And of course they have. Intellectually I know I am not alone in this. Statistics show that some 50% of all marriages end in divorce. And still, no one ever imagines themselves on the precipice of such a colossal failure. If we could even conjure a picture of our future selves living in separate homes, contacting attorneys and real estate brokers, divvying up the furniture and the pets… well of course no one would agree to marriage in the first place. There’s no temporary happiness that can justify this type of pain. We all really, really mean it when we say “I Do.” Until we don’t.

Admittedly it’s been hard to focus on the dreadfulness of this situation as I am currently exhausted due to the frenetic pace that this life change has ushered in. I have temporarily taken work as a painter/renovator for a friend who buys multi-family homes out of foreclosure, slaps on a fresh coat of paint and changes some switch plates and proceeds to rent the places out for outrageous prices. It is depressing and mindless work but she pays a generous hourly rate and I can come and go as I please. I keep reminding myself that it is only temporary. I am rushing home from my painting job to meet the kids when they get off the bus. I am managing homework and bathing and dinner and house keeping. I am meeting real estate brokers and tracking down the right therapist for the kids. I am keeping the walkways to the back door ice free which means I am shoveling and scraping and salting as necessary. I am typing up resumes into the wee hours of the night. I am looking for a full-time gig, one that tickles the mind, pays adequately, offers benefits and a growth opportunity. I am trying to schedule a service appointment for the car. I am trying to squeeze in quick trips to the gym even if then kids need to come and do homework while I plod along on the treadmill. I am ordering a new Canine Fence Company collar for the dog since she’s broken the old one and keeps skipping the yard for greener pastures (who can blame her?). I am not sleeping well because there is laundry to do and I should really get one more resume off and there’s school snacks and lunches to pack and dishwashers to unload before it all starts again tomorrow.

The kids have been sort of swept along in this eddy of activity and coping and seem to be doing much, much better. This improvement in their mental state comes just in time for their father’s return home for the weekend which should set them back to square one by Sunday evening. But this is the best we can do right now. And that has to be enough.

O took the news stoically at first and tried to inspire his sister’s smile by making goofy faces and performing antics with the pizza crust in his hand. His efforts were in vain. She retired to her room to weep and process. The sounds of her sobbing called into question the whole damn thing for me, the selfishness of two parents parting. But O remained tear-free for hours. He has seen and heard this coming for miles. He has witnessed our fighting. We have addressed the fact of our conflict and the possibility of our separation as a solution with him. He has had time to cry about this already.

In hindsight, I wish we had handled the parting differently. While there was no way to make it easy, we could have been more thoughtful. In the effort to explain his leaving, their father mentioned the word “months” which instantly sounded like an eternity hanging there in the space between us. “Months” in the life of a child is something akin to forever. I so wish we had said, Dad is leaving for the week and will be back Saturday, no more – no less. This is the truth. They probably don’t need to know much more beyond the week to week since we don’t know much more ourselves.

In hindsight, we should have made certain his departure was during school hours. We should not have made them witness to our grief. But My Better Half was anxious to get the show on the road. Living here with the knowledge he’d be leaving eventually was wrecking its own havoc. And it must have been torture – this imminent departure from the people he loves all in the effort to find a way back to them – permanently. I think he wanted to begin the process of settling into a new purgatory while waiting for things to magically heal, while hoping for some sort of divine intervention on our family’s behalf. No one ever imagines slipping so far down their own life that happiness is suddenly out of reach. How could it have gotten so beyond us? So beyond me?

And what’s the old saying? When it rains it pours -pours down waste pipe overflow from the second floor bathroom through the light sockets in the first floor office, soaking the rug, flooding the basement on the night two parents decide to part ways. It was almost biblical, the timing of this plumbing failure. O and G and I, stood watching the deluge. And O, as if inspired by the waterworks, finally gave in to tears. He let the crying take him where no nine year old should think to go, My life is terrible, I want to die, everything is awful…my house, my parents, my lack of friends. G piggybacked on this profound depression and began to agree that her social life at school was sub-par, that her life at home was unacceptably sad without her parents being together and happy and living in the same house with working plumbing and shared bedrooms. She rejected the possibility of two homes in close proximity, equal visitation, Daddy-days and Mommy-days, she rejected this quaintly presented notion outright. She could see immediately that nothing this complicated could turn out so easy and sunny and sweet.

