Painful Things I Have Endured

There’s nothing people enjoy more than giving advice, which is unfortunate considering that most of us would rather eat our toenail clippings than receive it. 

Six months ago my husband announced out of the blue that he was desperately unhappy with our marriage. Two days later he moved out, and within days he had decided that the only solution was to get a divorce. I believed at the time that his words had inflicted the most pain I would ever feel in my lifetime (this from someone who’s given birth sans pain relief, and once had her eyebrow stitched together with wire after flipping into a ditch in Communist Poland).  And yet, having become the recipient of well-meaning advice from my family, his family, friends of mine, their parents, friends of his, their parents, and finally, friends of friends who heard our story at a BBQ, I must add bad advice to the above list of Painful Things I Have Endured.

I admit that during those harrowing first weeks after John walked out, I sought out and welcomed any advice, hoping that someone might give me insight into my husband’s apparently addled mind. I even asked one of his best friends for advice - the one who’s in his mid thirties, cheats on his girlfriend regularly, and openly admits that the only thing he’s committed to is his brand of cigarettes. “Well, he kinda hates you”, and “Ya know, I wouldn’t wait for him”, were his very insightful response. I had forgotten that unlike female friendships in which we discuss everything from our intimate details (shaving vs. waxing; the doctor put what where?), to relationships (How My Mother Scarred Me for Life; Is It Normal to Want to Smother Him with a Pillow While He Sleeps?), my husband and his friends bond over different things. Favorite hot sauces. Who’s dad got drunkest last weekend. Who can eat the most burgers. 

Sometimes they share intimate details as well – like effective heartburn remedies. This isn’t to say they don’t gossip about each other’s relationships, but when they do, it’s to commiserate with one other, not to give advice, “Did you hear how pissed off Jeff’s wife was when she heard he passed out on the sidewalk outside Ye Olde Pump last Saturday? What is her problem man?”. 

Ironically, not giving advice is what my husband’s closest confidantes appeared proudest of, “Just so you know, I haven’t given John any advice. I’m just here to listen...” I thought men were supposed to try to fix everything. 

I find it easier to take advice from some people than from others. Happily married friends, yes. My twice-divorced mother who at last count has owned and been abandoned by 17 dogs and 9 cats and whose record with men is alarmingly similar, not so much. It doesn’t help that she’s convinced my husband left me because I refused to let him install a 3’ by 5’ flat screen TV over the fireplace in our dining room. 

She offered her first piece of advice after my husband asked me to “give him his space” (which I now know to be code for: “I have a date with my short and furry coworker and this wedding band is seriously cramping my style”), and I agreed to take our 18 month old daughter to our cottage. 

“Before you go”, said my mother, “find all the Tupperware you own and fill it with homemade food, and place a loving note on each container. This will remind him that you really love him”. This from a woman who views food as her own personal kryptonite.

“Are. You. Serious??”, I sputtered, “You think that spaghetti sauce can save our marriage, Mum?”. 

Then I drove to the supermarket, bought a kilo of their highest-quality ground beef, and made a batch of Bolognese sauce, which I scooped into my best Tupperware, and topped with a bright yellow “I love you” note. Still no word as to whether my spaghetti sauce has saved our marriage. 

A month later my husband informed me that he would be flying up to spend a week with our daughter Lily at our cottage, and could I plan on not being there? At that my mother advised that I rush to the nearest photo shop and have a picture of him blown up, framed and hung over our bed, to show him how much I loved him. Considering that his favorite name for me at that point was “control freak”, I decided that nothing would creep him out more, and that I’d be more likely to use it as a dartboard anyway. 

-Well then, you and Lily should disappear, she said. 

-What? You mean take his daughter away? 

-Yes, take her to…Italy! Make him wonder, Sophie! 

-Wonder whether he should have me arrested Mum? Wonder which jurisdiction would incarcerate me longest Mum? Are you nuts? 

-Well, in that case do not underestimate the power of sex - seduce him! 

-Yes Mum, I’d love to except he’s left me, he lives in another country, and I suspect his would require nothing less than a rohypnol cocktail – any idea where I can buy some date rape drugs these days? 

And anyway, I did seduce him. It didn’t work.

The nice thing about my mother is that unlike his mother, she doesn’t segue into random tales of her coworker’s-brother’s-third-cousin’s wedding day, and the fabulous centerpieces made of reclaimed shoe leather that they used. I’ve come to realize that the more my mother-in-law means well, the less relevant the story tends to be. And yet she has given me some of the best advice yet. What she said - and this has been invaluable - is that I must never again tell my husband how he feels, but only how I feel. This sounds simple to those of you who are normal, but for the rest of us (mostly females I’m willing to bet), following this advice is like tying shoelaces with your teeth (but more useful, I suspect). 

In the weeks following the news of our marriage breakdown, my wise grandmother (who had her own theory as to why he left me - something about my “abandoning” him with our daughter while I had my first weekend away with my girlfriends in 18 months) advised me to tell him how much I needed him, and to do so often. I told her that as a stay-at-home mother who enjoyed everything about our home except the “staying at” it part, I suspected that my excessive neediness over the past year was a big part of our problem, and I was certain that he’d probably rather light his hair on fire than hear me pronounce the words “I need you” again (although it’s possible that hearing them without simultaneously trying to dodge my shoe might help). 

“Fine”, she said, “Then go back to that house you share and tell him to GET THE HECK OUT!”. This from a diplomat’s daughter and Reiki practitioner who keeps a shrine to Buddha, Jesus and the Virgin Mary in her home. Anyway, he’d already left. My father’s advice was more spiritual – pray, then pray some more, and when you’re finished, say a prayer.

The advice I got most often was: do what is right for you. Well, hand me a cocktail, fuel up the jet and tell Brad Pitt to meet me in Kenya dammit. That implies that I should know what “right for me” is, despite the fact that two months ago, what was right for me was playing Mrs. to his Mr. 

I get the feeling that some people would respect me more for accepting my husband’s decision and giving up on the nine years we had together, than for swallowing my pride and trying to save our marriage. I am simply not ready to. I’m in the difficult position of trying to prove to someone that I love him, and the only option I’ve been offered to prove it is to do as he says, and make it easy for him to walk out on his daughter and I. 

I want a new option. Control freak, ME?