New Skin

If you're a regular follower of my Facebook feed or Twitter account, then you've probably heard as much as you'd like about my divorce.  Trust me; I have, too.  But, the fact is, nothing else has so permeated everything I am, shaken me to my very core, and pushed me beyond when I previously thought was my point of endurance.  So here's another short blog entry about it, written for my LineByLine, a LiveJournal writing community I'm an estranged member of.  This month's line is When it was all over, and I had to use it somewhere in the entry.  It's not hard to spot.  

When she left, I wanted to change everything.

I hated furniture in the living room, because I remembered how she and I would try to lounge on the sectional couch, even though it wasn’t quite long enough for me.  The coffee table, where we used to eat our dinners while watching Netflix, was suddenly in the wrong place.  Even my computer desk, which actually predated her, was wrong. So then came the re-arranging, and when it was finished, I felt like I was coming home to somewhere new every day.

My hair suddenly seemed too long for a man my age. It made sense when I was 22, and I had just started dating an 18-year-old girl.  It, like so many things, simply grew because it was too difficult to imagine the transition away from it.  I allowed it to become unkempt in my security.  Now, I fantasize about chopping it off and sheering my scalp with a razor.

Even my skin felt wrong.  I noticed things I never had before: how far my hair line was really receding, wrinkles next to my nose, how, no matter how muscular my shoulders became, they were still not enough to detract from my flabby stomach.  I played with the idea of getting a tattoo.  Something cold and logical, I thought; nothing that implies dependence or weakness or vulnerability.  Something unshakable, mathematical, perfect.  I found the Fibonacci Spiral, though I still haven’t gathered the courage to get it.

But the longer she was away, and the more time I spent with myself, I realized that I actually liked my life the way it was, with or without her.  The furniture, even though it was still in the same place as it had been during my short marriage, was simply the best place for everything. I liked sitting on the couch and watching football or Dr. Who, even if I was alone.  My hair, though perhaps still a little too long, seemed to suit me.  And if I decided to cut it, it would be because I wanted to, not because I wanted to erase the man that had been married.  And although I still like the idea of the Fibonacci Spiral, I’m not in a hurry to emblazon myself with it forever. 

There are still moments where I feel as broken as the last cracker in a sleeve of Saltines.  But they are fewer, and continue to be so as the months go on.  When the judge pronounces us divorced, I’m still probably going to cry, and will desperately need to get stupid-drunk as fast as possible.  But those feelings are temporary, whereas my healing, and the restoring of my self-worth, are permanent. 

At the end, I will be a stronger, better man for the ordeal.  And even if no one else appreciates that, I sure as heck do.