And so the three of us fell asleep in my giant bed, trying to find some comfort in the proximity, alien and empty, listening to freezing rain lash at the windows, a sound quite like loneliness.

We have one car that’s a champion in the snow but mice have crawled up inside the dashboard and nested in the airbag system. My warning light has been illuminated as reminder that when I fishtail and throw a 360 on slick, icy roads, I’m SOL save for a rodent family that might shoot out the steering wheel to cushion the impact. Considering the size, weight and non-absorbent make-up of the average mouse, I’ve decided to mostly stay home even though the lack of cleaning apparatus and chill of strained relations makes me want to crawl out of my itchy, winter-dry skin and flee to Florida where I hear it’s 80 and humid and there’s no such thing as chapped lips.

I suppose in this confinement, I should continue the job search I began a few days before the X-mas break wherein I write and re-write cover letters and resumes in order to send on-line responses to job listings in which I am only vaguely interested, those that appear on Monster and Craig’s List, knowing all the while that my ten years as a Landscape Designer don’t translate into value as a paralegal or administrative assistant or pharmaceutical representative but there’s always hope that some firm will see that the individual who ran her own company, wrote for a newspaper and also did time in the accounts department in an advertising firm, can and will learn this office stuff quickly and, in the interim, can probably manage the phones and tend to the ailing tropical plants suffering for light beneath the fluorescents.

I make it sound sort of optional, this employment thing but really it’s dire. In the last days of ‘08 we learned that MBH’s company would no longer be covering health insurance for dependents. So we have the expense of three on our plate in the New Year which makes for leaner times in our already skinny lives. And then there’s the latest confession – that neither of us can take one more day in the house together as a couple; working, sleeping, eating, pretending. And so we’re trying to find a way to swing rent. Some way to give ourselves some breathing room. It may, in the end, save us. Or it just may allow us to sever things in a civil manner. Either way, we see the expense as non-optional.

In order to clear the way for this added financial hit, I cancel newspaper subscriptions, I dial back the minutes on the cell phone, I cancel cable and stare meaningfully at the high-speed internet access bill wondering if we can survive on a dial-up. Wondering if the dial-up option still exists? We are wearing long underwear and turning down the thermostats. The dog shivers in her dog bed. The kids play hours of Wii and we let them, because school’s out and the wind blows negative temperatures and it’s free and we ignore their computer game dependence because their bug eyed attention to Madden ‘09 somehow assuages our guilt.

We have yet to break the news to the kids, this separation, which will confuse and disturb them even more than it does us (if that’s possible). And then there is the news to share that we are taking a leave of absence from the Country Club which really doesn’t affect their Winter lives but will completely rock their summer-time existence. I keep reminding myself that there are worse things to suffer than no swim team or tennis or golf but I feel really, really badly about this one. Possibly because we gaveth and now we taketh away. It’s one thing not to know what your missing, it’s another to miss something you once really, really enjoyed. They have friends there. They have known the sweet laze of sultry afternoons spent licking watermelon drips from their sticky arms and jumping in the chill pool to rinse their skin clean. They have known the smell of fresh mown grass on the fairway. They have known the distinct sound of tennis balls bouncing on a clay court. They have learned how to drag the brush and groom the court after play without filling their tennis shoes with clay granules. They have dressed in a sun dress and sandals and little boy khakis with a starched button-down to attend the awards ceremony at summer’s end where they receive recognition for sportsmanship and effort and achievement. They have known what it feels like to belong to this safe place, a place of well-to-do families and blue skies and a snack bar. I feel sad about a lot of things, but mostly I feel sad that I can’t continue to give them the things they have come to know as normal.

