She tried to tell me

I can still hear her British voice in my head today. My dear friend, Alexia.

We became friends while my ex and I were living in Germany, and stayed friends afterward. We met at the international playgroup in the city, a very diverse international mix of mothers and children showing up to sing songs, dance and make crafts while we drank coffee and exchanged new mom stories. We had only lived in Germany for about six months when I first tried the playgroup, and it was the most glorious connection I had made since moving to a foreign country!

It was my life line and my escape.

Alexia led the playgroup at the time that I began to attend. She was warm and friendly and welcoming. I loved her immediately. I truly admired her for her strength, her wit, her laugh, her way of directing people without being overbearing, and her straightforward style of telling you exactly what she thought without crushing you. She was like a movie star in the theater of my mind.

I wanted to be just like her someday, when I grew up.

We became friends over the course of many cups of strong coffee and many versus of  “Wind the Bobbin Up”. This led to dinners together, on our own and with our husbands sometimes, and playdates with our children to play together in the back garden or race Bobby Cars down the slanting driveway. She became a constant in my world. A beacon of light. I turned toward her like a flower reaching for the sun.

She was the epitome of “having it together” in my mind.

We would talk about our children, our families, our history, and of course our marriages and husbands. How we met, what our courting/dating was like, our weddings, etc. That’s what women do to bond and to get to know each other. You can tell a lot about a person from the way they describe their relationship.

I lived in Germany for six years, and over the course of that time, I am certain that I filled her ears with my many trials and tribulations of life abroad as an American. The challenges and the struggles. Alexia was British and married to a German man, that was a common pairing in Europe. My husband and I were pretty much the exception to the expat rule at the time. We were both American and didn’t speak a word of German when we arrived.

During all of this female bonding time I am sure that I told her some of my most annoying, and disturbing, stories about my husband and our marriage. I thought it was the thing that girlfriends did, we shared and commiserated, it was a way to blow off steam so you didn’t blow off your husband’s head!

After a few years of confiding in her, one day she looked me in the eye and said, “It doesn’t sound like you’re happily married.”

I was stunned. Not happily married? I asked her what gave her that idea, of course I’m happily married! Why wouldn’t I be? Her explanation was simply that most of my stories about my husband and marriage weren’t very positive, they were sad, frustrating and negative types of stories. I didn’t really have anything good to say about our relationship, or our marriage, for the most part.

I stayed the course of defending my ‘happy marriage’, “What do you mean? Those are things that all wives talk about with their friends, it’s an outlet to share it with someone else. Everyone has their issues and annoyances with their husbands. We all do it.” Alexia didn’t miss a beat, she looked at me with her head slightly tilted and said, “I never talk about my husband that way.” And, she was right. She really didn’t.

I was quiet.

I should have taken that as a sign, a nudge, to take a hard look at my marriage and what I wanted out of it. That was over fifteen years ago. But instead, I decided not to share anymore of those negative stories with her, plus I became more aware of what I shared with most people. I covered it up, left it at the door when I came in, and only shared the good stuff.

Now that I am divorced, I can look back and search for clues, look at my mistakes as well as his, basically armchair quarterback during the replays of our entire relationship. What I should have, what I could have, done differently. I can almost pinpoint when it had started to sour, when I had begun to feel invisible and unimportant to him. I remember telling him how I felt so many times, usually in tears, and still nothing changed. I can remember the big, blowout arguments as well as all of our little disagreements, that led us to this place.

She was right. I was not happily married.

I should have looked more closely at it all at the time that she shared this epiphany with me, but instead I chose to hide it more, to bury it down deeper inside. I began to keep my attitude in check and stay positive in most public instances, not just playgroup anymore.  Even with my own family. I wanted to make certain that everyone thought, that everyone knew, that I was happy. We were happy.

They could all say that we were happy, and truly loved each other, with conviction.

But we weren’t. We were functional most of the time. Of course, we had some really great times together, and loved each other most of the time, but there were long spells of that not being the case over our twenty years together.

He had come from a widowed mother early on in his childhood, and I from a divorced family, we didn’t really know how it was supposed to work or what marriage  should look like. But we were determined and willing to go the distance, at almost any cost, to prove that we were good people with a good, solid marriage. We could live up to the American dream that escapes so many other couples and keep an intact family. We would prove it with each passing year, with each celebrated anniversary. But we weren’t really happy with each other, and it showed in some of the smallest, simplest details.

It’s not always the big stuff.

At the time, it’s hard to admit that it’s really not going the way you had hoped, that your promise to stay with each other for a lifetime may have been an overreach for both of you. We each had our own expectations of how marriage worked, how to raise kids, even how to love each other. It wasn’t very similar in most areas, any areas to be honest, and that created the first crack in our trust of each other and our love for each other that grew with each passing year. A crack that created a small valley in the early years, would eventually lead to a gaping hole between us after many years of ignoring the obvious signs.

She tried to tell me. I should have listened.






How do we manage our way through the dark tunnel of a divorce to come out of the other side as friends? Is it possible? 

Is it necessary, is my bigger question.

From the beginning, I have been told that we should aim to make this as amicable as possible, so in the future we can be friends. The example always thrown onto the table usually goes something like, “you want to know that you can both be at your child’s wedding someday, and not shooting daggers across the room, from resentment of a bad divorce settlement. You want your kids to know that you can still get along, and be friends.” 

Or the best one for me, listening as my soon to be ex (with any luck and hope) say, with a catch in his voice, “I’d like us to still be friends when this is over.” Cue sad, deeply emotional music. Cut in for a close up, and capture those teary eyes. He’s expressing feelings! 

Friends? That’s what we’re shooting for, huh? Wow.

Odd for that to be a “goal” on our flipchart of ‘goals and concerns’ during mediation. (Which by the way, is a whole other world for our marriage, seriously) Isn’t that ‘goal’ usually the consellation prize in most breakups? You remember those early days of young love, don’t you? When you’d let him or her  down gently, by assuming the blame – it’s not you, it’s me – and promising that you “can still be friends”.

And why should I feel pressured to be his friend in the end? In case nobody has noticed, we weren’t really friends during our marriage. I wasn’t in his circle of trust and chosen companion to share in his fun times. I was his maid, his nanny, his travel agent, his pack mule. I was his Wizard of Oz hidden behind the curtain, taking care of the gritty details of our family life. I wasn’t his friend, no matter how much I tried.

And if I recall, I was told ever so bluntly, that I don’t have any friends, we have nothing in common or common interests and that I hate people. But now, by the grace of divorce, I am ready to make a friend. I am ready, or should be ready, to open my heart and accept his friendship. I suppose getting divorced is now our common interest?

Here’s the thing, I don’t care if we’re friends. Ever. I am an adult and I can conduct myself in a mature adult way, to get through any social situation including our child’s wedding day, for a day or more if necessary. I’ve been doing it for years. I’m a damn good actress and an even better liar when necessary.

And telling me that I need to, should be, want to be his friend for the sake of our family, smacks of telling me to play nice. Don’t be difficult. Don’t push too much, you could make things uncomfortable. 

Be a good girl and get along.

Guess what, the ‘good girl’ has gotten her teeth knocked in and her self esteem assaulted for the last time. She’s played nice too long and it’s gotten her into this mess of a marriage.

The good girl is dead. 

And this girl chooses her own friends, thank you very much.