Leaving My Marriage Was a Death My Body Remembers
Will it ever forget?
“When did you first think about leaving Dad?”
My son asked me this question as we sat around the kitchen table in my new apartment. I’d moved out a few weeks before this conversation took place.
“To be honest? Fifteen years ago.”
“Oh, that would’ve been bad,” he replied. “I would’ve only been 6. I wouldn’t have understood then. But you could have done it 3 years ago and I would’ve gotten it.”
They say the body remembers trauma — that it remembers the dates when the trauma happened. Every October I feel it return. The unbearable tension. The difficult struggle.
Five years ago this month, I made the heavy decision to leave my marriage and move out.
I felt the weight of this decision in my body. I felt it in my shoulders, my back, and of course, in my heart. And every October, I feel it creep back in for a brief visit.
My body remembers.
Fifteen years prior to moving out, I’d been traveling with my mom and my two sons. They were 6 and 3 at the time. We’d gone to the east coast to visit my brother and his family.
My ex didn’t come along. Work obligations or something. That was fine with me. Our marriage had become so heavy and hard. When it was just me and my kids, we could relax. We could be our goofy selves.
My ex didn’t tolerate silliness. We were always on pins and needles when he was around.
On this trip, we let out hair down.
As I got on the plane to go home, I felt sadness and resistance building in my body. I could feel the tension returning. On the inside, I wept.
I didn’t want to go back.
For many years, every time I’d hear his car pull up as he arrived home from work I’d think damn. He’s home.
I certainly wished him no harm but, I’m not going to lie. There were days when I thought an accident would have been easier. I didn’t want to be divorced.
The sigma. The pain. The untangling. It was a hurdle I didn’t want to jump over.
