How are Things?

Tag: divorce

  • Sunday 13th July 2025

    This morning, I awoke. In more ways than one.

    I was married for 13 years, and the divorce took four years to work its way out. That was June 2024, in a ritual in a court that was an anti-marriage. Do you not take this man? I do not. Is the marriage retrievable? Like a precious passenger that fell off a raft on a fast-moving river, with no chance to grab or collect it, or even mourn it being gone- No, it was not. Then it was over and I was travelling home on public transport, my voice and face as mute as other passengers, both sad and free and happy and released all at the same time.

    Then other things came that summer. No chance to rest or retrieve, just keep moving.

    It is really not until the return of Spring that I felt I could breathe out. Music and art, the record of others’ joy, no longer disgusted me. My fears lessened. My panic lessened. My heart became to calm. And now, I find my own music grows at times. My rhythm can contain more than one beat, and my soul isn’t so icy.

    The hot night begat a hot morning. Various thumps and whimpers from neighbors spoke of their desires being met, and I found myself actually understanding, even identifying, for the first time for years.

    And yes, I mean years.

    I’m no one’s idea of attractiveness. And I certainly am deeply uninterested in inviting anyone into my life. But this is another sign of healing quietly making itself known to me, when I feared it was not possible to ever return.

    I’ve just ensured that this blog will always be anonymous, it seems. I hope to write again tomorrow.

  • Thursday 26th June; Part One

    I have long suspected that I am a character in a TV show. One of the reasons for this is that each year there is one day that is a culmination of all the events and themes of that particular year; a season finale, if you will. This year, that day was this Thursday.

    I was up at 5am as I usually am, and I carried out my meditation, exercises, and tried to get as many emails as possible done. However, at 11am, there was to be a reception that my unit was hosting, seeing every other unit in our section potentially joining us. A complication was that I was due at a hugely important meeting from 10am. A further complication was that Problematic Colleague was no longer available to assist; in fact, it was quite likely they would show their face so as to point out errors, demean me to others, and likely have help in their efforts from my boss. A secondly supposedly helpful colleague frankly refused for no reason other than she didn’t like my boss.

    The new online finance system saw delay after delay in getting the purchase order system to the Caterers. I finally got it out to them Wednesday evening, and when I arrived Thursday morning I wasn’t sure if the items would be there in good time; even if they would arrive at all.

    I needn’t have worried. Tea, coffee and thirty beautifully arranged cupcakes were delivered at 9.30 am, giving me plenty of time to rearrange the boardroom tables, set out the catering, and… the vegan options? Where were the vegan options? I thought briefly about contacting the caterers, but remembered the pale faces of the two men, already worn out before 10am. So instead I grabbed my wallet, and got two large vegan bags of cookies from the online shop, as well as grabbing a handful of napkins as well. By 9. 45am everything was set up.

    I took the time to remove old coffee stains from desks, and gave everything one last stare. It is impossible to see every error, every gap, especially by those who strive so hard to locate them. All I could see was a neat and calm set up, with chairs and tables dotted around, treats made ready and welcoming, and a proper reception ready to go. Was it enough? Would fault be found?

    No, and yes. But there was nothing more I could do about it now. I was due at my Hugely Important Meeting. So I locked up the boardroom, handed the key to fellow colleague, emailed my boss regarding all the details, gathered the rest of my papers, and moved on to Part Two…

  • Tears on the Pier

    On Saturday, I and my son saw my niece. It was down in one of the seaside fronts along our city, that on sunny days is filled with the need to do, while at the same time is lazy, hazy, relaxing… I have known my niece all 24 years of her life, and she is a rare and precious thing. She’s young, and in many respects knowing about a lot of things, and at the same time still becoming to know. Getting to walk with anyone while they come to knowledge is a wonderful thing.

    I had concluded fairly recently that she no longer wanted me in her life. She’d made and broken several attempts on my part to meet up, and when we had met her again, she’d finished the meet up fairly quickly. The last time I’d tried to interact with her, I had tried to call round with a gift. I wasn’t even going to call in, merely asked her to drop down and open the door.

    She left me sitting there for half an hour before I’d gotten the hint and left.

    My son, all 13 years of insistent love, was having none of it. I’d told him none of this, and he demanded another meet up last Saturday. I watched over text as they agreed to a time, and a place, and before you knew it away we went. I was pleased they were making time for him, but I expected it to be a less than sweet affair, full of social effort and labour; and I wasn’t terribly interested in the labour coming from me.

