Monday, June 8, 2015

What Were You So Scared Of?

At twenty-one or twenty-two years old, I made North Star promise me she wouldn't let me marry Glenn. 

At twenty-three, I broke up with him for about the tenth time. Kicked him out of my parents' house and said it was time for us to move on. 

At twenty-three and about three months, we got back together. At twenty-three and about three months and a couple of weeks, I told him we should just get married because it seemed like no matter how many times I broke up with him, we ended up back together. 

A week before twenty-three and four months, our wedding.

Before two months had passed, I wanted a divorce. Got an apartment, packed up my stuff, and moved out.

Alone in an apartment and life for the first time ever, I freaked out. Glenn moved me back in the next day.

At twenty-seven, I had two kids under four and a strong desire for a divorce. My mother convinced me single motherhood would be too hard, and I needed to stay.

At thirty-four, Glenn and I finally separated for real. That one could have been for good if I didn't cave after finding out he had a girlfriend and ask him--beg him--to move back in. 

At thirty-five, Glenn and I separated again. Instead of my mother, it was a therapist's doing this time, but the result was the same: she told me life would be too hard on my own and I needed to stay.

At thirty-seven, the separation lasted two months. That time I even went so far as to pay for an attorney, but old habits, you know?

Not even six months later, when I was still thirty-seven years old, another separation. That one went for six months, but those goddamn motherfucking same old fears.

At thirty-nine, we separated for the last time. At forty, I'm waiting for the divorce to officially be a thing. 

I have never been so happy in my entire life.

Two weeks ago, while I was intensely making out with some super cute guy who I'd just met walking down the street--because I'm totally allowed to do that--a girl stopped and interrupted us while she was walking by.

I love your spark! she said. 
I looked over at her. What? I asked, surprised.
Your spark! she said to me, picking up her hand and waving it around as if to indicate an aura surrounding my being. Then she glanced at the guy I had been kissing seconds before. Yours is nice, too, but hers is amazing. I love it!

I love it, too. 


  1. Random makeouts? What are you, fourteen? Whore.

    1. I actually don't believe in whores or whore shaming, but if I did, I'd tell you about this woman named Elizabeth who used to send my ex-Glenn messages asking him to meet her in the middle night. Actually, I wouldn't: she takes up enough space herself. She doesn't need my words.