Chapter Three: Devastation, Part VII: January 2010

Please start reading my divorce memoir from the beginning.

January 17, 2010

I went to my friend Kathy’s house for a memorial for her father today after church. I didn’t have to put on a grieving face because I have been grieving for a long time now. Not just since last week or even since he came home from Texas. I’ve been grieving about my marriage for about thirty years. I’ve just never had the courage to do anything about it.

The service was very nice, right there in their home. Many good things were said about Kathy’s father. All her brothers and sisters were there. It was sort of like a testimony meeting. He lived with Kathy and Mitch at the end. They set up hospice right at their house for him and Kathy took care of him until he died.

I was the only non-relative there, so I felt honored to be asked to attend. I was glad nobody asked me where Jerry was because I had no idea where he was at that time. He said later he went to work. I don’t really care.

I decided I’m not going to tell Kathy right now, who has been my only confidante in my many crises with Jerry. She and Mitch are our best friends. We fellowshipped them into the church.

They’re going to be devastated.

When Jerry got home from wherever he was, I was sitting in the living room trying to read. I only go through the motions of turning the pages because I don’t think I’m able to concentrate on reading. I keep reading the same paragraph over and over. But I don’t know what to do with myself.

He walked in the front door, looked over at me and said, “What’s the matter with you? You’re all droopy and depressed.”

I blinked and my mouth fell open because I couldn’t believe he asked me that. I said, “Jerry, it’s only been a week. Eight days.”

He said, “When are you going to get over this? I told you, it’s done.”

I said, “I don’t know how long it will take, but it’s going to take longer than a week.”

He walked upstairs in a huff.

What is he thinking?

Chapter Three: Devastation, Part VI: January 2010

January 16, 2010

It’s been one week since I found out about that stupid, blue phone—and their affair.

I’m mad. I’m angry. I want to punch something. I want to punch him. I can hardly utter his name and it pains me even to write it. I’m glad I’ve been keeping a record of what’s been happening. It’s so surreal. I never thought it would be like this. This whole affair thing makes me sick.

Hers is another name I can’t say or type either. Ugh!

I’m getting such mixed feelings from him. He says she’s a sicko, but I know he’s still in contact with her. He says the affair has ended, but I’m not so sure. Yes, I am. Not a chance. He told me several times before in the last two months that he ended it but he didn’t.

He gave me “the phone.” He actually said, “Here. Now you can call Kelsie.”

Ha! Now I can call Kelsie? I wanted to hit him, smack him real hard in the face, punch him in the gut until he doubled over. I handled the phone as if it was garbage—with my thumb and forefinger. Of course there was nothing on the phone anymore. Wiped clean.

The phone makes me sick. Everything makes me ill. I keep releasing those stress hormones and that’s not good for your brain cells. I don’t want to end up like the dementia people where I work.

I took the phone to work with me and threw it in the dumpster before I went inside. I realize, in hindsight, that was a selfish thing to do, especially since I found out there’s a caregiver who lost her phone because she couldn’t afford it. I could have given it to her. I was blinded and saw it as evil.

I’m sorry, Lord. I could have been helpful and I can only think of myself and this awful tragedy of a marriage I’m in.

Jerry says he doesn’t have another clandestine phone, he’s off Facebook and he doesn’t even use his email anymore. Ha! He can always buy another throwaway phone, use an alias on Facebook and get a new email. Does he think I’m stupid?

They are underground now and getting more savvy about it. What were his words—“under the radar?” They’re under the radar.

He’s obsessed with her and I know how he acts when he’s obsessed. He does think I’m stupid because I am that stupid. The stupidest wife on earth, that’s me. Always giving second chances—third, fourth, fifth—a hundred chances! Always forgiving.

I wouldn’t be surprised if, on his next business trip, she shows up where he goes. She mentioned getting away to Florida. Jerry doesn’t go to Florida on business trips but I bet he’ll find a way. Or she’ll find a way to go where he is. If he says he’s going to Florida on a business trip he is really stupid, knowing I know what she wrote in that text.

