Dear Diary
I sent this to Alan on Valentine’s Day 2015
His response: “Do you think we’re soul mates then?”
In a perfect world or relationship, I would say, “yes.” But within the imperfection of our tortured marriage, I’m not sure. The mirror has become so cloudy with anger and resentments, it no longer reflects. The resistance to let go of the grip of the past is too strong. A tortured being cannot bring peace or clarity to any relationship because they lack that in themselves.
We have shaken each other up, torn each other apart. And where the cracks in my being have been thrust wide open, welcoming light and love, Alan’s have sealed themselves up. I cannot penetrate the wall that exists between us, can’t help him to see that while he keeps me out, he’s also locked himself inside, alone, in that darkness. He prefers to stay asleep in a misery of his own mental making.
I sit writing each night, looking at photos, wandering through memory, seeking answers to long forgotten questions. It is both ironic and sad that everything, which not so long ago seemed new and fresh, is now old and ending. My cat Twitchy is 18, and she’s been with me since 6 months before Alan moved in. She’s gone deaf and yowls for hours on end, staring at something that used to be familiar and no longer is.
Our marriage spawned our business, and now the baby is mature and the parents can’t stand its’ demands or each other. Our lives together have become a fruit so bitter neither of us wants to taste it. The sundering apart of a life that’s 16 years in the building, won’t be pretty or easy, and will be expensive and messy. There won’t be any winners, just survivors.
Lawyers and mediators will talk of BraTenders, and how we evolved from the Alan and Lori show, to a small business triumph whose underlying mission is to help make the world a better place. We employ 6 female heads of households. We own a New York City co-op that’s in the center of the world; Central Park is our back yard. We co-parent one cat at work, and 2 at home. We own everything in our apartment, and our business, we have no debt. There is no his or hers, everything is in one pot.
We’ll have to sell the apartment and split the proceeds so we can live apart in places half the size of what we’ve now got, with a longer commute than the current 10 minute door to door walk. The transition will take time and we’ll still be here, in each other’s faces 24/7. We’ll be suffocating in the space between us, waiting for the day to finally come when we can breathe again.
He’ll go his way, and get a puppy. I’ll get a few more cats. I’ll be able to invite friends over when I feel like it, and never have to ask for “permission” again. He’ll go home alone, pick up a rotisserie chicken for dinner a few times a week, and eat in front of the TV, a roll of paper towels by his side. A glass filled with vodka too. Before long he’ll nod in his chair, bits of chicken spilling from his drunk mouth onto his chest.
He’ll miss Twitchy begging for food, and Kitty Kitty purring in his lap when it’s late and he’s snoozing in his chair. I’ll be happy to not wake up to a sink full of spoons and dishes, and be done with folding his boxers into squares. I’ll be able to expand, stretch, and listen to music other than Singers and Standards. I could play Rap if I wished.
I’ll be sad for a while, maybe, and will keep busy with workshops, writing, friends and films. I will not miss holding my breath.
