What Happened to Eden

I wish I could articulate what happened when we arrived in our new city to begin again, but I don’t remember much.

My family had decorated the new house for Christmas so we could pretend to be jolly, as if this was all done purposely, and we had planned to uproot our lives in the middle of the school year right before the holidays. I know people rallied around us, showing up to help unpack and bringing food. We put on happy faces for the kids and set up their rooms first so they’d feel at home. Or as much as it’s possible to feel at home in a new city and new house that is noticeably missing a parent.

I remember the decision fatigue. I let other people tell me what to do and where to put our things as we tore open boxes, even though my focus on that type of decision is intense and meticulous in normal circumstances. It didn’t matter. This wasn’t our house, we weren’t a family, everyone was miserable and uncomfortable and unsure how to act, so who the fuck cared which drawer the spatulas should go into now?

The number of tasks that needed to be completed was overwhelming, and I would go to sleep miserable and wake up dreading another day of sorting and calls and cleaning and acting like everything would be fine in front of my kids. The truth was that I didn’t miss my husband and I was glad we had the opportunity to start fresh in a home he hadn’t defiled. I didn’t know how to be okay with being divorced but also show my kids the pain of betrayal so they would know that the truth is important. That marriage is a serious commitment and they should never, ever treat anyone this way.

I did wish they didn’t know quite so much. When their father told them he was in love with someone else it caused a lot of confusion and I couldn’t honestly answer their questions without throwing their dad under the bus for being a lying, cheating, son of a bitch. I did my best to stress that our feelings for our kids would never change, even if our feelings toward each other had fallen apart. We both loved them, and would do our best to figure out how to make their lives whole again.

Painting myself as the sad mother being brave for her children is too kind. I looked forward to the moment my family left and my kids were asleep. Craving escape and distraction was ill-advised, I think you’re supposed to sit with your feelings and work through them, but all I wanted was to disassociate. Playing pretend like I’m fine and ready to move on seemed infinitely more palatable than wallowing in the wreckage that was my life.

Some distractions were validation. My husband didn’t want me, and the more I thought about his crimes, the more it became clear he must have actively disliked or hated me. All the times it felt like he was smirking at me, but I told myself not to act like a crazy wife, he had actually been smirking and running to text his girlfriend about how awful I was. How stupid. Useless. Ugly. Fat. Mean. Whatever. I could only guess. But blowing time on dating apps very slowly chipped away at that feeling, even though I knew men lied and exaggerated to get women to go out with them. It made very little difference. My husband couldn’t even lie to make me feel loved in a false way, so I’d take the lies.

My immediate family could see me struggling. I couldn’t be has present for my kids because I had no answers for them. Why? I didn’t know. Who? I didn’t know. What now? I didn’t know. And they never asked him, they only asked me. I tried to explain that their dad would have these answers, but maybe, after what had happened, they no longer trusted him with the truth. So they asked me, and I had to make do with what little information I had. She lived in Florida and had one child. They had been together eighteen months offline, longer if you could the lead up to their first meeting. He loved her and she made him happy.

When I asked for help caring for my kids so I could go out, my family agreed immediately. I could see their concern, and I knew it was stupid, but I explained that I just wanted to breathe. I didn’t care if anything came of these dates. I just wanted someone to open a door for me and pull out my chair, even if they were just after sex. My husband hadn’t been after sex in years. Let them make their efforts. It felt like a day of spoiling at the spa compared to my regular routine. I felt like I was lying right back to them, so what did it matter.

I was ready to be treated better. I didn’t struggle with connection or intimacy. But I knew I was damaged from what had happened and wouldn’t make anyone a good partner, really and truly. But as long as I didn’t misrepresent myself – I was clear I wasn’t looking for a serious relationship, just dipping my toe into the pool – that was enough to let them know I couldn’t handle trusting someone.

I met up with The Cop several times. I wasn’t sure if it was allowed to suggest I might be able to meet when it was clear there’d be no sex – my kids were home being watched by my children – but he knew I was good for it. I’d invited him to my house for days of sex, for Christ’s sake. We met for sushi and after one sip of a cocktail I blurted that out against my will. I told him I’d never asked a man out before and was worried he’d say no, and was it even okay to ask for a date when there was no possibility we’d go home together?

He rolled his eyes at me. “We are past that. Of course I want to have dinner with you. And no, it’s not weird to ask to meet when there is no possibility of sex. I’d like to have sex with you any chance I get, but I’m happy to see you any time you’re free.” Blurting out my bullshit was not the plan, but the answer pulled my tense shoulders away from ears, even if just for a moment. I didn’t feel like it would be a given to accept a date – if we were seeing other people we could be busy or having a pecking order, where the head bitch gets priority and if she’s free I get a rain check.

Plus, there was still The Voice.