We went to see the stake president this week. He actually called us to come to his office. Bishop filled him in on what happened and he wanted to see us. It’s so embarrassing.

He was in shock that this happened. He and his wife are two of our closest friends. My husband was his executive secretary when he was our bishop. His ultimatum—go get marriage counseling. He was angry. I couldn’t help but get the feeling that he blamed me for this. Did he know the story?

I didn’t care. I’m still angry. I told him we had been to marriage counseling before, but to no avail. Jerry would stop going and I was left to go by myself. I finally relented, but with a caveat. I said I would go for as long as he would go. And he had to pick the counselor and make the appointments. I would do nothing about setting it up. I would also do whatever was asked of me by the counselor—as long as he did.

The president agreed. I added, “He never goes more than three times. If he only goes three times, I will only go three times.”

I also told him Jerry had to work on his anger with an anger management class or work closely with the counselor on that. Jerry nodded in agreement.

Jerry said he knew someone at work who went to counseling, so he would get the name. He has to take the initiative this time.

I told the president, upfront and truthfully, that I thought it was a waste of time, but I would do it, for his, the president’s, sake.

Jerry actually got himself an appointment this week. He went to see the counselor first. His strategy, which will fail, is to tell the counselor all about me before I can get there to tell about him. Fine. I don’t care who goes first. I’ll tell my story. He’ll tell his. Bring it on.

First of all, he’s cheap, so he won’t continue based on economics. Second of all, every counselor we’ve ever gone to has seen he is the problem and has tried to give him things to do to change. Third of all, he won’t change because he doesn’t see himself as being the cause of any problem.

I hope going to a counselor will make me so strong that I can tell Jerry exactly what I think and hope he rots in hell. Pardon my French.

I told Jerry, if this is going to work, it’s up to him. It’s not going to be up to me anymore. And since I already know if it’s up to him, it won’t work, I need to plan my own strategy—divorce!

Chapter Three: Devastation, Part V: January 2010

January 15, 2010

I couldn’t hold it in anymore so today I told Carey, my church friend that I’ve known for twenty years. I got her a job at my dementia community as director of nursing. It’s been wonderful working with her because we go to different wards now and I don’t get to see her very much. Now I see her every day.

Anyway, at the end of the day I went into her office and shut the door. I looked at her and blurted out, “Jerry’s cheating on me,” and started to cry. Of course, she comforted me and said a few choice words about Jerry and called him unmentionable names.

That’s why I like Carey. She’s not afraid to let her anger show like I am. I keep everything bottled up inside. I’m so glad I got that out and allowed her to comfort me. I don’t know how long I sat in her office and she just let me.

When I got back to my office that I share with the director, Isabella, she could see I was distraught. I broke down again and Isabella confided in me that she was going through the same thing with her husband. We exchanged our experiences and I said I felt like we were married to the same guy.

She said, in her rich, Haitian-French accent, “Are you sure your husband isn’t black?” and we both had a good laugh. Laughing felt good. Such a foreign feeling lately.

So I have a good confidante. Isabella hasn’t told anyone at work either, so we can talk and console each other and we will be able to understand what we each are going through.

I have to remember I’m her subordinate, so I will let her lead the way as to how much can really be shared, although she told me she is having the same hormone release that I am. She has only been able to eat soup. I can only keep down Cream of Wheat, a very little bowl, which is served almost every day for breakfast at the cottage where I work. I try to eat, but can’t put more than one bite in my mouth and I choke that down.

Chapter Three: Devastation, Part IV: January 2010

January 13, 2010

I spoke with the bishop today on the phone. He actually called me. Nice man. He has persuaded Jerry and I to work out our differences and keep our marriage together. With many reservations, I told him I would try. He wants us to see the stake president.

 

I'm really not in my right mind. I'm frightened. Still in shock. Is patching up our marriage the right thing to do? Is there enough duct tape in the world? I suppose it's his job to get us to try. I don't feel compelled to be working hard on anything, let alone my thirty-plus-year broken marriage. There's no energy left, no argument unturned that will make me happy.

I asked him if he thought it would be okay for me to get my own bank account and he said yes. So I went to the bank--not the bank Jerry and I use--after work today and opened an account.

