Writing a Wrong: A Story of Divorce

Nothing Is Wasted

"I want a divorce." The text message stung my face like ice. And yes, I said the text message.

Seven months ago, on May 27th, on our way to Clearwater Beach for a family dinner, my darling husband became extremely angry because he couldn't find where we needed to go. Getting angry was kind of a normal thing for Ben. I walked on egg shells around him, trying to avoid any question or conversation that might result in a rude comment or an outburst. I craved intimacy with him.

On the way to the beach that night, he missed a turn and began to punch the sunglasses holder on the ceiling of our car. Over and over again, he punched it until the entire light fixture box fell out of the ceiling and onto the car mat at my feet.

We were on a street downtown with a 35mph limit. He began to rev his engine at lights, becoming more and more furious that we were increasingly late to dinner. I watched his speedometer reach 89mph as he ran a red light, throwing his brand new iPhone 6+ against the windshield, shattering the screen into dozens of spidery cracks. I started pleading with him to slow down and stop driving like that. Big mistake. That just seemed to egg him on even more.

"We're going the fuck home!" he screamed as he ran another light. His knuckles were bleeding from punching the car ceiling.

I thought he was going to kill us. Fortunately at the next light, he stopped. I opened the door and jumped out of the car, barely seeing where I was through my alligator tears.

He sped off. Fifteen seconds later, the text message: "I want a divorce."

I didn't see him for 2 days after that. He went to work and slept there—I think. Who knows where he slept a lot of nights throughout our marriage. I wonder about that.

Over the next few months, his family and I took him to doctors, watched him go through emotional breakdowns, drunken stupors, violent sexual encounters and more fits of rage. I've never felt more despair. Here he was, the face of the man I pledged my heart to, the body of man I remained pure until marriage for, the physical likeness of the man I would've spent the rest of my life with...yet, he was not a man I recognized. What could I do? Why was a choice being made for my life that I had absolutely no control over?

My head swarmed with questions: Is he on drugs? Is he cheating? Is he bipolar? Is he sick? Is he stressed? Is he sad? Is he depressed? Is he really leaving? Is he gay? Turns out the answer to most of those is yes. To what extent, I'll never know. Not sure I want to.

I kept a journal throughout the experience, chronicling little things that happened in those dark days. And when I say dark, I mean, I've never felt closer to hell. I've never felt such evil, such a dead presence in my house.

For months, I fell asleep listening to the man I wanted to save, have sexual encounters with other women on Xbox and Skype. I watched him avoid his pain by disassociating himself from family, work and friends. I watched him drown himself in Captain Morgan...sometimes 14 shots in a matter of hours to the point that he was so drunk, he would pee on my makeup and my clothes.

I say all that, not to bash him. Truth is, I love him...always will. I don't want to talk shit. All of this is true. I wish I could make it up. I say this to share something I learned: Nothing is wasted.

Not one experience came without personal growth. I'm not saying it happened for a reason. Sometimes, there isn't a reason for things; they just happen. To this day, I still do not know why I am divorced. From "he went crazy" to "he cheated" to "we just lost him", I've battled through one-liners, trying to give friends and family some reason to explain. Truth is, I don't know.

I don't know why I cried myself to sleep for months. I don't know why he skipped my sister's wedding. I don't know why I went through 20 weeks of group and individual therapy. I don't know why he moved out and in with another woman, 12 years his senior. I don't know why he was texting under-aged girls. I don't know why I had to get HIV tested. I. Don't. Know. Why.

And that's okay.

Want to know why? Because it was not wasted.

There is beauty in pain, ya know. I'm not wishing my pain on anyone, but it is my truth. Losing someone like that...it's like a death. Only you can't have your memories because they only bring more heartache.

I have learned about neglect. I have learned about verbal & physical abuse. I have learned what matters. Through depression, anxiety, guilt, anger, forgiveness and loss, I have learned: Nothing is wasted.

I just want to say to any woman going through a divorce, to any woman in an abusive relationship, to any woman who feels lost and alone, to any woman who feels she is without hope, to any woman who doesn't think she could physically cry any more tears: This experience is not wasted.

It is from the deepest wounds that beauty finds a place to bloom. This will pass. This will end. You will be okay. It will get better. Hang in there. Sit in that painful place. Soak up everything. Write it down. You are beautiful. You are worthy. You are strong. You are woman. It is not wasted.