Divorce: My own special stigma

He called me into his office and asked me to have a seat. The slight, balding man’s face held deep concern. This was no surprise: he was known for his brusque demeanor.

This, of course, is a polite way of saying he had a crappy personality. The watery eyes and overlong beard just added to the whole “vermin affect.”

Ratboy (as I fondly referred to him in my head) was also known for his sweaty palms, his brown nosing of company VPs, and his penchant for synthetic fibers. Icky.

I was an Executive Secretary for an econometrics firm, and Ratboy was a Principal in my pool. This meant I was fortunate enough to print out, edit, file and otherwise shovel the drivel put forth by the tiny man. This also meant that when he called me into his office, I was expected to bring a notepad, and pretend to be interested in his idle chatter before any actual work commenced.

Today was different. No work would commence.

The sweaty little man had concerns—concerns not of the workplace. And since I was the only scarred soul in the firm (at least of lower station), he deigned me suitable and thus the topic appropriate for our relationship. After a few moments of staring out the window in apparent deep thought (during which time I doodled the word, “lame-o” on my notepad) he asked (while still gazing in “deep thought,” mind you), “How did you know it was time to divorce?”

Baruther.

It had come to this. There I was, single mom and secretary, sitting uncomfortably in my outlet-priced dress and cardigan, arms folded across my mid-section, already in my tennis shoes ready for the commute home, being asked a very personal, deeply important question.

“Don’t do it,” I said. I know I was supposed to be kind and thoughtful and ask him what was wrong and blah blah blah, but look: The guy irked me. I stood, ready to take my leave.

This just made Ratboy speak faster. “No, I mean it, I need to know.” He looked at me with his nervous, dewy eyes. “We just don’t agree on parenting. We argue. You’re supposed to let the baby cry it out, but she lets it go on too long…. How did you know your marriage had ended?”

And all I could think was: Econometrics.

This man had spent his entire life ruled by functions and algorithms. He could explain and predict economic events using a series of mathematic formulas. Craving logic, he saw that he and his wife had issues, big enough problems that he wanted to know from me—low income, single mother of two and apparent divorce expert—when it was time to cut bait and run.

How easy it would be to have a set of rules.

It was 1998 and the divorce from my sons’ father was maybe the most painful thing I had ever—until that time—ever, ever experienced. It was a devastating loss. Not of the man, no; we disliked each other vehemently and treated each other demonically for far longer than would ever in the history of marriages be necessary. People who complain that homosexuality would ruin the sanctity of marriage? Yeah, you’re wrong. I already destroyed any modicum of sanctity the sacrament had with my first marriage. (Let’s allow others’ ardent love the chance to restore it, shall we?)

We—my then-husband and I—were awful to each other. I can go on and on about the horrors I went through, but the truth is I was no sweet pea either. I was hurt. I was angry. I was right about everything. I became ugly on the inside and outside and all over.

The ending of that marriage was marked by a deep grief: for the loss of my hopes and dreams; for the loss of my dignity; and most desperately, for the loss of my children (I went from full-time mom to a 50-50 split). It was horrible. It was devastating. It was every awful word I could ever find, all stuffed together in a bucket of gooey hate, wrapped in a wet blanket of depression, and set ablaze with the fire of misery. So what I’m saying is: Not good.

Nobody wants to be an expert on “Not good.” But there I was, surrounded by this terrible, inescapable thing I was wallowing in and struggling to survive and I was being asked by Ratboy how he could get there, too. When would it be time for him to enjoy his own bucket of flaming goo?

I sighed. I sat back down. “Do you like your wife?” This caught him off guard.

“Well, I just… we always fight.” And he began to talk about their parenting problems. How they both thought each was right about everything. How they never saw each other. How she could be so tough on the kids.

When he paused, I asked again, “Do you like your wife?” He didn’t know how to answer. He stumbled around a bit and eventually answered, “I think so.”

“Get a marriage counselor. Go talk to someone. Your marriage sounds sick, you need to see someone about making it well again. And if you think you still like her, there is a glimmer of hope and you can work it out.” He tried to interrupt, but I continued. “Divorce isn’t an easy out or quick fix. And marriage is not a geometric proof, with all the rules that define when you’re doing it right.

“There is no ‘time’ or some definition that tells people when marriage is over.” He looked disappointed. Too bad, I thought. I wasn’t in the mood to sugarcoat it. “Divorce is awful. It’s ugly. It makes you look at all the crap you went through from the time you began dating and admit to all the crap you’re responsible for. And then you get to live with being the resident expert on divorce, for all the rest of your life.”

I stood and left the room. Ratboy was stunned. It wasn’t the answer he wanted, but it was all I had to give.