For a minute I thought I should have the checks delivered to my office instead of at home, but I don’t want to slink around doing things behind his back and lie. I’m not like him.

I’ve had my own bank account before. Of course, he closed it out—without my permission. He didn’t want me to have my own, but when I first started back to work years ago, I realized I could pay tithing and not be part of tithing settlement under my husband. Even my kids had their own tithing settlement statements.

Tithing was the first check I wrote when I opened my own checking account.

Still, I’m having second thoughts now. He will get really mad. I just have to face it. I have to learn to be strong and stand up to him or I’m going to have the same marriage I’ve always had, with him in control and me submissive.

Chatper Three: Devastation, Part III: January 2010

January 10, 2010

I went to church today but only went through the motions. I don’t remember being there. I only remember feeling humiliated. I sat in the back during sacrament meeting. I’m too ashamed to sit where I usually sit—in the front, near the door, so I can exit early to Primary.

Jerry didn’t go to church today, even though he’s in the bishopric. I think he’s afraid I’m going to tell everybody about what happened.

I don’t care. I seriously don’t care. At this point I’m furious and hurt to my core. I never in a million years thought he would ever be unfaithful. When his best friend from high school was unfaithful, he stopped speaking to him.

After church I started taking down the Christmas decorations in the living room. I will never have a happy Christmas because now I’ll think about that message on that stupid phone. That man ruins every Christmas holiday for me.

As I put everything back to the way it was before Christmas, I unpacked photos of the two of us together. I couldn’t stand to look at them. I threw them all in the trash, frames and all.

He came home from wherever he went today instead of to church. I sat at my computer in the dining room office, writing my vitriol in my unnamed, but secured, electronic document.

He poked his head in the room and said, “Can we talk?”

I’m sure wherever he went he rehearsed what he was going to say to me and how he could blame me for what happened or get himself out of the predicament—his usual M.O.

To myself, I said, Not gonna’ happen. To him, I said, “Yes,” and got up from the computer right away. I pushed past him and said, “I am mad enough right now to say exactly what’s on my mind.”

I never say what’s on my mind, I just think it and let it get absorbed into my veins and muscles and organs to wreak havoc and make my hair fall out and my stomach bloat. This time, I let it all out so it wouldn’t damage me.

I walked through the kitchen into the family room. I paced on the new, patterned carpet I just ordered to complete the renovation. I stepped on the burgundy and gold flowers in the navy blue border, all the while crying, blowing my nose, throwing the tissues on the ground. I didn’t feel like walking to the wastebasket.

Ugh! I can’t even stand saying or writing his name now.

Sobbing and trying to talk, I got it all out of me. I don’t even remember all I said. I called his girlfriend a whore. I called him a cheat and a liar and an adulterer. I let him know how hurt I was. I am.

He balked at the word “adultery.”

“Wait a minute. I didn’t do anything,” he tried to say.

“Look up the definition in the Bible,” I said and cut him off with a wave of my arm.

“I really didn’t think you cared,” he said and smirked as he sat on the counter in the kitchen, arms folded. “You said you didn’t love me.” He acted like he was enjoying my little display of raw emotion.

As if that gives you permission to sin, I said to myself. I should have said it out loud. “I thought I had pulled far enough away from you emotionally that nothing you could do would hurt me,” I snapped back. “But I guess I was wrong. I didn’t think you’d go this far.”

And, I thought, isn’t it pathetic that I had to try to break my bond with you so your actions couldn’t hurt me?

I walked into the kitchen, still pacing, and blew my nose. “You betrayed me. You betrayed our marriage and our kids. That’s what hurts.” I went on, crying as I spoke, “We had this discussion before. If you want a new life, you get a divorce first.”

I blew my nose again, then spit out, “You’re nothing but a coward.” Tears wouldn’t stop.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He actually hung his head. Not a good actor.

“You’re only sorry you got caught.” Those words are cliché, but oh, how true they are in this situation.

He tried to put on his aggressive mode and said, “Why didn’t you just come to me about the phone and we could have put this all to rest.”

