Child of Divorce.

     It seemed like any other day when I received the news that my parents were getting separated.  They didn’t get divorced outright, but they gave me the news that my father was going to move out of the house.  The two of them argued loudly every now and then, but I wasn’t sure what was going that was silent.  I was only 9 when it happened, and my ability to read non-verbal cues that didn’t include volume and tone were low.  Whatever they were fighting about, they did an excellent job of keeping it away from my immediate notice.  The news was a bit surprising but still didn’t have any kind of immediate effect on me. 

I recall that the news hit me like a numb sort of shock, without any real understanding of the scope of what was happening.  My father pulled me aside and told me that I could remain home from school while I came to grips with what was occurring.  My mother, on the other hand, remained insistent that I was fine.  She didn’t see me immediately crying so she just assumed that I didn’t care or understand.  While I did care and did understand, there was no way to articulate my powerlessness.  It was like I was part of something beyond my control, but I knew it would affect the remainder of my life.  To be a child of divorce. 

It always bothered me that my mother wouldn’t let me stay around and discover what this whole thing meant.  What should I have done?  What were my priorities?  So many questions were never asked because there was no time to think of them.  I might have had some reaction if I had spent the time unpacking the gravity of the situation.  This was in the mid 1990’s where divorce was considered a bit of an epidemic.  Something that people didn’t know what to make of, and that it seemed to be just starting to spread like wildfire.  I went about my day, but I don’t recall what the day was actually like.  All that I remember clearly was the morning I was told and the pattern that followed it. 

I think that the domestic discord that occurred in our house was something that people might have antagonized me for, but I have no idea why children (or adults for that matter) are so vicious.  What I did remember was that backpacking the whole issue seemed like the best option.  To just move ahead without any real acceptance of what happened.  I think that is what my mother would have liked; to just let it wash over me.  Perhaps there was a connection to the string of fights that followed me into junior high school.  “Just keep busy young Derek, and things won’t bother you so much,” was the hidden message that was pushed onto me.  I think my father hoped for a more grounded understanding, but things happen as they do.   

The divorce followed the separation a while later, with my father giving my mother the time to get the tools to survive on her own.  My mother did not want to let go of that house. A house that she still lives in to this day.  I recall that she complained and fretted about losing the house to unpaid bills constantly.  It was discomforting to watch her claw the walls in terrified desperation, hoping that she would not lose everything.  She worked hard to keep things going the way they were, but she also made a chronic habit of reminding me that it was the case.  It never instilled a sense of work ethic in me like I think she thought it would.  It just created a sense of fear and danger that the world was howling and scraping hell.   

If a sense of work ethic came from anything, it was the knowledge that I am a part of this world and that my contribution matters to those around me.  What causes me to stand up and get things done is the knowledge of the interconnectedness of our spectacular and terrifying world.  This is why I tend to falter when I feel animosity directed toward me by those I am working with.  I do not handle hostility from colleagues very well at all.  Maybe I can handle some, but when things get too much, I have the urge to run and leave all of that behind me.  That is what leaves me in the current situation. 

Getting back to my parents...My father remained more phlegmatic about the whole ordeal.  I think that I never knew what he thought or was afraid of.  I guess it is a common trope that men think that their fathers are invincible or unafraid.  His lectures seemed to create hope within me, because they weren’t directed from a place of fear like my mother’s.  I have found that doing things motivated out of fear has left me feeling ineffective and weak willed.  Still, my father had the capacity to put the fear of punishment into my mind as quickly as any force of nature.  Neither punishment nor fear tactics ever resulted in my becoming the best version of myself.  It was just impractical to bear that burden around and expect to accomplish all of my goals. 

I think some of the baggage that my parents left for me, and like so many others like me; is the need to abandon our dreams.  The need to choose pragmatic concerns over the so-called foolish ideals that cause us to pursue something that we are truly interested in. This, for me, has been my written work.  It appears that my attempts to generate written works are a fool's errand to depend on for my livelihood.  How is it that other people are successful at writing as a profession, but I cannot be as well?  Simultaneously, I am expected to tolerate copious amounts of emotional and mental abuse at my day job. My parents raised me to believe that I am too pathetic to accomplish something that I care about and love, but strong enough to handle any amount of abuse at my workplace.  If it looks normal and unassuming, they think it is the right path. 

But back to divorce; the subject that I began with.  Both of my parents found new marriages that they have been part of for quite a few years.  It makes me wonder if those novel marriages are doomed to the same pattern as their old ones.  Not that I want to sound morbid, but perhaps they just expect to die before it happens.  Divorce may have been rarer in the past when people died a lot younger and didn’t have to make certain things work on top of the social stigma.  Tuberculosis might have done for a couple what years of marriage counseling could not have. The Way We Never Were, by Stephanie Coontz, explains these phenomena in great depth.  Facts and statistics are shared that really beat down the common assumptions about marriage and divorce that people have.  I am still filtering divorce through the lens of my own personal experience, and I don’t want to preach what the universal life experience is. 

I had a degree of resentment to my parents' new choices of partners.  It wasn’t that these were bad people, but I hated the fact that they were replacements.  Something always felt like it was missing because of who they were rather than how they acted.  In many ways, my stepparents had a healthier balance in my life.  I could not judge these people fairly, and I could only imagine what an annoying burden I must have been to them.  I can’t imagine getting involved with someone my own age that doesn’t have a child from a previous relationship.  It is clear to me that it would be very rare to find a mate my own age who is without children.  Perhaps I never passed on my genetic material because I am lacking or perhaps because I have been trained to believe I am lacking.  Saves the time of a eugenics camp. 

Sometimes I wonder if I blame myself for how things played out for my parents.  I don’t blame myself consciously, but I do hold the belief that I could be blaming myself subconsciously for their failed marriage.  They very well might blame me for the whole ordeal, and that is why I have a strange family role as a scapegoat. I really am that family’s scapegoat, and sometimes I get really tired of bearing the burden of all that blame.  At times it makes me want to be responsible for all the world's suffering and evil, because it seems like a role so well suited to me.  I just take it in the face and seem to beg for more.  My brother, who was away attending prep school, may have had a completely different reaction to the news of the divorce than me, but I had no way of knowing.  Maybe this was the best. 

My brother and my mother seem to be having a competition for the most jaded person alive contest.  The more I think about it, the more I feel like I am close to them in that contest.  It seems like optimism only crops up in the worst possible way to drag me into the worst of places.  Like whatever moronic thing I was hoping for by attempting to get an education.  That, like so many of my endeavors, is an edifice to shame and failure.  I still find it in myself to try to make an effort to do something a bit more intellectually involved than being a person who shops groceries for online customers.  Perhaps I overestimate myself. 

What does this mean for the future of the American relationship?  What does it mean for the institution of marriage?  What does any of this mean for the future of children?  And why doesn’t anyone have a way to fix whatever does not work in this scenario?  The answer: I have no idea, and I don’t think I ever will.  What I do have is a sense of bitter frustration at whatever pushes people to keep jumping into the same sinking ship time and time again.  Of course, your story is far from my story, and yours has the chance for a pleasant ending.