There are times when I look back on the not-so-distant past and wonder how the hell I ever ended up divorced. Thing is, I never actually wanted to get a divorce and neither did Monica, my ex-wife, as far as I can tell.
She did want a separation and I ultimately ended up understanding that we needed to do that. Our marriage had rotted from the inside out, like a two-dollar red pepper that still seems decent until you hit it with the knife.
We were hollow logs filled with ghosts of ideas and visions that had long since died. We ended up like dreamers without a dream.
In other words: we sucked at love.
But divorce? Oh, hell no. For a very long time (almost a year of separation), it honestly never crossed my mind. I can’t speak for anyone else, of course, but even if it did cross Monica’s mind at some point, she still continued to hem and haw about slamming our life together shut with one final death blow.
So, maybe she didn’t want divorce either or maybe she just didn’t want the weight of it on her shoulders, the dirt of the decision smeared across her hands; I’ll never know.
Fact is, it doesn’t much matter now.
We were two people who had once been in a really cool love affair; we were parents to three incredible young kids; we were two souls, more than a little scared about what the hell was happening to us.
I didn't want divorce, but then one day — after the long separation dragged on and on — I filed for it anyway.
Why? I'm not that sure. Something inside me told me it was time.