    We all met up at 2pm, in some artisan coffee house that couldn’t give him juice, and talked about unimportant things. I myself have a bad habit of fawning in social situations, but really did not want to this time. The coffee I’d been served was as bitter as a barren stepmother, so I gave that up as a bad idea. A good idea was to go walk the pier with ice cream, and so we left the crowded cafe and escaped to the fresh air.

    People walked dogs past us as we talked about nothing in particular; the pier needed to offer boat trips. Chips smell better by the sea. Seagulls are dangerous to all life. All the while we were walking on and on, the length of time of nothing conversation getting longer and longer. A sweet moment in the middle of it was when we turned back, and the healing cool wind reached under shirts and napes of necks to make us exclaim in relief; all a bliss.

    The walk back saw us turn to talk of our shared family. Her mother, my sister, is rarely in either of our company. My niece blames her own sexuality and orientation; I blame my divorce and my sister’s husband. Either way, we feel judged. Each step saw us walk back from the water’s edge, back away from the extremity. The fear of judgement came up as a topic, and before I knew it my recent silence was brought up by her. I explained with clear eyes my efforts at reaching out; and her efforts at pushing back. My niece, however, was crying before I finished; I am it seems her only family, the only one she can trust, the only one who will speak to her.

    She actually cancelled seeing me the day after Christmas with ten minutes notice.

    None of it, apparently, should be read into. She took herself off for five minutes to breathe and compose herself, then joined myself and my son in the book shop. There, among the stacks of paperbacks and coffee table depictions of life, we settled our sad souls as best as we could; to regain the possession of ourselves, and our possession of each other as family, and for me to start to imagine the relationship continuing.

    Before long, it was time to go. She and her girlfriend had made plans to see another friend elsewhere, and my son’s social candle was flickering. I drove both of us home, weary and worn from the effort, and we ate pizza without consciously taking it in.

    I still feel myself untouched by it all. I find myself guarded; if she does all this without even trying, fully engaging with her is not without risks. But still, it is more positive than I led myself to believe on that pier. And now we lead ourselves out from it.

  • 18th June 2025

    Good evening, all. Another day is done, and the sun has set. This day has been hotter than normal, a dry, unblinking heat setting over the city and into the suburbs. My son is approaching the end of his primary school education, and to celebrate the school takes children on what they call a Leaver’s Tour. It means that I had to collect him an hour later than usual, a short vigil in the car while trying not to fall asleep.

    He’s on a high right now, as his last report card from his school was full of praise for the young man he’s become. They worked so well with him. He had struggled at his previous school, which had been a private, fee paying school. They had despised his outgoing ways, and loathed him even more when he received an Autism diagnosis. That is not an exaggeration: the overly fussy principal had shook her bob and said, “Sorry, he’ll have to go,” when I presented the recommendation report. When I had demanded his right to remain, they made the rest of his time there punative in an effort to force him out. When covid had arrived, they were almost gleeful.

    That was a very hard time.

    Getting the diagnosis came after the end of a personal struggle, and one day I will give the full report of it. Then the school he eventually went to came about after a long search online, then contacting them, and then a near magical walkthrough where my son found it amazingly comforting and positive. They were everything the other school wasn’t, a nearly rosy glow of support after years of outright obstacles. He thrived there.

    And now he is moving to a new school, a secondary school near our new home that has an autism support dog, a unit he can retreat to, and a full range of classes that will work with the skills he has, rather than the skills they feel he should have.

    For a short brief moment a few weeks back I listened to his father. That happens when I feel vulnerable or unsure. The subject options outside the core were Art, Graphic Design, and Geography. His father, paranoid due to Trump and a need to hope for chaos, wanted him to take Geography. For some reason I listened to him, the man who at every stage made the worst possible decisions. When my son realised he would not be taking Graphic Design he was horrified, and I realised what I had done. I had listened to his father’s fears, rather than ask myself what was right for my son. I put the question to his current school as well, and they answered immediately in the affirmative; Art and Graphic Design. His skills there are above anyone else they have ever seen. There is no reason to do otherwise.

    I have contacted his new school to make the change, and they rang us on the way home from my collecting him. I’ll confirm the details tomorrow, but hopefully I will never listen to his father again. I am vulnerable, perhaps, lonely and feeling uncertain about myself. My experiences in work and in other areas mean I would like support, and when that happens I fawn, and bend, far too much. I asked myself today, though, what it would be like to be back with his father.

    Then I snatched up the facecloth on the side of the sink and screamed, three times, into it, only stopping when I realised that screaming didn’t help.

    So what have we learned? That making decisions based on fear is always wrong. And that I have a vulnerability right now, in that I would like more assurance about my decisions. It will make no impact on me at all, as when I think about having a relationship I become very, very angry. But the need is there. Even the sturdiest trees sometimes need support.