So here’s hoping that somehow, some of the next 364 days will find a way to be truly better than this one. Less uncertain and bleak and fearful and nostalgic. And here’s hoping your ‘09 is a good one, better than the last, even if your last wasn’t all that bad, because who doesn’t deserve even better?

I will weep because I can’t get to the grocery store to prepare for an in-law influx that is scheduled to be five days in duration. And because I can’t get to the gym and I can’t finish my Christmas shopping and mostly because I can’t get the hell out of the house after what feels like weeks and weeks of canceled plans and forced togetherness.

I will weep because this year in NOT the year in which we all gather round the fire, content to warm our hands and cozy up in domestic bliss. I will sob softly from the chill of my upstairs office while coming to terms with the fact that this is only the first day of Winter and there’s so many more days of foul weather and foiled plans ahead of me.

I will weep.

We shared lunch and coffee and tidbits of the year passed and then they presented us with just a tiny piece of personal fiction. There was context for the tale but I can’t remember what that segue might have been. It doesn’t matter. It was captivating in its ability to convey some distant past. It had the familiar tone of an old, time worn story, one he trots out when trying to underscore his wife’s tendency to worry, one she uses to defend her love for him. They told the tale like the couple that they are, that they have been. There was gentle prodding, an undercurrent of mockery, while arriving at the familiar but not entirely un-tender place this story takes them in its telling…

“It was Florida, before kids, we stopped at a rest stop on a remote strip of highway, a truck stop really,” he began.

“Entirely abandoned,” she said. “And really he was gone too long. Anyone would have worried.”

“Worried? maybe? But you convinced yourself I’d been jumped by red necks and sodomized in the Men’s Room? A step too far, no?”

“That was ages ago,” she added. “Ages.”

They both turned to me, shoulders up near their ears, palms spread out, offering up the universal sign for Please settle this matter that continues to grieve us all these years later.

I shook my head and got ready to say, Those were certainly the good old days, the salad days, a time when you were together in the world, just the two of you, without children, without a mortgage, possibly without even a car payment, unimpeded save for the fear of something happening to the other. It’s entirely sweet and sad, really, as it’s probably a relic, the last time the two of you stepped out in the world entirely consumed by one another.

But before I could get it out, this tribute to the people that they once were, this encouragement to savor that memory, our children, my two and their two, cartwheeled around the corner crashing into counter stools, demanding bagels, asking for something to do on a chill November afternoon.

She quickly jumped from her seat to pour juice. He followed his son to the upstairs bedroom to admire the Lego ship the boy had just made. I smiled and set to the task of slicing bagels and finding the cream cheese, all of us too distracted by the present to properly dissect the past.

If I’m being honest, periodically, in the past five months, I have wanted nothing more than a long and peaceful slumber, some break from the tortured meanderings of my mind. Some way out of all this effort we must expend trying to repair and remain. The idea of real ‘forward’ exhausts me, requires sooo much hard work, soooo much conviction and I can’t seem to find the certainty that real ‘forward’ requires. And so, sometimes, I confuse permanent avoidance with the concept of progress. At least it’s a solution of sorts rather than the absence of one.

Of course, each time it flits through my mind, I am profoundly startled and ashamed by this desperate though fleeting thought. I’m a mother of two, an intelligent attractive woman who should just exude self-esteem and yet I must admit to having considered, momentarily, checking out. How profoundly selfish and sad and altogether beside the point. There are women the world over suffering the loss of their children, their spouse, struggling with illness, poverty, addiction, natural disasters, and here I am feeling like everything I have is too much and not enough. It doesn’t make any sense at all.

And while our couples’ therapy continues, My Better Half and I persist in occupying the therapeutic frame in just the same way we started – each of us sunk into our own end of the long leather couch, facing a man who is supposed to save us, a stranger to whom we direct our most naked and dangerous thoughts about the other. My Better Half and I occupy that space without making eye contact; side by side, separated by throw pillows and years of resentment.

