It's MY life

THIS WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE MY LIFE! THIS WAS NOT THE PLAN! We separated 5 years ago. Sort of. We have the kids. And the grandchildren. And the house. And the farm. And the dogs. And the cats. And the bills. And all the bloody 30-years-of-accumulated STUFF. He left. He got a job 400 miles away and he left. He’s moved on.

 I’m still here. Hibernating. What the fuck am I supposed to do now? I was going along, maybe not happy but not not-happy. My little train was chugging along towards retirement, towards being free to travel and write and bake and able to do all the things I didn’t have time to do while running a business. Working endless hours either doing the work or trying to find new clients so I had work to do or doing the stuff to catch up because I was doing all the working stuff.

He feels guilty because he likes having his own place and his own cats and his own friends. He’s even dating. “Living his best life,” He says. The guilt is all my fault because. I don’t actually know why it’s all my fault, but he feels it is.

And here I am, in this big house  Stuffed full, wondering what to do with all this SHIT we’ve accumulated over 30 years. All the plans we had for traveling and living for another 30 years are just hanging in the breeze like a tattered old flag.

5 years. I guess I spent the first year in a fog. THIS WAS NOT HOW I PLANNED TO SPEND THE REST OF MY LIFE. I am neuroatypical. I do NOT do well without a plan, even a stupid, compromised, SHITTY plan. What’s that line?  “The Russian’s don’t take a dump without a plan.”  Well, Tom Clancy, I’m not Russian but I understand that feeling exactly. My plan was blown the fuck up by an announcement on Facebook.

“I’m gay.”  

I don’t think I’d been in love with him for a long time. But I liked the life we led. I liked having him around, even if he was nearly completely withdrawn from married life. At least he talked to the kids, and he was someone to talk too about the absolute nightmare of health problems our youngest had.  And whether the boys are gay. And if our daughter is going to have a nervous breakdown trying to do everything in her life.

Then he decided that, instead of being bisexual, he was really gay. At nearly 60 years old. After making me feel fat and unwanted and FUCKING ANNOYING because I, you know, wanted a kiss, an orgasm not self induced, PHYSICAL INTIMACY. He announced on Facebook that he is gay.

SURPRISE!!

Wow.

Thanks for the heads up, yeah?  Now my mother and my sisters and my relatives and his brothers, his sister, his relatives are asking me what’s going on. I’ve been hit with a pole-ax, and have no idea what’s going on. Thank you very much. And our friends. Oh lord, the friends. “So you’re getting divorced?” “No.” “So why not?”  “Because we can’t afford it. Because why is it any different now that he’s decided the lack of sex isn’t all my fault. It is because he isn’t attracted to any woman. Because why WOULD I get divorced?  IF he wants a divorce, he can get one.”

“You’re in denial” they say. 

I don’t know that I was in denial because it all made so much sense. I was in denial about WHAT IT ALL MEANS. WHERE IS MY PLAN! IT WAS A SHITTY PLAN BUT WHAT DO I DO NOW?

I spent the next couple years saying “I’m fine. It’s fine. Don’t worry” to EVERY FREAKING BODY. I wasn’t fine, and it wasn’t fine, and at my lowest… well… maybe people should have worried. I felt like I was stripped naked and put up on a stage. EVERYONE is looking at the pitiful creature who is married to a gay man and didn’t even know! 

Then Covid. My business is closed, dead.  I go from making reasonable money to making covid bucks.  And my clients start closing their businesses. On top of that world-wide shit storm, the youngest kid, whose incredible health problems had been figured out after years of hospitalization and tests and nightmares, was diagnosed with cancer. More shit. All piled on me because “he’s gay and lives far away and can pretend he doesn’t have kids.”

Ok, maybe that’s not totally fair, as he had cancer too. Now, though, I’m dealing with him long distance because his friends and his coworkers and his “people” are, it turns out, not available to take care of him. His “best life” doesn’t have anyone who can take time to take care of him. 

And we’re still married. Our kids are very worried, but can’t get time to “take care of dad” because they’re taking care of their own lives. So here I am, getting the calls from the kids because “dad has cancer” and needs someone to take care of him. “And mom, you can work anywhere.” Considering my “work” now involves calls from clients saying they’re closing for good and maybe a question or two, I guess I can.  So I go.  Right before Christmas.

I went there, I stayed in the car in the parking lot in fucking December in Wisconsin for 6 hours  because we’re still married and he is the father of my children, who are worried about him. Everything went well. The doctor says the follow up is going to be telemed. There is no reason he has to stay 400 miles from my home, where he can be taken care of by someone along with myself. But no, he “emotionally” needs to stay in his own place. 

Well I’m not going to miss Christmas.  It occurs to me.  I don’t have to stay. I left him 400 miles away, all on his own because he didn’t need to be there, he just WANTED to be there. And I didn’t.

I love Christmas. The family gatherings and the food and the love and the presents and the decorations. I don’t want to miss possibly the last Christmas with my mother or with my children and grandchildren opening presents and eating pie and laughing and talking just because he felt sorry for himself. So I left.

He was surprised. Boy was he surprised. Because I would have been resentful but I would have stayed before. I’d have taken care of him and been angry and sad and mad but I’d have hidden it because 30 years of experience told me he’d pout because I was there and didn’t want to be and let him know how I felt. 

I think that was the start of the end of my period of hibernation. It struck me. I don’t have to take care of him anymore. I don’t have to take his wishes into consideration. I don’t have to be stuck with ALL THIS SHIT. I can keep the stuff I want, like the kids and the knitting books and his sister, who I love . I can get rid of the rest of the stupid shit, like his obnoxious friend (who told me to my face that I had forced him to keep a bad job by not “supporting him” while he “found himself” as if I hadn’t been supporting him for decades) and his socks on the floor and total refrigerator blindness and his 2 full book cases of old, dusty, useless text books.

You want them?  Take them with you. Otherwise they’re going to the used book sale at the library. If you want it, take it. Because this is my house now and I’m going to be getting rid of a lot of JUNK. 

But today. Today was the clincher. He had had his “own” money through our marriage. My check, my income tax, all of my money went into the joint account. But he’s always had his little stash, which was not to be spent on gas to get the kids to school or car repair or utility bills. The money he separated into HIS account is HIS. And he can choose to put gas in the car or not. He can choose to pay the electric bill before they shut the electricity off or buy himself a gaming box. All the money I earned went into the joint account and paid for gas and utilities and food and whatever was leftover was mine.  If there was nothing, oh well.  He might occasionally buy a gallon of milk or put $10 of gas in the car. He always had money. I always had what was leftover after paying all the living expenses. Leftovers because that’s what mom’s do, they sacrifice for their families while fathers don’t have to do that.  I might have some issues left over from my own dad.

Today, though, I woke up. Today the mama bear has emerged from the den. Today I quit accepting leftovers. Because yes, we still have a joint account that pays for joint expenses like cars and house and taxes. But today. Today, I filed for social security. Today I filed for my pensions. Today I opened my own checking account. In my own name. For MY money. It’s one more step toward ending US and becoming ME.  It’s pretty scary but I think I’m ready.

Now if I could just figure out dating as a senior citizen. What the hell is Tinder and why do I care?