Relationships: Part 4, Whitney.
Oh God this is going to be a hard one to get out. . . and long, better settle in folks.
I met Whitney in January of 1997 at a mutual friend's house while we were all sitting around playing RPG's. We really hit it off and I immediately knew that I really liked her. After talking off by ourselves (outside, because she smoked) she asked me out on a date. She quite literally beat me to the punch by about 30 seconds. I had been working up the courage all evening.
I lamented over the decision for a long while because a friend of mine also liked her but in the end I did go out with Whitney (and lost my friend for a long time because of it). We became lovers shortly after that (our second date as I recall) and virtually inseparable afterward. There were many breakups and makeups along the way. . . parental problems (hers and mine), cheating (not me) and relocations. Eventually we got engaged and then married. January 18, 2000. I was totally in love with her.
Those were some of the happiest times of my life being married to Whitney. . . and also some of the hardest.
The Breakup, the Breakdown, the Breakout:
October 6th, 2001, a Saturday. Whitney had been home to eat, to sleep . . . little else. We had been having problems. . . she had become distant. Things had come to a head that morning when she had gotten off of work around six and after several hours without a word (she usually comes home after work) I managed to find her at a friends house (Matt's) around noon. We exchanged heated words and I left. She came home later and went to sleep. Our group came over later still for our weekly game (I had gone home after our fight and spent the afternoon cooking {which I usually do when I am upset}).
After the game Whitney and I went to do the route (she was a paper carrier). I asked her what had been going on lately (her being distant, always staying away, etc. . .) and she said that she wanted a separation and that she wanted me to leave our apartment and after three months we would see. What followed was a VERY long, mostly silent ride of six hours delivering papers.
I am ashamed to say that I took it rather hard. When we got home she left to do laundry and go to class as if nothing had happened (later I realized that she must have come to terms with her decision long ago). Once I heard the car pull out and she was gone I am afraid I suffered what I can only term a nervous breakdown (and the only one I am certain I have every had). There is a blank spot there and when I finally regained myself I was clutching the base of the door-frame to our bedroom, crying like a child and repeating over and over to myself "Come on Matthew, pull it together, keep it together. . ."
Work kept me from getting my clothes that Sunday (and despair). I, waiting for Whitney (who never came home) to talk. Monday morning I came home to find that she wasn't there but her wedding band was on the nightstand.
I went to campus and found her at class. I tried to talk to her but she didn't want to talk (or more appropriately explain why she was doing this). She couldn't understand why I was having trouble accepting what had happened. Meanwhile I hadn't slept in three days and felt like my world was ripped apart. . . and I didn't understand why.
I told Whitney that "I gave you the last five years, I think you owe me five minutes". That seemed to get through to her and eventually I got her to talk. She admitted the separation was bullshit. She had no intention of working things out. LA requires six months of separation for a divorce and 3 months separation would be 3 months closer to divorcing me.
I got her to agree to a two week trial and then we'd meet and talk again. The day after I got my clothes she changed the locks. The next day there was another man staying there, Matt (and yes, the same Matt). So the two weeks was bullshit too. I moved my clothes into my Aunt Irene's house but since Whitney and I had lived there in the past I couldn't stay (in the middle of nowhere alone with my memories. . .shutter).
I spent every day at coffee bars sitting in the sun and trying not to think. I tried to make friends, needing distractions, any distractions, desperately; my heart was breaking. I cried more in those few days than I have at any other point in my life.
Danny (my best friend, and best man at my wedding) happened by on chance. Considering that I hadn't slept, eaten or shaved in about a week I must have been a hell of a sight. I explained what had happened and he invited me back to his parent's house (he was living with his folks off and on). I went, needing the nostalgia and comfort of the old days (I used to spend a lot of time there when I was in my teens; trouble at home). It helped a LOT. I collapsed (literally) and slept for the first time in about a week. Danny and I talked and I asked to move into the guest room (his folks really do consider me part of the family). Normally I wouldn't have dared to ask but I was desperate to be around people I cared about. Asking his parents was very hard for me but thankfully they said yes. It is a debt that I will never be able to repay; they have no idea the pain they spared me.