We are two people repeating ourselves week after week, framing the same problems, circling the same cracks in the foundation, defending the space that is not ‘forward’ or ‘better’ but stubbornly remains the same. We have contentious car rides full of shouting and accusation on the way to this bi-monthly meeting. This is a time when we feel safe unsheathing our claws. We know we will soon be sitting on the long leather couch of our collective unhappiness, spending 50 minutes licking the wounds we just inflicted.

We have mopey, quiet car rides home, forty minute journeys back to the reality of our lives – lived together under the same roof and, somehow, worlds apart, where we skirt conversations of import, dodging emotional landmines, saying little, sharing nothing, waiting until we are back in the therapeutic frame some ten, sometimes twenty days later, where we can, again, be candid and direct.

I find it hard to gather a spark from anything these days. Even the positive election returns, the optimism I feel now that we’ll have new leadership in Washington, seems clouded and thin, not quite the exuberant dance of future forward that I was expecting.

I suppose I’ve been to busy saying goodbye to the good things that are October: afternoon soccer practices and Sunday football games, the dazzle of colored leaves, the singular blue of autumn skies, striking the tennis ball while dodging acorns and drifts of pine needles at the base line, jogging without gloves and a hat, standing at the bus stop in nothing but shorts and a sweat shirt and sunset after 6 p.m.

Darkness arrives at 4:30. Mornings are chill and bleak and require two cups of coffee. It is time to make Winter preparations, a fact underscored by the arrival of the plow-guy today. He spent a few minutes staking the borders of our driveway and talked with anticipation of the first snow fall. His mentioning early November storms of years’ past sounded slightly ludicrous on a day of fog and drizzle and 57 degree temperatures. But I don’t doubt his facts and feel, now, just a hair more anxious and intolerant of all the leaf drop in the yard.

And while its seasonally time to eat heavily, sleep deeply and breath slowly, I find myself unable to find a state of relaxation. I spend whole nights sweating the small stuff and the big stuff and all the stuff in between and when I finish making mental grocery lists and planning my future as a trial attorney, I turn to contemplating the purpose of human emotions.

Last night, while fluffing my pillow and popping muscle relaxers in hopes of finding temporary hibernation, I pondered the concept of jealousy and decided that while most of us learned from an early age that the inherent human emotional response of possessiveness and wanting, the peculiar rile and prickle of insecurity we know as jealousy should be stifled, I think, in fact that jealousy can serve as a necessary and effective means by which to communicate our core feelings of vulnerability and deep love.

I’m not suggesting that the type of jealousy aroused by the neighbor pulling into his three car garage in a brand new Lexus is healthy or productive, but rather, I’m talking about the kind of jealousy that makes a person feel demonstratively protective and vulnerable when it comes to their mate, a spouse or significant other.

While jealousy may be a feeling most associated with machismo – men throwing perceived competitors down the pub stairs for looking at their date wrong while shouting, Wadda you looking at, I believe there’s a certain quiet admission of jealousy that can actually bolster a relationship, leading to open discussions of commitment and need.

It takes a lot to admit one’s insecurity to an intimate partner. It’s an admission of fear, fear that “I’m not good enough, smart enough, attractive enough, funny enough to hold your attention and I fear abandonment.” Such an admission may make a person feel like a weenie. But an admission like this is also a signal that one of a pair fears the loss of the other, holds the spouse in such high esteem, and at such great value, that this loss is unfathomable and to be avoided at all costs, it can be interpreted as sweet and, at it’s simplest, can serve as much needed validation. I think that when a spouse fails to admit to jealousy they miss an opportunity to say, in no uncertain terms, I really, really don’t want to lose you to anyone at anytime. It’s so simple a possessiveness, so certain an admission of love.

I can’t help but wonder how many relationships have been ruined by outspoken and admitted jealousy versus those that could have been saved if a person had just copped to a little unseemly possessiveness and said, out loud, I value you enough to fear your going, I realize others must see the same qualities in you that I hold dear and might want them for themselves?

