January 9, 2010
I stood in the shower tonight when the thought came to me,
“This will be the year of my divorce.” I’m fifty-six years old, my mother was
fifty-six when my dad died, my grandmother was fifty-six when she divorced my grandfather.
I believe it’s inevitable this time.
The hot water flowed over and around my body like a veil,
metaphorically hiding me from the cares of my new world. But, instead of calm,
only fear and foreboding found me. Perhaps nothing short of drugs—artificial
perception changers—will help me lessen my pain . . . my heartache. I’ll need
to up the Prozac.
My hands held up that tiled wall under the shower faucet as
I tried to comprehend what was going to happen to me. I don’t know how long I
stood there; water pulsing on my body. My mind begged for relief, wanting to
wake from the nightmare, have it all go away.
Thoughts of my mother and grandmother—and myself—filled up
my baffled brain. The three of us all married abusive husbands. My grandmother
probably had the worst of the lot, what with the physical abuse my grandfather dished out, but can abuse really be measured or
compared? The results are the same—mistrust, guilt, agony, grief, and bruises, whether
inside or out.
When I turned the water off and opened the curtain, I
shuddered as the cold air hit me. Except
for the involuntary shivering, I couldn’t move. One hand still held up the
wall, and the wall held up my shaking self. My thoughts could not be quelled. I
could only see that repulsive, blue, cell phone.
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