Hi there.

I know we haven’t been talking much these days.  Hell, we haven’t been communicating in years.  I know you are angry at me, and I understand that anger.  It’s unfortunate that you can’t just scream at me or throw something and be done with it.  Understand that I too am angry.  Very angry. I am angry despite you thinking I have no right to be angry. 

See, I don’t mind cleaning up my own mess.  I say this even though I tell the girls that I don’t care who made the mess in the crayon drawer - it’s up to both of them to clean it up.  Okay, I’ll clean it up by myself because it’s my mess, and I “wanted” this. 

This mess has taken me literally months to clean up.  While you floated through your days, at work, spending your energy hating me, I was negotiating with people who make me sick to my stomach, fielding phone calls from collection agencies, begging, pleading, cajoling everyone involved in this process to please help, to work together, to make this go.  At the 11th hour, we are nearly there and are going to escape this (relatively) unscathed. 

For a month and a half, I spent my evenings tearing through the wreckage of our life.  I packed boxes that tore me to shreds.  I had to decide what things to toss and what things to keep for the kids, even though I felt like I was being burned at the stake looking through some of the scrapbooks and remnants of my now-previous life.  I found your wedding ring shoved into a toothbrush cover.  It was about to go into the trash; I heard it rattling and realized what it was.  I know it was your way of saying to me:  Go To Hell and Take Your Trash With You.  Message received.  Note taken. 

After the packing and the moving and more negotiating with a slew of extremely demanding and unsympathetic people, I spent more time unpacking, fixing, redoing.  I thought about the girls and the chaos and upheaval.  I didn’t sleep much, because I wanted to make things as okay for them as I could.  The weekends you had them, I unpacked and painted and scrubbed.  You probably spent more time hating me then too - throwing all that hatred into the pool as you soaked in the sun and watched the children we had together splash.  I know some of the hatred was obvious even to our children when Lily asked me about it, catching me unprepared as always when she drops those questions during a car ride. 

So it must be nice.  It must feel great for you.  It must be heaven to sit across from me in a lawyer’s office, signing documents that will relieve us of the biggest financial obligation or anchor we have, and looking me in the eye as you tell me you won’t help me.  As you stick it to me, you have legitimized your right to be angry and to make me “fix it”.  All the years of me fixing everything came rushing into that lawyer’s office and I nearly exploded.  The words out of my mouth were measured but you know me well enough to also know that there was fury behind them, mixed with exhaustion, mixed with desperation.  It’s FINE.  I will take care of it.  Put the nails through my hands and feet; I’m a martyr, and I’ll fix this like I always fix the messes.  You sit down, sip your beer.  I’ll take care of it. 

I wonder what would happen if I adopted your attitude.  If I stopped caring.  If I told everyone - realtors included - to go screw themselves and see what happens.  If the closing were to fall through, would you help out then?  Would the realtors step up?  Would anyone do anything to make the deal go?  It must be nice to shrug your shoulders and say, “You did this, now you take care of it.”  I’d like to say that to you as well.  You did this, now you fix it.  All that yammering in marriage counseling about taking responsibility - taking two to tango - taking two to destroy a marriage.  I think those were words designed to make me think you actually believed it.  You don’t.  This is squarely on my shoulders.  It is my spilled milk to clean up.  I’ll clean up yours, because it’s there too, mixed and curdling.  It’s too much effort to figure out where to divide the mess, and make you clean up your portion of it. 

I used to feel such huge amounts of guilt.  I used to think you were the victim and I was a terrible person for making decisions that were best for me.  I don’t anymore - or at least not today.  We both built this life, and we both ruined it too. At some point you will emerge from your rage and start rebuilding your life, as I have done with mine.  Maybe you’ll take a hard look at yourself and attempt to avoid the mistakes you made with me, just as I’ve done - tearing myself into tiny bite-sized pieces so I can make myself a better person.  Maybe you won’t.  At this point, I’m beyond feeling badly about it. 

Today, I know you’re feeling good.  The house is nearly gone, your wife is nearly an ex, and you only have to stomach seeing me through car doors or apartment windows.  Standing the elevator together, I could feel the hate steaming from your skin.  Where once we were magnets, the poles have been reversed.  We stood on opposite sides, as far apart as possible.  When we said goodbye, it was code for “screw you”.  Today, you stuck it to me.  You enjoyed the power of making me suffer, even if it’s just a little bit.  You can have that.  Enjoy it while it lasts.  One day I’ll be in the same position you are, and I’ll remember this, and I’ll do the right thing instead of letting my anger control me and turn me into the lowest kind of person. 

It must be nice.  For you.