Today really is the fist day of the rest of my life. I know that could be said about any day, but this is a big one. Things have ended or are ending and other things are about to begin.
To start with, there is a huge RV in my driveway. It arrived here yesterday from Ohio, where I found it on Craig's list just 3 weeks ago. It is going to be my and my son's new home, once my divorce is final and we can no longer stay in the house. I signed all the papers pertaining to it with my maiden name, and that in itself was horrifying.
The house itself, my history with it and and my anticipated escape from it, are a metaphor for the marriage that has played out within its walls for the past 14 years. The house, like the marriage, was a fixer-upper from the start. There were issues with both from the beginning, some obvious, some not so much. Fixing the issues of both the house and the marriage was always my project. I dreamed and planned for the futures of both the house and the marriage. I had dreams and plans for myself, too, which were intertwined with my plans for the house and the marriage. I planned garden parties and a hobby farm, more children and a small business. I planned comfortable rooms and a place to find peace. My house and my marriage were supposed to be my safe space, the place to come home to.
I approached both my home and my marriage with the absolute best of intentions. Even though I was terrified on my wedding day and on closing day, I promised myself, my husband, and the house that I would give my best to them. These were supposed to be my forever: My forever husband, and my forever home.
For years I buzzed around, trying to make things nicer: a day trip here, a throw pillow there. This week a date night, next week a garden project. I never believed there was anything I couldn't fix with a book and my own two hands. My bookshelves and my browser bookmarks list are cram-packed with ideas I tried or wanted to try. I plowed ahead, ignoring all the warning signs. The emotional neglect, the ominous scratching in the attic, the explosive arguments, the holes in the drywall. If I just worked a little harder, I could fix it. Just a little more time to get it right, just one more trip to Menards to buy one more thing. I threw time and money at my problems like there was no tomorrow.
As it turns out, both the marriage and the home were doomed, for pretty much the same reason: The foundations were bad. As hard as it is to accept, there are things I cannot fix by myself. I cannot make my husband be someone he isn't, no matter what I do. I can't love him into being a better man. No amount of dialogue or love-language speaking is going to change who he is or make him into the man I need him to be. I can't change him any more than I can fix the foundations in this house with paint. eventually I realized the only thing to do is to cut my losses and walk away.
The RV in my driveway is my new start. Now that it is here, my imminent departure from my home and my marriage are suddenly real things. My heart feels like it is being pulled from the frozen flagpole it licked so many years ago. If I pay attention, I can feel a huge raw spot on my soul like a fresh scrape or a chemical burn. The frightened child within my soul weeps for the loss. She wants to turn around and run headlong into the past, the rickety house and the rickety marriage that once seemed so safe. She does not care that the safety was only ever an illusion, it would be good enough for now. She wants to be held once more, coddled and petted like a child and told everything will be ok. Even if it's not true, she wants to believe.