Around late January of 2002, they asked me to move out because they needed the guest room for the spring. I still wasn't very good emotionally but I had come to terms (in a practical sense) of what was happening and was able to stand it (though not well). I moved into my parent's old house (in rural Carencro), now vacant, into the only cleared out room. . . the one Whitney and I used to stay in when my folks asked us to come and stay there. I asked my mother to use any other room but she didn't want to let me because she wasn't sure if they'd move back. When we moved there, long ago, Whitney had redecorated. Black and white tile on the floor, black walls and black ceiling. Oh, and she had boarded up the windows and had one bare light bulb in the center of the room for light. It was pretty rough; I figure if purgatory does exist for me it probably very similar to that. I couldn't design a better hell and I don't think I could think of a better way to drive someone mad. That place was like living in a grave (but with the memories attached I just couldn't bring myself to redecorate it).
After two months of trying and being told no repeatedly I approached Whitney and asked her if there was any hope for our marriage and if a divorce from me would really make her happy? She gave me her answer and I visited an attorney the next day. For a long time all was despair. My birthday is August 27th and that year I was 27 (my golden birthday) so I went out with the boys (guess who showed up?). I got a little tipsy and sang Karaoke and danced with her (stuff I don't usually do). She seemed surprised by the change. (How surprised she'd be by what I have become by now.) I got my divorce papers August 28th, 2002. It was one of the worst days of my life; I never wanted this.
I left. The next day. I couldn't stay there, it was too painful. Over the years she and I had scoured every inch of that city (and others besides) and everything had a memory attached to it. And the idea of watching her move on as a wife, as a mother? The house, the children, the white picket fence; while I died a little more every day. . . fuck that. I just couldn't take it. I packed everything I could and gave away the rest. It was years before I was healed enough.
The Reasons:
Well . . . there are the official reasons. . . which when you think about it were valid (but not the reason you get a divorce). Then there were the unofficial reasons, which in reality is the more likely, but we'll come to that later.
Whitney's up front official reasons were varied and as followed:
1) I didn't treat her like an adult. Anyone who knew or knows Whitney knows why that is. She may have changed since then but at the time I knew her . . . it was a different story altogether. When we first met she was totally irresponsible. She couldn't (or wouldn't) get up to go to school or work on time. She wouldn't take her medicine when she needed to. She couldn't handle money. . . well, you get the idea. I got used to helping her. I suppose somewhere along the way she stopped seeing it that way and it became heckling to her instead. I never noticed. So I take fault there, it was a valid point. It was also something you go to marriage therapy for.
2)I did not take an active interest in her interests. This one was pretty much mutual, she didn't express much interest in my hobbies either. We'd become complacent. It's an easy trap to fall into. She did have a point of course, I should have just grinned and borne it (it's the person's company more than the actual activity that you desire after all). But I will say that it's a two way street, I wasn't just at fault in this one. Again though, this is something that you go to a councilor for.
3)I was patronizing and condescending. Well. . . I was (usually when I thought something was ridiculously simple but the other person just couldn't grasp it). It's something that I worked on a lot since we split up.
4)I never accept responsibility when I am wrong. Whitney heard me say "I love you" thousands of times, but she never heard me say "I am wrong, I am sorry". I wish I had. It's something I always had a hard time with.
Now, while these were valid points I was willing to work on them, counseling for couples, therapy, whatever it would take. I loved my wife deeply and wanted to keep our marriage intact. She didn't feel the same. (Side-note: I did change these things over time anyway, for myself rather than anyone else. They were after all valid gripes.)
And then there is the unofficial reason. . . which you may have guessed already. . . Matt. As of this entry they have been married two years and have two children. He'd been living with her since the day after the separation and though I am loathe to admit it (even to myself) had probably replaced me long before that.
My friends and family don't understand why I never went for the throat. I loved her. I still love her. I wish to God I could hate her, it would have made it all so much easier. Only three years and 1300 miles have managed to quell my feelings so that I can function without her. A part of me will always belong to her and that's why I stay the hell away.
