His attention is drawn back to the TV as the tears trickle down my cheeks. One drips onto his head and he looks up, ‘Mummy, why are you crying?’
‘Mummy is sad that daddy doesn’t live with us anymore that’s all.’ I smile and squeeze him tighter to reassure him that I am ok.
He leans in to my side and stays snuggled up against me until we are called for dinner. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and with the peppiest voice I can muster say, ‘Alright guys, dinner time! And if you eat it all up you can have some ice cream.’
