Letters Before the Divorce
1.
Dearest Stranger,
I can see how I’ve maybe given the impression that I feel trapped in my marriage, but my life was divided in half and that partition was the murder of a woman I loved dearly, like a sister, and the role I played in it all. I know I didn’t pull the trigger but I did that thing that butterflies do when they flap their wings, which in this case was talking the shit that only artistic twenty-two-year-old drunks can talk, about love and passion, encouraging her to buy a ticket to Life: The Sequel. I’m sure it wasn’t only my words that gave her the courage to leave her husband but when she would ask me why everything had to mean something, I’d tell her that if it didn’t, “I love you” wouldn’t mean anything. And so she left, and her newly estranged other half did that if-I-can’t-have-you-no-one-can thing that only the most cowardly of men do and I wanted to be drowned.
Due to the coincidence (some might use the word fate) that I had kissed her daughter at a party a week prior, I thought I had found noble waters. Who better to be punished by? Who better to assist in the disappearance of myself?
So, it’s easy for me to long for my old life. Sometimes it’s for obvious reasons: people would still be alive, other people wouldn’t be broken, a family would still exist cohesively to some degree. But, there are other reasons as well and those are the ones you’re thinking of. Overall I miss the whimsical and capricious nature of my old life. Where I didn’t have to think ahead and weigh things. I just did shit. I did whatever happened to fall into my lap. I miss when nothing mattered. But I also killed myself to make things matter or to find meaning so…? Now everything matters. Every step I take matters and affects people that depend on me. My back sometimes hurts from having to carry so much shit: their worlds. But, there was also a blanket of sadness that covered my old life. Whispers of, “You don’t matter. You’re a failure.” So, it wasn’t all bonerz and beerz.
I think the biggest thing is that I was good at my old life. And I’m not so good at being a husband. I’m starting to think I’m not all that great at being a dad as well. But I’m trying. And it’s a challenge. And that’s important. I could’ve been the best drunken ramblin’ man ever. I think I actually was at one point. But then what? Where does that get me? I think I was done with that life and that life was done with me anyway. But, it was such a quick black-and-white shift that I’ve been struggling for seven years to merge the two me’s. Because the dude I was? He was pretty rad and I’d like some parts of him back.
I sometimes do feel stuck. But, I mean my party boots are right next to my boat shoes. I strap them on often. It’s just a little bit sadder now because after I’m a rage monster, I have to go back to being a dad. Something about that is a little pathetic. Especially within the confines of small town USA. But, I miss conversation probably more than anything. I feel most trapped in that sense. “We’re out of milk.” “How were the kids today?” “What should we watch tonight?” Blah blah blah. It’s not that all of the time. But even when we’re out drinking ourselves to death or eating ourselves content, we don’t have that much to say. Everything we say to each other at this point is weighted. It’s hard for us to find the validation we need from each other for the most part. There’s some sort of power struggle mixed with the internal debate of the divisions of responsibility. There are a lot more implications in complaints for example. Explanations of how we feel about certain things can seem like subliminal messages of criticism.
Shit like that is what changes after a while of child-rearing and marriage and all that. I did want this life. And I don’t mean to imply that it’s all bad. I knew I’d marry. And I knew I’d have kids. The way it happens/happened is somewhat irrelevant.
-Me
2.
Stranger,
I suppose I am all over the place. I don’t know what to chalk that up to. Guilt maybe? The interest of balance? I think I purposely try to be a little lighter and fluffier sometimes because everything else I write is so dark and morose. The simple truth is and I suppose it’s a universal one: when my life is good, it’s real good. When it’s shitty, it’s real shitty. And it’s kind of a manic sort of thing since my life revolves around someone who is suffering. I can probably chalk the rest up to blog personality.
Truth: I check out girls while walking the streets of Boston (there’s so many of them! ((and on the Internet, and in townie bars, and et al)). Truth: I love my house and family. Truth: I miss single nomadic bum me. Truth: fucked up things have happened in my life and sometimes I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. Truth: my life is stressful. Truth: I am lucky.
I think you’re afraid of finding yourself in a life that’s boring where you can’t act on every impulse. I think that’s a universal thing to be scared of. Everyone is scared of that. I fight tooth and nail to have a stimulating life. I’m lucky that I can write wherever and that I drink like an idiot and that I work in the city and have friends all over the country that pop up here and there. My life isn’t boring.
-Me
3.
S,
I think, for me, the black screen of the future is what always loomed over my head. I lived in the past for most of my life and was probably the happiest when I finally figured out how to live in the present. But, at the same time the idea of the future scared the shit out of me and was most likely responsible for the, “You’re not good enough. You’re a failure.”
I think I always struggled with mattering. I want to matter. I’ve always wanted to matter. I think we intrinsically know inside that we’re tiny blips on the radar. We are spatial and temporal. We’re insignificant. So, we fight to matter. And for a long time I thought my legacy would be my music, man. Or my words, man. That’s how I was going to leave my mark. But that shit is just masturbatory. It’s all ego. I think I realize now that my legacy and how I matter lies within my children and the love I show them. And, in order do so in a way that is meaningful and honest, I need to love their mother.
I’m not saying my kids are the only reason I love my wife. And not all talk is about dairy products and diarrhea. I might be acting dramatic because you’ve given me the forum to kind of voice my gripes. We talk about shit. It’s just not the intellectual discourse that I sometimes crave. But, that’s what the Internet is for, right? And, for the most part, I don’t even want to talk. I don’t want to reflect on the things I’m consuming as metaphysical fuel (books, articles, tunes, films etc…). I just want to come home from a long day of work, tuck my kids in, drink a fucking beer and watch sitcoms. I feel lucky that I have the comfort of a home to do that in.
What do we talk about when not talking about the daily humdrum of domestic dullness? I don’t really know. We get drunk and let our lips take us wherever. The important things we talk about though are the development of the little human beings we created and our trepidations for their fate and their future. Since having a kid, the future is finally something that I ponder with excitement. I guess that’s probably the biggest positive change in me since becoming this version of myself.
I appreciate that you had this Bottle Rocket moment with your ex-boyfriend. “One morning, over at Elizabeth’s beach house, she asked me if I’d rather go water-skiing or lay out. And I realized that not only did I not want to answer THAT question, but I never wanted to answer another water-sports question, or see any of these people again for the rest of my life.” I connect with that. Again, maybe it’s inherent in small townness. To just one day be so fucking sick of how everyone is. It takes guts to up and make a change. I’ve bounced back between running and “If you can’t beat ‘em join ‘em.” I’ve done that dance my whole life I suppose.
I also think there’s probably a lot of people out there dying to get their hearts broken. It’s a kind of validation in a way. A reminder that you’re alive and can feel. We are a generation of apathy and irony. Probably because we’re so self-aware of our own spoiled angst. I mean, we’re the Dashboard Confessional age, right? Grunge was angry. Emo is sad. What do you do when you come from a movement of sadness and you wake up to how silly it all was? You rebel by not feeling one goddamn thing. And then that gets old and you’d kill yourself to be that silly again. It’s a vicious cycle and I’m probably talking out of my ass. But, I get it.
What I’m saying is I felt the same way. I’m not saying that to trivialize the way you feel in any way. I’m not saying it in a wise old sage who’s been through the trenches kind of a way. Because the truth is is I still feel that way and need a good kick to the crotch to remember to feel. Maybe we all do? Maybe it’s a universal thing.
-Me
Chuck Young edits at theNewerYork and puts things on the internet at http://yourdeadbffsurl.tumblr.com/.
