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Crazy Wife Gets Divorced

Crazy. That is now a word I consider profanity.

The name I was called more than I can count during my first marriage. My ex-husband loved to use that terminology whenever I would express concerns about why he was erasing text messages, staying out all hours of the night or telling others tall tales about our home life.

Crazy is the word he would use when expressing to me that the issue I was having was all in my head. When he was talking to other women and trying to hide it, crazy. If I questioned his whereabouts when he would be out all evening and go to bed in the morning, crazy. When he came home at 4:00 A. M on a THURSDAY and I ended up having to ask my mother to take me to the hospital when my water broke — I WAS CRAZY.

He was right.

He had driven me crazy. Crazier than I ever thought I would be throughout my entire life. I was miserable, invisible and drained. I was crazy.

It’s no surprise that our union did not surpass a year. Actually, our separation happened at the 11-month mark. Rather poetic, don’t you think? He went to the library and left the phone, of which we had one, with me. During the time he was away, I received a text message from a number I did not recognize. Of course, a woman. This woman was asking when he would be able to sneak away, Which I instantly understood the meaning of. Although childish at the time (I was freshly 21) I pretended to be my husband with the return text message and advised that I (he) would be free that afternoon.

To my surprise, the mystery text sender did not respond. A couple of moments later I received another message from the same number asking for me to have my ex-husband reach this person when he could. Which told me the text sender; (1) knew I had the phone, not my then husband and (2) she had in some way reached my then husband by some other means.

I waited as time passed. Another hour, then another, then another and so on. Around 1 A. M, my then husband and his friend come through the door. They are trying to be quiet which let me know his late arrival was planned. Hoping I would be asleep, and he could postpone the mystery text sender conversation a little longer.

Like something out of a Dick Tracy film, I turned the corner lamp on in our living room.

“Welcome home dear.” I stated. You should have seen his face. Stark white, as if he had just seen a ghost. His friend must have been well aware of the events because you could almost see the smoke he left fleeing through the front door. “How was your day?” I said with a smile.

He was caught and he knew it. After many “You don’t understand” and “It just kind of happened” stories, I had gotten my fill. He packed a bag and set off to his mother's home.

As I sat in what used to be our family home with our six-month-old son drinking a bottle in my lap, I could feel a faint blanket of relief fall over me. I wasn’t mad, sad, distraught or anything of the sort. In fact, the main issue I was having is who I would get to babysit my son for my shift at work the next day. At that moment I realized, whatever I was feeling for that man wasn’t love. Even today I don’t think I could describe any kind of connection we had or if we ever had anything in common.

Our divorce ended up being on our two-year wedding anniversary. Which, by that time, we both laughed about. Even stood in the parking lot and talked about our past and present for a couple of hours before going our separate ways. Today, we hold a good co-parenting relationship with our son and are even still able to hold conversations without anyone biting heads off.

In the end, it all worked out for the best, and we gained a flower through the cracked concrete. But yes, he still calls me crazy.

🧡Shine Bright, Kayla

Originally Published on Medium.Com March 2022

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