An Open Letter To My Soon-To-Be Ex-Husband: Or, Another Rambling and Insipid Breakup Story

I’ve been spending the last several months becoming acquainted with the tangles and turns and trials of divorce, something that came wildly out of the blue when my kindred soul, my heart’s desire, my “soul mate,” as they’re called, had a seemingly spontaneous psychotic break or manic episode or cataclysmic panic attack, or some combination of all three.  Or perhaps he became possessed by a dybbuk, I don’t know.  It happened suddenly one night during the balmiest part of summer, as suddenly as we had originally met and fell smack on our faces in love the summer before.  He became enraged at something horrible and unforgivable I had done I couldn’t figure out what and lost his temper, his impulse control, his fundamental faculties for reason, and then finally lost any recognizable semblance or trait of who I’d always known him to be, his mind, whatever.  Then he threw me out of the house, 8 months after our wedding, ultimately believing me to have become a terrible evil wench or something.  Now there is a small town, a restraining order, and an indefinitely lasting injunction between us, as there has been for the last six months, which has been the same amount of time since I last saw him, raving as if he were rabidinous and foaming at the mouth, degenerated from a gentle, sensitive man so rapidly and inexplicably I wasn’t sure whether it was I who was losing it.    Continue reading

On Heartbreak and Soul Loss

1024px-Albrecht_Dürer_-_Melancolia_I_-_Google_Art_Project

Albrecht Dürer’s “Melancholia”

Perhaps, if you had been following along from the beginning, in the little house with the two cuddly cats (I still miss them terribly) in that quiet shaded neighborhood, you may already have predicted–or at the very least, not be surprised to learn–that I would be back again in my parents’ house, sitting at home with our beloved 15-year-old dog, broken again after more debacled essays at living; unemployed, single, hungry as a wild thing (At present, I can’t get the desire for all things chocolate out of my mind); and also hyperventilating mildly because of my antidepressant, which affects my breathing so that inhaling and exhaling and inhaling…etc. becomes a constant, conscious effort that I always balance in the background along with whatever else I try to do, however small it may be, throughout the day.  It’s uncomfortable when you always feel stifled of your breath, but grief-induced vegetative paralysis is much, much more difficult to manage, and this pill is the only one that keeps the ever present, insidious grief free-floating stealthily inside me from spreading all through my being and soul like an amoeba and swallowing my ability to thrive until I rot slowly, and then rapidly, from the inside out.     Continue reading