Justice is Truth in Action & Best Served Cold

September 4, 2023, 6:12 pm:

I checked myself into a mental hospital eleven days ago and stayed a week. And not without a fight! I wanted to book it out of there two hours after booking in.

The doctors didn't like that idea AT ALL. And, if you don't know, now ya know: In South Carolina, if one attempts to leave a mental health facility against medical advice (AMA), the doctors on staff can commit you.

As in, "Your admittance to this facilty is no longer voluntary, ma'am. Get comfortable."

You see, I live with a mind that races. Mine is not a monkey mind, but a barrel of them. And, leading up to my decision to seek inpatient mental health treatment, my mind and body seemed disconnected.

Also, my spiritual connection to the mighty universe, which I call my higher power, was severed sometime over the last nine months.

I'm feeling much better now. Thank you for asking.

But, things got dark for a little while.

This year has taken a toll on me.

Something compels me to tell you that.

Can you relate?

Fuck, I don't even know if I can relate. "Relative" sounds like a word my father uses to seem neutral while discussing my marital matters.

Speaking of marriage, I am still. Married, that is. Separated but still married and occasionally sleeping with my soon-to-be ex-husband. According to my therapist, I'm a doormat. 

Who? Me? What in the actual?

September 12, 2023, 7:47 am:

Unfortunately, I've had to refrain from posting words in my beloved Divorce Diary since screenshots now exist on legal-sized paper, stashed within folders handled by multiple dudes in ties and loafers who gather in courtrooms.

The victim calls the evidence slander; I name it libel (because I practice literacy), and the District Attorney says Harassment in the Second Degree (a misdemeanor) now, instead of the felonious First Degree charge he originally pinned on my collar. So long as I sign the plea agreement and plead guilty.

And although I maintain my innocence, I will appear in court one week from today to do just that.

Life is funny that way sometimes.

Like that one night in late November when my husband and I splurged on a pricey anniversary dinner. It'd been a helluva seven years; a celebration was in order. When we returned to the car, I put on the Zombies' This Will be Our Year, with no knowledge whatsoever that the coming year of blissful marriage I predicted would be an ab-so-fucking-lute shit show instead.

I finally found out about the other woman a couple of weeks later when I discovered he'd texted her, "I love you," from the table where we sat across from each other, swallowing food we probably couldn't afford to be eating.

Yeah, this isn't our year at all, y'all.

But it may be mine. Will confirm at a later date. The jury is still out on that one.

September 15, 2023, 11:11 pm:

I ask myself why I miss him so much. I am stronger than that, aren't I?

Remember who the fuck you are, Ashley! You didn't travel to hell and back over nearly four decades to shrink into dank submission!

When I thought he was moving in with her in April, I entered a state of acceptance I didn't know I had in me. I wrote about it in the article, An Open Letter to My Husband & the Woman He Fell in Love With: PART II.

But he didn't move in with her. He came back home and began searching for a place of his own. Now, I am sitting here pining over him. It could be because I still see him every day. During our son's summer break from school, it was easier—every other day, sometimes.

It's my fault. At once, on the last day in April, I totaled my car and lost my driving privileges for six months. He finally moved into a studio apartment on the first day of May. So much for our custody plan of Sunday through Tuesday with Dad; now, Dad shows up every morning and afternoon for school pickup and drop off because Mom isn't driving. He does this because he is a good father. I adore how he shows up for our son, and for me. We agreed that maintaining a loving friendship is in our boy’s best intrest. 

Sometimes, Dad spends the night. Sometimes, his scheduled visit with our son takes place at my house, and for three days a week, it feels like nothing ever happened, and we are a family again. We enjoy dinner, ride bikes, hit the arcade, and share the same bed—just like the good old days. Then, he leaves. He goes home to his studio apartment, and suddenly, I'm trembling inside. 

It's like our marriage dissolves all over again every single week.

My therapist calls this unhealthy behavior and asks if I should stop playing house with the man who left me for another woman. I tell her he and the other woman broke up and no longer speak—he promised me so.

What if he's lying?

We're still on the same mobile account; maybe I should check his text history.

Random number I don't recognize. But I've been in the game long enough to know what a hundred-plus messages, coming in and going out with photos and videos attached daily for weeks, means where he is concerned.

Then, another number the month before. And another the month before that. Rinse and repeat. It doesn't shock me that online dating never stopped. I appreciate a good dopamine hit, too. I get it. I must keep reminding myself that he and I are officially separated—he can text whomever he wants. Except for her, of course. Anyone but her.

I do a quick search query with each random number, and my suspicions are confirmed.

So, he must be telling the truth about cutting ties with her. Nope, it's the talk log that seals the deal. He spends hours talking with her on the phone. Does she know about the other women?

I don't know what to believe anymore. But because I am a creature of habit with an irrational fear of metamorphosis, I will toss logic and intellect to the wayside and let my heart lead the way.

I'll tell him I am disappointed. I'll let him this is emotional abuse, not just inflicted upon me, but on all of us in his orbit. Then, Sunday will come, and I'll invite him to stay, knowing my heart will crack open again by Tuesday.

Shit, I have court Tuesday.

September 19, 2023, 9:59pm:

You may recall a seemingly unjustified criminal arrest if you read A Tangled Web We Weave, an article I published on the blog in February. If you missed that post, please check it out.

I have appeared in court at least once per month since April. Today, I appeared for the final time, denying a jury trial and pleading guilty to a lesser charge. Had I not tied my money up with a different attorney thanks to another case of piss-poor police work I experienced during the car accident in April, I may have afforded counsel with trial court theatric acumen. The public servant representing me began our relationship with a ninety-nine percent sure promise that the state would dismiss the case. Needless to say, he was wrong.

So, a trial where twelve strangers who would rather be anywhere else decide my fate—significant jail time if convicted—or a plea bargain carrying a $200 fine. The latter became an easy choice as the hearing approached. Still, I gritted my teeth when the judge asked if I knew my actions were against the law.

Did I know calling my husband's mistress at work was illegal? No!

Did I know approaching her in a parking lot was a crime? No! Besides, I went there to see my husband, who, fifteen minutes prior, sent a text message to my phone stating she was not on the premises.

Still, I said, "Yes, your honor."

Case closed.

Now, I breathe.

And, move on.

Take my meds.

And, go to therapy.

A new publication, Disorderly Content, is in the works on Substack, where I'll post articles (as inbox newsletters & on the platform) exclusively starting next Friday, September 29, 2023.

If you like what you've read here on the Divorce Diary, you'll love Conversations With a Therapist, a featured section of the new publication. It's a transcriptive format, serialized fiction based on very, very, very actual events—Fridays @ 11pm EST, beginning 9/29/2023.

Also on a weekly schedule is Conversations With Myself, a stream-of-consciousness style prose section drawing on the raw emotion and vulnerability of single motherhood, addiction recovery, and generalized anxiety. It's a Dear Diary take on my intrusive thoughts—Mondays @ 11pm EST, beginning 10/2/2023.

And, of course, more will be revealed.

I am pouring beaucoup love into Disorderly Content. I hope you will take advantage of it.

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xo,

A.C.C.