“Why would I go to you? You’d only yell at me for finding your precious phone and looking at the messages!”

“Yeah. What gave you the right—” he started to say, but I cut him off.

“Don’t give me that. You’re my husband. I found the phone. It had a different number. I wondered why.”

“You were snooping in my room,” he said.

“You invited me to look around just a few weeks ago. I did. And I found something. If I looked in my kid’s rooms and found drugs, yes, I’d snoop around. Instead I have an adulterous husband. Yes, I have a right, as a wife, to look around.”

“Why did you go to the bishop? You should have come to me first.” He stayed his ground, trying to throw me off.

“I went to the bishop because I knew I wouldn’t be able to turn back and write this off like I’ve written off everything you’ve ever done to me. It took a lot of courage for me to do that because I knew this would be the outcome.” I spread my arms out and, still crying, pointed to him with my tissue hand.

He hung his head again. He wasn’t used to me talking back to him, and with such anger in my voice.

Shaking his head, he said, quietly, “I never knew someone could be as evil as she is.” I almost didn’t hear him. He said it as if he wanted me to pity him.

“What? What do you mean, she’s evil?” He was blaming her? I stopped pacing and looked at him as he continued his sad, made-up tale.

“She just caught me in her web and tempted me and I went along with her,” he said, looking up at me, sheepishly. “She told me she likes all types of men and goes after them. She came after me. I didn’t know anyone could be that manipulative.”

I almost believed him. I even almost gave him the benefit of the doubt, as usual, even knowing how manipulative he is. But the lovey-dovey texts I found from him and her were sent and received two days ago. Friday night they loved each other, Saturday he got caught, Sunday she is evil? I don’t think so. Liar!

“You make a good pair,” was all I could heave out between clenched teeth. “What did she do that made you do all this?” I sputtered and could hardly form words, I was so mad.

“She found me on Facebook and kept emailing me. She wouldn’t let up,” he said.

“I don’t believe you!” I shot back. I told him how to “friend” someone on Facebook back in the summer. I am the stupidest wife. I sputtered some more and threw some more tissues on the floor.

I said, “That doesn’t explain why you flew down to Texas to see her. That doesn’t explain why you bought a clandestine phone, does it?”  It made me sick to think about it. I know how obsessive-compulsive he is. He probably spent hours researching what kind of phone to get, looking up her plan on-line, making sure he got the best deal.

It ired me that he bought a phone to talk to her, but we’re not on the same phone plan as our married daughter in Idaho. We have no special phone to talk to her. I would have liked one to do that. He wouldn’t think of it. “It costs too much,” he had said, using his famous last words.

I added, “I don’t believe anything you say. You’re nothing but a liar.”

Then I went even further and got it all out by saying, “I wish you were dead!  Oooo, I could kill you myself!” My eyebrows furrowed in a scowl as I looked at him and stamped my foot.

His eyebrows shot up, questioning.

I answered his look, “Yes! That’s exactly how I feel right now.” I meant it, too.

I thought back to a few months ago, right after I learned of his Texas trip, when I attended that funeral of our friend. I saw Tessa sitting up front in church with her family and friends rallying around her. Every fiber of my being wished I was her and that I was a widow. It would have been so much less complicated. He would have been done with completely. Everyone would have said how strong I was because I didn’t cry at all. My demeanor would have been calm . . . relieved. I would have received flowers and bereavement cards.

What does a woman receive who’s been betrayed?

Chapter Three: Devastation, Part II: January 2010

January 9, 2010, continued

I changed my mind and decided to drive over to Dee’s house. I couldn’t just stand in the doorway waiting, with my coat on. What if Jerry came in and saw me standing there?

As I pulled into Dee’s driveway, her husband, the bishop, walked out the front door. I got out of the car and hurried over to him.

“I was coming to see Dee, but, bishop, I believe it’s you I’m supposed to see,” I said, my chin quivering. The Holy Ghost planned it perfectly.