I met Whitney in January of 1997 at a mutual friend's house while we were all sitting around playing RPG's. We really hit it off and I immediately knew that I really liked her. After talking off by ourselves (outside, because she smoked) she asked me out on a date. She quite literally beat me to the punch by about 30 seconds. I had been working up the courage all evening.
I lamented over the decision for a long while because a friend of mine also liked her but in the end I did go out with Whitney (and lost my friend for a long time because of it). We became lovers shortly after that (our second date as I recall) and virtually inseparable afterward. There were many breakups and makeups along the way. . . parental problems (hers and mine), cheating (not me) and relocations. Eventually we got engaged and then married. January 18, 2000. I was totally in love with her.
Those were some of the happiest times of my life being married to Whitney. . . and also some of the hardest.
The Breakup, the Breakdown, the Breakout:
October 6th, 2001, a Saturday. Whitney had been home to eat, to sleep . . . little else. We had been having problems. . . she had become distant. Things had come to a head that morning when she had gotten off of work around six and after several hours without a word (she usually comes home after work) I managed to find her at a friends house (Matt's) around noon. We exchanged heated words and I left. She came home later and went to sleep. Our group came over later still for our weekly game (I had gone home after our fight and spent the afternoon cooking {which I usually do when I am upset}).
After the game Whitney and I went to do the route (she was a paper carrier). I asked her what had been going on lately (her being distant, always staying away, etc. . .) and she said that she wanted a separation and that she wanted me to leave our apartment and after three months we would see. What followed was a VERY long, mostly silent ride of six hours delivering papers.
I am ashamed to say that I took it rather hard. When we got home she left to do laundry and go to class as if nothing had happened (later I realized that she must have come to terms with her decision long ago). Once I heard the car pull out and she was gone I am afraid I suffered what I can only term a nervous breakdown (and the only one I am certain I have every had). There is a blank spot there and when I finally regained myself I was clutching the base of the door-frame to our bedroom, crying like a child and repeating over and over to myself "Come on Matthew, pull it together, keep it together. . ."
Work kept me from getting my clothes that Sunday (and despair). I, waiting for Whitney (who never came home) to talk. Monday morning I came home to find that she wasn't there but her wedding band was on the nightstand.
I went to campus and found her at class. I tried to talk to her but she didn't want to talk (or more appropriately explain why she was doing this). She couldn't understand why I was having trouble accepting what had happened. Meanwhile I hadn't slept in three days and felt like my world was ripped apart. . . and I didn't understand why.
I told Whitney that "I gave you the last five years, I think you owe me five minutes". That seemed to get through to her and eventually I got her to talk. She admitted the separation was bullshit. She had no intention of working things out. LA requires six months of separation for a divorce and 3 months separation would be 3 months closer to divorcing me.
I got her to agree to a two week trial and then we'd meet and talk again. The day after I got my clothes she changed the locks. The next day there was another man staying there, Matt (and yes, the same Matt). So the two weeks was bullshit too. I moved my clothes into my Aunt Irene's house but since Whitney and I had lived there in the past I couldn't stay (in the middle of nowhere alone with my memories. . .shutter).
I spent every day at coffee bars sitting in the sun and trying not to think. I tried to make friends, needing distractions, any distractions, desperately; my heart was breaking. I cried more in those few days than I have at any other point in my life.
Danny (my best friend, and best man at my wedding) happened by on chance. Considering that I hadn't slept, eaten or shaved in about a week I must have been a hell of a sight. I explained what had happened and he invited me back to his parent's house (he was living with his folks off and on). I went, needing the nostalgia and comfort of the old days (I used to spend a lot of time there when I was in my teens; trouble at home). It helped a LOT. I collapsed (literally) and slept for the first time in about a week. Danny and I talked and I asked to move into the guest room (his folks really do consider me part of the family). Normally I wouldn't have dared to ask but I was desperate to be around people I cared about. Asking his parents was very hard for me but thankfully they said yes. It is a debt that I will never be able to repay; they have no idea the pain they spared me.
