Life After Divorce











{November 5, 2008}   Busting Out

During all of Steve’s bipolar craziness, we were still living at my dad’s house.  As I mentioned, I found out that Dad was no longer paying the mortgage.  I lived in a constant state of panic and fear that one day that knock on the door would come and my greatest fear would be realized – Homelessness.

In January 2006, after having a heart-to-heart with my Dad (not an easy task, I will tell you) – I decided that I just couldn’t take it anymore.  I had a job I hated.  A husband who broke my heart daily.  And a deep seeded fear that any day now, I would be discovered and evicted.  I couldn’t breathe.

One Saturday I was hanging out with my mom and we decided to go look at apartments in the area (we both have a great love of looking at houses, apartments, cars – whatever).  We went to one of the “luxury” apartments in town and found that they had a 1-bedroom unit that I could totally afford, even on my crappy salary AND a $200 move in special.  I signed my name on the dotted line right then and there to reserve the unit.  I would be moving in a week.  It was the first really impulsive thing I had ever done, and I felt amazing.  I planned to go home and tell both Steve and my Dad that I was out of there.  See ya suckers!

But… somehow… he convinced me to bring him along.  [insert Debbie Downer’s music here]  My pretty, clean, little apartment was invaded by a giant slob who was still talking to other women behind my back.  Why, oh why was I so dumb?  I should have taken the therapist’s advice and moved with no forwarding address.  But I didn’t.  Because I am actually the sucker.  About this time, Steve was called by his job who said, “Look… it’s been nearly 2 years… you haven’t been to work in most of those 2 years.  You can either quit… or we can fire you.  Your call.”  He chose to quit.

He decided on a new career path, which required him to go to school for a few months.  But, instead of starting right away, he decided to put it off for 6 months.  We began to fight more and more.  I kept hearing things like, “Just let me get my license, and I am out of here!”  Fine.  Get your damn license.  Oh?  What’s that?  Having the license doesn’t earn you money to live on right away?  Shocker.  “Just wait until [fill in the blank].”  “If I could afford to leave I would be out of here.”  So… what you are saying is that you are using me as a meal ticket?  Hmmm.

So that was my goal.  Get him to a place where he could afford to take care of himself, and be gone.  This was no longer a marriage.  I was not happy.  He was not happy.  He was too self-absorbed to care about what was going on with me.  So I waited…

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Dory says:

Just thought I’d say hi.

Hi!



Georgette says:

This is funny in the not-so-funny way that I am going through this right now.



FancyLori says:

Don’t marry a bipolar (unless she’s redheaded and adorable.)

Don’t marry a paranoid schizophrenic, either. That’s all I have to say. We were evicted because of the incessant and random yelling. (Not mind. Remember, I am redheaded AND adorable.)

Eventually I did move with no forwarding address. It is not bad advice, my love.



a0m0y7 says:

wow this sad. Your pretty little apartment… So sorry



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