The bishop didn’t hesitate and invited me in, though I knew he was probably headed out to see someone else. I felt for the cold metal of the blue phone in my pocket as I walked into the house. Both ired and afraid, I shook and shivered as we went downstairs into his basement office. The sting of humiliation followed me and, I knew, would be a constant companion in the coming weeks and months.

I spent about an hour confessing my life with Jerry to the bishop. Nobody knows our whole story. I’m sure the bishop found it hard to believe. After all, my husband was once a bishop, too. He’s this bishop’s second counselor now!

But he didn’t judge me. He didn’t show shock. He didn’t exhibit disbelief in my words.

It’s not the first time I’d been to a bishop. No bishop ever believed me when I told him about the abuse I endured, until one finally did. That bishop who believed helped me and I am forever grateful to him. In fact, the stake president who was just released believed me, too.

Other bishops followed and all I got was, “But Jerry’s a great guy. He’s always helping people.”  I couldn’t explain it myself, so how could I ask them to understand?

The stake president when Jerry was bishop actually showed me the door when I came to him depressed, confused. I told him Jerry was acting strange, he yelled a lot, had a lot of anger, road rage.

In mid-sentence, that stake president got up and walked over to the door. I thought, I didn’t hear anybody knock. He opened it and pointed his hand at me, then to the hallway, signaling me to follow his hand out the door. I couldn’t believe it. I was about as low as I could get that day; suicidal—again.

 

Jerry moved a twin bed into his sparsely-decorated man cave tonight. I don’t even want to be in the same house with him. I am disgusted.

I’m venting now. I’m exhausted. I can’t eat. The thought of food makes me want to throw up. I don’t know what will happen to me or to my family. A husband, a father, is supposed to be a protector. He’s supposed to take care of us.

I’m afraid to go to bed and I’m afraid to wake up in the morning. Tomorrow is church. I’m a counselor in Primary, the children’s Sunday School. The Primary president is pregnant and she doesn’t need me calling her to say I won’t be there tomorrow.

Please, Lord, let me fall asleep quickly. I am the waking dead right now. I need to sleep. I want to crawl under the covers and forget this day ever happened. I just want to die.

Chapter Three: Devastation, Part I: January 2010

January 9, 2010

I can’t sleep tonight. The discovery this morning is the last straw that broke my camel’s rose-colored glasses; smashed them to pieces. Yes, something else to find out about. What a fool I’ve been. How could I have been so stupid? The stupidest wife on the face of the earth. Yeah, that’s me.

I am heartbroken, inconsolable, in despair. Why am I surprised? If I would have let myself feel the true feelings of my soul, I would have inwardly died years ago. I saved face. I tried to save my family—keep it together, for the sake of the children.

Now they’re grown and gone, and I see our house crumbling, apparently built upon the sand. A blue phone, the harbinger of my betrayal.

I lay in bed this morning, unable to get up, my deliberation of the last few months weighing me down. That old familiar feeling of depression crept into my body, like vines crawling around me, encompassing me, smothering me.

No, I will not go there, I admonished myself. Too late, came the reply.

Loud, banging noises coming from the back yard had awakened me, I guess.

I decided I should pray, so I got out of bed and went down on my knees, entreating the Lord about my predicament—my marriage—asking my Heavenly Father what I should do. What could I do? How sad that I saw my marriage as a problem. Help me, Lord, I prayed.

The noises were so earsplitting they interrupted my prayers and I felt compelled to go into the back bedroom to see what Jerry was doing.

I will never doubt that my Heavenly Father is watching over me; that he knows me and loves me.

I crossed the hallway, my movements robotic, to the converted bedroom—his “man cave”—to see about the commotion. The loud noise, metal being ripped from wood, pierced my ears. Then it stopped.

I walked to the window, moved away the curtain, and saw him, leaning on his sledge hammer, taking a break, staring into the sky. After a month or so of persuading myself he had stopped his communication with her,  I could tell by his daydreaming, he hadn’t.

I sighed and stepped away from the window and took a minute to look around the room. Jerry had invited me to do just that a few weeks before. It’s furnished with an old love seat, a book shelf and a television. He also has his desk in there and all our files in a file cabinet.