It is a scream in a quiet room, a berry stain on a white dress shirt. This house, that is the focal point of our historic district, stands as a sort of example, a warning to potential home buyers against buying beyond their means, against allowing idealism and romanticism to influence a real estate transaction, against stretching the family budget to accommodate the fixer-upper only to find yourself pushing a reel mower through the small patch of grass at the foot of the porch stairs, the one bit of maintenance you can still manage without paying a third party, the one thing that you can control while the rest of the property folds and begins to fall in upon itself.

And perhaps there is an element of empathy that sustains our interest in this house, as My Better Half and I feel a sort of kinship with the poor people obviously waging this hopeless war against time and money and wood rot. We have intimate experience with just such a battle as we struggle to prop up our own crumbling home. We are just thankful that OUR humiliation is safely set back from the street, sinking into its degradation behind the privacy screen of scrub maples and poison ivy. There is no public witness to the state of our neglect and only those we invite to experience our folly are privy to our leaking sink and faulty toilets and the bats roosting in the attic.

We can understand these strangers strapped to the weakening joists of their centuries old home, keenly, intimately, as we too watched one too many episodes of This Old House and convinced ourselves that it was possible. We can imagine the arguments sustained over how to spend the last dollars in the bank account, he insisting that he is up to the task of demolishing and rebuilding that listing front porch, she remembering the basement drainage project that ultimately involved hydraulic drill rentals, forty eight hours of rattle and roar and the choking drifts of fine concrete particulate floating up from the cellar to settle on upholstery and counter tops and, remarkably, on all food items in the refrigerator.

And we secretly consider adopting the very public surrender that seems to have earned this desperate couple some sense of connubial balance. As the weather warms and the swarms of black flies begin to dissipate, the residents of 12 Elm have pitched a large, accommodating tent on their small patch of grass just to the right of the porch stairs, assuming the attitude of squatters on their own front lawn while the whole monstrous mess behind them crumbles and disintegrates, unsalvageable at last.

Now that they have declared defeat, they are free to focus on manageable tasks like keeping the tent flaps closed to the clouds of mosquitoes moving through at dusk, repairing rips and rends with a needle and thread, stringing up a sort of clothes line between two tall pines they once considered removing and have now come to think of as just two more residents on this piece of property that has finally bested them.

The hushed quiet of the private therapy room, free of the canned sounds of reception, is breathless and cool. Though it is dark, it is not dreary and there is some comfort in the fact that there is a Kleenex box and asian art work and a bowl of hard candies, butterscotch or peppermint, sickly sweet confections in a bowl, an oral diversion meant to ease the complexity of discussions about “relationship hygene” and the purpose of sexual encounters “to engage feelings of vulnerability and aggression which we have come to think of as taboo emotions and regularly suppress such frailties in most non-sexual human interactions.”

One can tell that much thought has been given to the arrangement of furniture in these therapy spaces. My personal therapist likes to sit in a straight backed chair pulled up to her desk while inviting me to take the seat that is directly adjacent to that desk. She can swivel to face me and put her feet up on the file cabinet. There is a window behind her and the filtered light illuminates the wisps of her short hair, glowing gold in the darkness of the room. Her visage is cast in shadow, completing the effect of deliberate anonymity. She is faceless, haloed even, playing the angel of benevolence whose expression I cannot read for the corona that surrounds her.

And our marriage therapist has his own contrived arrangement. He prefers a deep arm chair that faces a wide leather couch. There are two other arm chairs beside this couch. To sit one of these chairs would be to face the wall rather than the professionally dressed man who has greeted us gently, quiet but stern, paternally ushering us through the door. So we both sink into opposite corners of the long couch. We prefer to meet his gaze than that of one another, having shared a chilly car ride, a week of reserved hostility and patient withholding.

