Year One.
My independence infancy. More growth in a single year than I can ever remember doing. Lessons learned in doing things well and even bigger ones learned in fucking up royally. Gains. Losses. Dark thoughts. Lightbulb moments.
It’s been messy.
I had absolute faith in my understanding of the trajectory. I was certain there were lines that wouldn’t be crossed. I was confident there would be an awakening, some internal reflection and a renewed sense of dedication as a result of my decision to start over.
I thought anyone who was faced with the kind of stark reality check I had delivered would identify the things that mattered and work to be better.
That’s not how it went, of course. It went in a very different direction from my expectation, ultimately causing me to admit that there was never any supporting evidence for the expectation I held in the first place. I repeatedly fought reality, pretending some magic combination of words was going to inspire empathy and create a more mindful response in future situations.
Another year wasted in fantasyland leaves me wondering what the hell I thought I was going to achieve.
The title of “World’s most naive woman”, perhaps?
I wanted better for the two people I love most in the world. I wanted it so hard I believed in the endeavor. I wanted it so intensely that I pursued it regardless of my good sense. I had convinced myself that this was merely a scenario where a relationship didn’t work out between two people who were both ultimately going to prioritize the same thing. Their children.
I was wrong.
The night we left unannounced while he was out drinking he asked, “was I really that bad?”
The short answer, of course, is yes. Not one person alive would sneak their children out of their so-called home in favour of a bread line if they had any other option. The long answer was a lot more emotionally charged and not so certain at the time. Was he so bad? I really didn’t know.
Later on I was told that I had taught him how to be better. Later he told me he had become a more sensitive person to the emotions of others. The narrative out one side of his mouth was that my broken heart served a purpose. He wanted me to be aware that now that I was gone he definitely didn’t want me and he wanted me to believe he’d moved on to be the person I’d always asked for. After twenty years all I needed to do was wait six more months and life would have been perfect. Perfect like the performative song and dance he’s been doing since.
As it turns out, everyone who has any history or context firsthand knows this isn’t true. The only people buying the act are people who don’t yet know better and haven’t yet seen it themselves.
As much as I wanted to believe that it was possible that my misfortune could be a springboard for better behaviour and more thoughtful consideration in the future it just wasn’t in the cards in the one place it should have been a given.
But then again, maybe that’s for the best.
I get so stuck on what I think should be happening and the ways in which I think it should be happening. ‘He’s SUPPOSED to do it this way”. “She SHOULD be doing that”. I wouldn’t have dubbed myself a control freak but now I’m not so sure. I believed that the drive to do right by one’s own kids would trump all other things. I would have thought any self respecting adult prone to long lectures about echo chambers and responsibilities and doing the “right”, most just thing would apply these high expectations of conduct to their own self.
But then again, maybe it’s for the best.
Can you imagine?
What if I walked out the door and suddenly dealt with someone mindful. Imagine if I had said, “I would be happy to drop both or one of the kids off to join you for their Christmas Eve tradition” and the offer had been accepted rather than them being excluded.
Imagine if I had explained that cancellations were especially difficult on a child who needs routine and it had been heard rather than argued.
Imagine if I had said feelings were being hurt and it had been met with acknowledgement or understanding or an apology.
I might be lamenting my decision today.
Imagine I didn’t sit humiliated in a courtroom while the father of my children laughed. Imagine if I hadn’t watched my ex snicker while a judge told me claiming to understand my son and calling him nonverbal was contradictory.
Imagine if I’d thrown away two decades and found a kinder, more attentive father on the other side. Imagine if I’d left someone and found out they really weren’t “that bad”.
I might have doubted whether I made the right call about leaving at all. I might be sitting up at night blaming myself and thinking I just needed to work harder. I might be sitting here believing the story that everything was my fault. In fact I know I would be
Instead, the result was really just more of the same. We got an extra year-long demonstration of what it looks like when a person chooses pleasuring himself at the expense of the feelings and well-being of others. We got a healthy dose of “a leopard doesn’t change its spots”.
Imagine if I’d left someone who was willing to examine the part they had played in causing harm to others and subsequently changed their approach to parenting.
I might doubt my ability to make wise decisions.
It’s not what I would choose for my children and that’s no joke.
But maybe after everything I’ve seen, the fallout I’ve cleaned up and all the words that wound up meaningless, it’s safe to finally say out loud that this is for the best.
At least we know it was never going to be better for us if we’d stayed. I take some kind of comfort in knowing that much is true.
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