On the book shelf  I noticed the little book I gave him when our daughter got married: “What is a Husband?” It’s tiny, pocket-sized, and decorated with illustrations of flowers and calligraphy. I gave it to him to honor him over a year ago. I don’t know why. He’s not sentimental in the least. Yet, there it stood prominently on that shelf. It surprised me to see it displayed, so I approached the shelves and handled the book, fingering through it.

When I replaced the tiny hardback, I looked around some more at the artwork on the walls: posters from cycling races we had attended. Sparsely decorated, I thought. Minimalist, just as he likes it.

The banging started up again. “Busy” could be his middle name. He never stands still—or sits still—for very long. He always has to be doing something. ADHD. It makes me look lazy by contrast, though I know I’m not.

I walked back to the door, but something prompted me to gaze around the room again. I noticed a blue cell phone sitting on that very same shelf as the little book. It was plugged in and charging, pulsing light. I walked slowly over to it. How did I miss it? Why hadn’t I noticed it the first time? I am so not observant. He didn’t tell me he got a new phone.

I picked it up to examine it and thought, it must be a new work phone. I flipped it open and saw a different number than the one he had previously. I thought, I can’t believe he didn’t tell me, his wife, he got a new cell phone number. When was he going to tell me?

Putting it back on the shelf, I started back to my bedroom, but once more, heeded a prompting to check out this new phone. I turned around, picked it up again and, easy to manipulate, pressed the buttons that led me to his messages.

Curious. There were so many text messages, sent and received. One hundred exactly. How long has he had this phone to have that many messages?

I opened the last text sent.

I’m going for a run. I’ll call you.

Now I was really curious. Who is he talking to while running? Probably his buddy, Justin.

I pressed another sent message.

How is everything on your end? I had to go under the radar after the November blow up.

My heartbeat sent electrical pulses through my body. It was that woman—his high school girlfriend. I couldn’t believe it.

The next sent text message cut me to the quick.

When u asked me if I was sorry that I didnt marry u I said no but the truth is that not one day has gone by that I havent wished we were married.

I dropped the phone and the world stopped. In slow motion, I felt pounding in my ears, the noise deafening. I began to shake uncontrollably. It was the same kind of shaking that happened to me when I found out my dad died.

Am I going into shock? I asked myself.

I saw the phone on the floor, its bright display looking back at me like an evil eye. I leaned down to pick it up and sent that message to my own phone. I don’t know why. A protective Spirit was in the room with me, urging me to do it, controlling my actions, for I was on auto pilot. I heard my own phone ring in the other bedroom as the message reached it.

I decided to check the received texts:

Good mornin bright eyes…what a beautiful day…only one thing missing…

I felt my heart stop and wondered if it would start up again. It did, and it hurt when it finally pounded furiously in my chest.

A message from him to her:

I m all yours. Call me when you can.

She said she loved the page they were on. He said he felt a need to discuss their history. Fifty-one messages sent and forty-nine received. I could not believe it.

The communiqué got more serious over time. She texted that her husband felt threatened by their contact. Well, he’s not the only one.

A pitiful text from him:

in case we don t get to talk tomorrow, merry christmas and iwbtoy.

I only thought about it for a split second. I Will Be Thinking Of You. So juvenile. This is like junior high school. Some messages ended in xxoo. Disgusting.

Then came the clincher. A message from him:

I can think of no better moment to say this than on Christmas morning. . . I Love You!

I cried out an agonizing gasp that caught in my throat as I read that. Christmas morning? Our kids were here. We had gone to the Stake President’s house for brunch. We visited with our friends from church who attended. We had a spiritual program and dinner with his sister and her husband.

What a hypocrite. His lies stacked up and today is the day his house of cards came falling down—to expose him for who he truly is.

Christmas morning to tell her he loved her? I felt my heart breaking, shattered like a fragile, China dish falling to the floor with a loud crash. Hearts really do break and hurt, I found out quickly.

Her next text read:

I’ll try to call later. Happy New Year babe.

Babe? Familiar. Intimate.

Patsy, let yourself get mad. Throw things. Punch things, I told myself. No, I screamed back. Instead, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I shivered, still in shock.

