I hit “send.”
But the grossness in my gut is still there.
I text Scott with the Yacht that I am getting acclimated, and he writes, “Miss you here in Chicago.”
But I still can’t bring myself to text or call my ex-husband, James, the one person who knows me better than anyone, while also never knowing me at all. How could he? I didn’t even know myself.
He certainly knew who he was, though. His idea of a hot date was to bring me to an International Socialist conference. The day of our divorce, when the Post job became official, James whispered to me at the courthouse, “Now when anyone asks why we broke up we can just say it’s because you took a job with Rupert Murdoch.”
James was so angry and so liberal.
I used to love that about him.
ON THE COMMUTE from Brooklyn to Rockefeller Center the next day, I whip out a notebook and attempt to do what I started doing two years before: writing my stupid morning pages.
Not stupid, obviously, as it resulted in all of the stream-of-consciousness insights that led to me figuring out that an emotionally abusive marriage wasn’t for me, but it felt so indulgent.
I have countless notebook pages that just begin, “What do I want to say?” The hardest initial part is getting past the self-hatred that leads your body to nearly seize up in disgust that you do not have a perfect narrative outlined to a T. That you are raw, earnest, scattered, and scared. As I ride on the train, surrounded by sunglasses-wearing strangers, I peruse old pages. The journal now reads like some kind of Mad Libs tale of separation, reconciliation, divorce, and hopefully—potentially—rebirth.
March 5, 2005
1. My marriage is ending.
2. This is a good thing.
3. My husband is masturbating in the next room.
May 28, 2005
Today, I almost died, crashed my car. But then I didn’t. And it was good. I asked James, “Do you want to be my husband?”
“I am your husband,” he said.
May 30, 2005
Ah yes. And then there’s a day like today. Kicked pillows, James knocking over a glass of water, ruining the print I bought him from the girl he fucked when we were separated. I don’t think I can handle this.
November 13, 2005
I’m going to look back on these days and wonder. Last night the clouds floating past. So much happening. Man, I’m so glad I took an axe and chopped my life up.
December 5, 2005
So here I am in Park Slope. My sister says, “You’re a single woman with a good income and no family.” Except . . . that’s something that I may always be.
Now I stare at the blank page in front of me and try to plunge in. The feelings are the hardest part, so I attempt to snatch at them, without thinking, as misguided and unformed as they might be.
December 13, 2005
Um hi . . . So I’m fucked-up and angry and sad. That’s the only way to describe myself right now. I’m okay but I’m worried about so many things.
I glance around at the businessmen reading their newspapers. That’s what I should be doing. Not this journaling crap.
Here I sit on the subway car on the way into work, and it always feels like the battle against the fifteen-year-old me . . .
That’s a strange thing to write—the fifteen-year-old me. I didn’t expect that to come up into my consciousness. My memories stop me in my tracks as the train keeps rolling into Manhattan.
One summer in 1990 I was assigned babysitting duties for my niece and nephew while my uncle was dying of cancer in Portland, Oregon. While I mostly just played nanny, one day a handsome man in his twenties rang the doorbell and invited himself in.
“Hey, I’m Jake,” he said.
Turned out we were distantly related, and he’d heard I was in town and figured he’d introduce himself. He said he knew how hard it must be babysitting all day and that maybe one of these days he could show me Portland, and we could have some fun.
A few weeks later, he showed up again.
“I’m going to have a few friends over, and Mandy can come,” he told my aunt.
“I want to go!” I begged her.
“I might have a beer, though,” Jake said responsibly, “so Mandy should probably spend the night.”
When I entered Jake’s wealthy suburban home, it was clear this was not just a few friends. The place was overflowing with frat bros and margaritas, and I was never without a drink in my hand. I was suddenly beautiful, desirable, attractive—and so much fun. My face flushed, I flirted and talked to Jake’s friends. Until, that was, they each found out how old I was.
“You’re fifteen? No way.”
“Way,” I said, giggling—so excited by their interest.
I went outside, woozy and laughing as I took a cigar from one of the guys who was smoking, chomping it in my mouth, flopping into a plastic patio chair, swaying forward sloppily.
“Look at you,” Jake said.
Look at me.
Hours later, I stumbled upstairs to Jake’s parents’ bedroom to pass out. I was wrecked. I couldn’t see, nor could I walk. I was wobbling and trying hard not to puke as I threw off my clothes onto the floor. As I stood in only my skirt with my top now off, Jake walked into the room.
“Oh shit,” he said, looking at me.
Oh. Shit.
I don’t remember the sex—except in flashbacks. A hand on his muscular back. The sheets. Going in and out of consciousness. And the next day, his boxer shorts crumpled up at the bottom of the bed like a murder weapon.
I took a shower, a sense of dread creeping over me. It had happened. I was no longer a virgin.
Jake drove me home in silence. Why hadn’t Jake said what his friends did? “You’re fifteen? Oh, never mind.”
And he was family. Why didn’t he take