I get the feeling that he is making note of our seat selection. That our choice to sit together on the couch, however far apart, my habit of holding the throw pillow in my lap, hugging it to my chest as if for protection, tells him something about us as a couple, about the state of the connubial union. I only wish I could see the note he’s made next to “seat selection” – hopeless, helpless, hopeful, fucked. He must play a little game with himself. Upon first meeting a troubled couple, he must try to predict the outcome ahead of time, tagging the duo with some sort of premature prediction. He is, perhaps, keeping score of his ability to predetermine a couple’s destiny based solely on the place they choose to sit when first entering the inner sanctum.

But I have to believe we are learning things beyond where to place our fannies. Conversely, I fear that the learning, the progress, is supposed to be more efficient in its development, neatly packaged within the 50 minute therapy window, reaching its weekly conclusion by the end of each billable hour, when, in fact, we’ve both just managed to open a vein and are in the midst of a full soulful bleed on the oriental carpet when our fifty minutes have elapsed.

Almost as if there is an audible chime, a programmed alarm bell, we are ejected into the harsh glare of day, into the parking lot of our lives without the benefit of soft sounds and cushioned chairs and hard candies. We bleed and ooze a collective flow of unhappiness upon the pavement. And all the way home we wish for the mediator, the third party to help us frame and present our individual view points in a more palatable and digestible manner. I have thought to ask him how much it would cost to take him home with us for the week where he might spend some real time dissecting our likenesses, our differences, where he might really get a feel for the state of the union and can say, after seven short days, hopeless, helpless, hopeful, fucked with some measure of authority. That would be easier somehow than this slow burn that is perhaps progress and perhaps not and only time and countless seating arrangements will tell.

And the responses, the comments, the e-mails and the willingness of those who I’ve known in this space for a few years now to offer me their personal time, to offer a phone call, an objective ear and the symbolic shoulder of quiet support, has been an overwhelming boost to me. I know that like minded people gravitate toward one another, like kindred souls who end up in the same book stores, who frequent the same restaurants because they both adore the french onion soup, the blogosphere acts as a much more infectious and effective facilitator. We end up at each others’ blogs nodding our heads in sympathetic recognition, laughing, sharing, weeping through the complexities of this collective life.

It’s a humbling experience to be able to emote in this forum and to have that emotional outlay met with infinite understanding and little bits of wisdom. It’s as if a dear friend hears your call, your plea, even your quiet little whimpers and comes rushing over with a pint of ice cream and The English Patient on DVD and you sit side by side watching one of the greatest love stories of all time while eating Chunky Monkey from carton and wiping your noses on your shirt sleeves – that’s what this blogging thing is for me – comfort and acceptance and the knowledge that others, others with wisdom and intellect and darn good stories to tell, have also endured all manner of shit and lived to tell about it (unless of course your the husband in the English Patient who decided to fly his plane into a sand dune instead of doing the hard work which is required to achieve “lived to tell about it” status).

And while no one can say a damn thing that makes it all better, there is something very powerful in your verbal acuity, your willingness to recognize and acknowledge my situation as familiar or acceptable and to even share your personal anecdotes about your own marital difficulties. I am forever grateful for your cyber-companionship. I see people on a daily basis who do not know me anywhere near as well as you all know me because they do not know my mind.

This blogging thing makes for odd and unorthodox friendships but they are real and important connections that deserve to be acknowledged.

And so I leave you with some wise words I found in my in-box earlier this week as an example of the very thing that gets me through the day,

CCE, Your situation has been brewing for some time and has had a million tiny moments and choices to get you here. It is going to take time to deconstruct the myriad rudders to find which one, or which combination, will turn things again. I still maintain that you’ll inevitably find yourself doing the slow work of constructing a narrative for your life that’s going to put everything else in perspective. I don’t know what that is but I know it’s bigger than you and more than now. And I still say that faith that things will work out may well be the thing that, in the end, makes things work out.

Tiny moments, choices, slow construction, perspective, faith, bigger than you, more than now…all good things to ponder at this juncture. Thank you.

And, as an aside, I told you the peonies were primed to bloom. The picture included here is just a sample of what’s exploding in my garden this week. For that and for all of you, I am thankful.