I sent about a dozen messages to my cell of the one hundred in the blue phone—which he said, in a text to her, was “sending out its vibes.” At that I almost did throw up. I felt physically ill.

So juvenile. So maddening.

She texted:

Like you, the roommate stuff  is getting to me. Keep asking myself why I stay.

Another text from her:

I might go visit my mom in Fla. in Jan. or Feb. just to get away.

Her husband is just as leery as I am, I thought. I felt bile climb up my esophagus and it was all I could do to keep it down as I thought of them texting about me and about her husband. I felt assaulted.

They must feel pretty good about themselves. My throat burned with a nasty taste. My hands still shook as I sent each relevant message to my phone. I didn’t bother sending the ones that just had x’s and o’s or love ya’s.

 “Under the radar.” Well, I guess he had to come up for air and charge his little blue phone. His radar is faulty.

Just then my cell phone actually rang with a phone call in the other room. I pocketed the blue phone in my flannel pants and ran into my bedroom to answer it. It was Dee, my friend, who is also the bishop’s wife. She’s like a big sister to me, and very wise. I always go to her for counsel.

“Oh, Dee, I have to see you. I have to see you now,” I pleaded, trying not to sound so desperate, but enough to send a message that I was.

I had emailed her the night before because I just had to talk to somebody about this new glitch in my life—the high school girlfriend who would not go away, who could not be suppressed. I told her I had to see her. I didn’t mention why. A good friend, she responded as soon as she read her email this morning.

She said, “Uh, can you give me about a half hour? I’m not even dressed.”

“Yes, but you’ll have to come get me. I don’t think I can drive,” I said as I noticed my hands still shaking. I wasn’t dressed either.

I knew Dee caught my tone. She didn’t ask me what was the matter, she just knew something was up.

Even though I really needed a shower, I dressed in a hurry, throwing on jeans and a sweatshirt. That bile taste could not be removed by brushing my teeth. The seething hormones rushed throughout my body and made me feel sick.

I waited by the front door for Dee to come.

Jerry was still out back tearing down the shed, oblivious that his life was about to turn upside down. Mine had already started. The normal PTSD escaped and surrounded my clouded head with dismal memories of my life with Jerry. Spinning. Dread. Swirling. Fear.

I’ve planned a divorce for years and years, always in the winter when his moods are the worst. This year, I now knew, would be no different, except it would be the final year. Will it really be the final year? Yes, Patsy. Face reality. This will be the year of my divorce.

I think of my mother and grandmother. They got through it, and so can I. I’m just mad enough to go through with it this time. I will go through with it. Divorce!

CHAPTER TWO, continued: DENIAL: December 2009

Please begin reading my divorce memoir from the beginning.

December 31, 2009—New Year’s Eve

Seafood Feast.

We just had to do our traditional dinner on New Year’s Eve. We established it during the Y2K scare ten years ago and it has stuck this long. We have crab and shrimp, grilled salmon and tilapia and all the trimmings. Kate took a picture of her plate with her cell phone and sent it to her friends. When the ball dropped on Times Square, she sent a text to her friends out west that read, “I have seen the future and it is good.” (It was only 10:00 out there.)

In 1999, we wanted our teenagers to stay at home in case something catastrophic happened when the clocks turned over to 2000. We had seafood, dessert, non-alcoholic champagne to bring in the new year, and spent time in the hot tub, all together. Times like that are joyous to me.

That year it had snowed and Kelsie climbed out of the hot tub, grabbed a sledding disc and ran up our little hill—in her bathing suit—and jumped on the sled heading down the hill. She ran back to the hot tub and climbed back in. It was so funny. She was only ten. Good times.

Now she’s married and will be heading back to college tomorrow, along with everyone else. Time marches on. Another year. Lord, what will it bring?

But I am grateful for all I have: wonderful children, a beautiful house—my dream house—lots of precious friends and extended family. We have our health. My husband has a good job and so do I. And we just celebrated the anniversary of the birth of our Savior.

I am so grateful, Lord, for all Thou hast given us. Please continue to bless us.

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