Around late January of 2002, they asked me to move out because they needed the guest room for the spring. I still wasn't very good emotionally but I had come to terms (in a practical sense) of what was happening and was able to stand it (though not well). I moved into my parent's old house (in rural Carencro), now vacant, into the only cleared out room. . . the one Whitney and I used to stay in when my folks asked us to come and stay there. I asked my mother to use any other room but she didn't want to let me because she wasn't sure if they'd move back. When we moved there, long ago, Whitney had redecorated. Black and white tile on the floor, black walls and black ceiling. Oh, and she had boarded up the windows and had one bare light bulb in the center of the room for light. It was pretty rough; I figure if purgatory does exist for me it probably very similar to that. I couldn't design a better hell and I don't think I could think of a better way to drive someone mad. That place was like living in a grave (but with the memories attached I just couldn't bring myself to redecorate it).
After two months of trying and being told no repeatedly I approached Whitney and asked her if there was any hope for our marriage and if a divorce from me would really make her happy? She gave me her answer and I visited an attorney the next day. For a long time all was despair. My birthday is August 27th and that year I was 27 (my golden birthday) so I went out with the boys (guess who showed up?). I got a little tipsy and sang Karaoke and danced with her (stuff I don't usually do). She seemed surprised by the change. (How surprised she'd be by what I have become by now.) I got my divorce papers August 28th, 2002. It was one of the worst days of my life; I never wanted this.
I left. The next day. I couldn't stay there, it was too painful. Over the years she and I had scoured every inch of that city (and others besides) and everything had a memory attached to it. And the idea of watching her move on as a wife, as a mother? The house, the children, the white picket fence; while I died a little more every day. . . fuck that. I just couldn't take it. I packed everything I could and gave away the rest. It was years before I was healed enough.
The Reasons:
Well . . . there are the official reasons. . . which when you think about it were valid (but not the reason you get a divorce). Then there were the unofficial reasons, which in reality is the more likely, but we'll come to that later.
Whitney's up front official reasons were varied and as followed:
1) I didn't treat her like an adult. Anyone who knew or knows Whitney knows why that is. She may have changed since then but at the time I knew her . . . it was a different story altogether. When we first met she was totally irresponsible. She couldn't (or wouldn't) get up to go to school or work on time. She wouldn't take her medicine when she needed to. She couldn't handle money. . . well, you get the idea. I got used to helping her. I suppose somewhere along the way she stopped seeing it that way and it became heckling to her instead. I never noticed. So I take fault there, it was a valid point. It was also something you go to marriage therapy for.
2)I did not take an active interest in her interests. This one was pretty much mutual, she didn't express much interest in my hobbies either. We'd become complacent. It's an easy trap to fall into. She did have a point of course, I should have just grinned and borne it (it's the person's company more than the actual activity that you desire after all). But I will say that it's a two way street, I wasn't just at fault in this one. Again though, this is something that you go to a councilor for.
3)I was patronizing and condescending. Well. . . I was (usually when I thought something was ridiculously simple but the other person just couldn't grasp it). It's something that I worked on a lot since we split up.
4)I never accept responsibility when I am wrong. Whitney heard me say "I love you" thousands of times, but she never heard me say "I am wrong, I am sorry". I wish I had. It's something I always had a hard time with.
Now, while these were valid points I was willing to work on them, counseling for couples, therapy, whatever it would take. I loved my wife deeply and wanted to keep our marriage intact. She didn't feel the same. (Side-note: I did change these things over time anyway, for myself rather than anyone else. They were after all valid gripes.)
And then there is the unofficial reason. . . which you may have guessed already. . . Matt. As of this entry they have been married two years and have two children. He'd been living with her since the day after the separation and though I am loathe to admit it (even to myself) had probably replaced me long before that.
My friends and family don't understand why I never went for the throat. I loved her. I still love her. I wish to God I could hate her, it would have made it all so much easier. Only three years and 1300 miles have managed to quell my feelings so that I can function without her. A part of me will always belong to her and that's why I stay the hell away.