How Do You End a 14-Year Marriage?

I remember the day clearly. It was a sunny yet chilly afternoon in early February when I first truly questioned my marriage. I sat on the rug in the living room at the base of the tv, numbly staring at the way the cold light spilled through the wall of windows and created lengthening shadows across the carpet and my legs. Something prompted me to pick up the smooth three-pound labradorite crystal that we displayed on the side table and hug it to me. My eyes started stinging and tears welled up out of nowhere, and it wasn’t the first time I wondered to myself if marriage was always meant to be so lonely, but it was the first time I allowed the thought to enter my mind: I don’t know if I want to be married anymore.

On paper, we looked like a power couple. I had a thriving business that was still in growth mode, even after eight years, and he was in a phase of being employed, and with a good salary. We had purchased an old ranch home and remodeled it into my dream home. We had the trappings of a nice life—fancy cars that were fun to drive, plenty of food in the fridge and freezer, a peaceful yard to relax in. We had joint friends that we occasionally met up with, though I had many more friends on my own, and if he didn’t exactly relish the idea of me trying new hobbies and spending time with my friends, at least he didn’t hold me back. He was at best aloof and indifferent.

Paper isn’t reality though. Paper doesn’t show the times he droned on endlessly about his health updates and refused to talk about anything else, interrupting me when I tried, and then later complaining that I didn’t ever communicate. Paper doesn’t reveal how I kept trying to draw him back into the relationship, suggesting adventures and vacations and new hobbies that might connect us, only to be repeatedly shut down. Paper doesn’t illuminate the belittling or cutting remarks he made to me—mostly when we were alone, but occasionally in front of others—or the times he would tell me he was fine with me going to a dance class or a happy hour with friends, only to wait until my hand was on the doorknob as I was leaving to pick a fight. Paper doesn’t expose how I started to shrink into myself when I was home.

Paper doesn’t give you the whole story.

My ex was mercurial. One minute he’d be talking about how good he felt and what he wanted to eat, or verbally plan a future vacation, and the next he’d rage at me for elaborating on his chosen topics or googling flight prices. It was dizzying, trying to keep up. His preferred diet shifted minute to minute, as did his self-diagnosis of what he thought was wrong with his health. He didn’t feel the need to explain his shifting thoughts—instead just expecting me to keep up—and punishing me for “not paying enough attention,” or operating off the last comment he’d made aloud, rather than what he currently thought.

He could be sweet and funny when he wanted to be, but over the 14 years we were together, that persona disappeared. At least, when he was with me. At work, he still turned on the charm with his co-workers who all thought he was hilarious and the most intelligent person they’d ever met. According to him. Sometimes he presented himself (to me and the world) as having it all: Good job, pretty little wife, brains, brawn, and bravery. At other times, he would lament that I was his one link to the outside world and the only person—other than his mother—who tolerated him. His mental leaps and whirls left me woozy.

Despite the turbulence, I was committed to the ride. I know that all relationships have ups and downs. I know the grass is never going to be green if you don’t water it, and so I poured all the water I possessed on the lawn of my relationship. And then I dug deep into my inner well to find more water. I cut the grass and edged the yard and asked for help doing the same, only to be met with excuses as to why he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—help. I tried to hold his hand or snuggle on him while we watched tv; he would grimace and shift away and tell me he was too hot, or had a headache, or wanted space. Eventually, I stopped trying as much, only to have him accuse me of not being a cuddly person. I felt like no matter what I tried, it was always the wrong thing.

For seven years in the middle of our marriage, I relegated myself to being his caretaker and tried to convince myself that loving someone was enough. It isn’t. Not only did the force of my love not make him better (or even help in any tangible way), my efforts turned me from a hyper-independent person into a codependent eggshell-tiptoer. While neither extreme was healthy, independence suited me better. I eventually realized I was drowning in this new role, and while I still loved him, I loved myself more. I knew I needed change, but didn’t know what that would mean, or how to prompt it.

Cue therapy and new hobbies. A friend circle to sustain me. A wee bit of a shopping problem (never spending more than I have, but buying more than I needed).

This only seemed to highlight the growing fissure in our relationship. Me, realizing that it was only away from him and home that I could be my true self, and him, feeling abandoned every time I left to go do something that wasn’t sitting on the couch or cooking and cleaning for him.

Conversations circled around, never resolving any of the issues, and felt futile. I felt trapped and stifled and like I was drowning, but I also felt powerless to change it. I didn’t want to lose family, friends, finances, and familiarity. I didn’t want to lose my house which we’d spent so long renovating and making perfect or the dream of a life partner.

Instead of action, I fantasized about divorce. Or, no, that’s not entirely accurate: I fantasized about his disappearance. And because it was an idealized version of a daydream, in these scenarios, everything else was the same about my life—he just wasn’t there. But fantasy is not reality, and in truth, the person you’re married to for 14 years doesn’t just disintegrate, leaving all the assets to you. The road is much tougher. I knew that, and so I did nothing.

He freed me. I don’t know how much longer our relationship would have dragged on, but he released me, first by telling me he needed me out of the house (and then encouraging me to go visit my mom in San Diego), and second by listing the house for sale while I was gone without my input or foreknowledge. We had a check-in phone call two weeks after I left. I was sitting in the backyard area of my mom’s trailer with my laptop on my lap, soaking up the sunshine while catching up on remote work. I’m ashamed to say that I was plugging in numbers to a spreadsheet looking at the finances and was only giving him half my attention. But when we admitted that he listed the house and told me to get on board with the decision, I snapped shut the laptop and sat up. He had my full attention now.

“What do you mean, you listed the house?” I asked.

“I think we should sell it,” he replied. “The market is hot, and who knows what will happen in the future. I don’t want to foreclose again.”

My brain wasn’t catching up.

“What?!?” I said stupidly.

“I also want a divorce.” He said. “I don’t miss you and my life is better without you in it.”

I opened and shut my mouth like a guppy. No words would come out. I felt like I had as a kid when I was running and tripped and knocked all the wind out of my lungs and was suffocating, only this was an emotional punch.

“Are you still there?” He asked after awhile. “Did you hear me?”

When I could speak again, I told him I needed to go, and would call him back the next day. Hot tears prickled in my eyes, and I still couldn’t get enough air to breathe normally. He was handing me what I had been secretly fantasizing about, but I felt more grief than relief.

Anguish for the loss of the dream of my future and reasonable certainty. Despair for losing half my family and the house that I wanted to live in forever, and the community I’d been a part of. Sorrow that what had once started out with such promise was ending this way. Regret and guilt that my bereavement was for the trappings of marriage, and not the end of the marriage itself. Remorse that I wasn’t braver along the way—authentically communicating how I felt, rather than putting on a happy face and trying to pretend the pain away.

The silver lining is that through the messy process of dissembling virtually my entire adult life and the healing afterward, I learned how resilient I am. I found out how much easier it was to just take care of my pup and myself, instead of trying to endlessly please another person with ever-changing whims. I learned that it’s okay to speak up when something bothers you and that sweeping issues under the rug just creates a big lump to trip over later. I learned that the people who care will actively try to work out issues the two of you have and that it’s okay to let go of those who aren’t willing or able to do so. I learned what I need and what I want, and — more importantly — how to effectively communicate that to someone else. And I learned that I’d rather be actually alone than feel lonely in a relationship with someone else.

I’m learning to speak my truth, finally, finally, and have someone new in my life who would rather hear the uncomfortable realities, instead of the pretty pretenses. While a huge part of me wishes I’d known how to do this back when I was married, it was the journey from there to here that taught me. And I wouldn’t trade that knowledge for anything.