Divorce. It's a pretty common occurrence, actually. And I've seen quite a few of them in my time. Sadly, the first of which was my parents. In fact, of all the things I can readily remember from life on Suffolk, this was not only the biggest memory, but also likely the biggest bombshell at the time (and, according to the therapist I used to chat with, might still be). Anyway, I still relive the moment sometimes in dreams; the moment when I saw what I assumed was a pretty stable marriage collapse right before my eyes. Little did I know that there was a lot going on behind the curtains that framed the facade, but I don't need to get into that. But I will share how it went down. It's cathartic, ya know?
If I remember right, it was 1986. I was 12. My dad and I used to do work-outs in our basement together. He had a weight bench and a few other pieces of exercise equipment, and we would kind of putz our way through some reps and what not and it was fun. It was me and my dad time, and I remember it pretty fondly. So one day -it might have been late afternoon or even a Sunday (maybe both, I guess), we were in the basement pretending like we were training for an Olympics that should never exist: one where slightly doughy fathers and boys with no muscle tone vie for aluminum foil medallions and chicken wings. He sat me down, my brother, too... he was hanging about being 9 and not caring about biceps or cal's. And he basically told us that he and mom wouldn't be living together any more and that (and this part is necessary for any divorce talk involving children) it wasn't our fault. Well, my brother didn't quite grasp the concept, but it hit me right away because my buddy Chad's parents were separated, too. I knew what it meant: divorce. He then told us that they just didn't feel any love for one another any more and that he'd be moving out very soon. Needless to say, I wept.
Soon, we went up the stairs to talk to my mom and I can remember it -the ascention- feeling like I was climbing into a filthy house I really didn't want to be in. It felt dank and nasty. I knew my siblings and I had nothing to do with what was going on... I knew it but it still felt like somehow not being the best kid ever was a partial catalyst for their marital destruction. So I went up into a home that wasn't a home anymore and the agony was palpable. I could feel and taste the gorge rising in my throat, and I knew it would burst forth into a torrent of crying the very second I saw my mom. You see, crying in front of my dad (I bet a lot of guys will understand this) was weird. I wasn't like I'd never done it, but there was never that kind of matronly protection one gets from a mom. So I knew, the moment I saw my mom it was going to open the flood gates. And I wasn't wrong. She held me as she pretty much replayed the same words my dad had already told us as she cried as well. Finally it sunk in to my brother, and he, too, began to sob. I'm not sure if my 6-year old sister ever fully understood it at the time, or if she just cried because everyone else was. But she cried just the same.
The rest of that day is a meaningless blur. I don't know what happened after and I don't really care, either. But the next day, which I do remember being a Monday, I walked to school just like any other day and met Chad at his house. He was the first friend I told because I knew he'd be the one to understand. And he was. He told me that it sucked and that life would go on. And that was enough for me, because if Chad could move on, so could I. Well, it did suck. Especially when my dad actually left. He lived with his parents for a while before finding his own place, and those days were weird going over there for weekends and just seeing him so morose and broken. It sucked a whole lot.
We eventually moved, too. And that will bring us to the third book of this little ride down memory lane. Stay tuned!
If I remember right, it was 1986. I was 12. My dad and I used to do work-outs in our basement together. He had a weight bench and a few other pieces of exercise equipment, and we would kind of putz our way through some reps and what not and it was fun. It was me and my dad time, and I remember it pretty fondly. So one day -it might have been late afternoon or even a Sunday (maybe both, I guess), we were in the basement pretending like we were training for an Olympics that should never exist: one where slightly doughy fathers and boys with no muscle tone vie for aluminum foil medallions and chicken wings. He sat me down, my brother, too... he was hanging about being 9 and not caring about biceps or cal's. And he basically told us that he and mom wouldn't be living together any more and that (and this part is necessary for any divorce talk involving children) it wasn't our fault. Well, my brother didn't quite grasp the concept, but it hit me right away because my buddy Chad's parents were separated, too. I knew what it meant: divorce. He then told us that they just didn't feel any love for one another any more and that he'd be moving out very soon. Needless to say, I wept.
Soon, we went up the stairs to talk to my mom and I can remember it -the ascention- feeling like I was climbing into a filthy house I really didn't want to be in. It felt dank and nasty. I knew my siblings and I had nothing to do with what was going on... I knew it but it still felt like somehow not being the best kid ever was a partial catalyst for their marital destruction. So I went up into a home that wasn't a home anymore and the agony was palpable. I could feel and taste the gorge rising in my throat, and I knew it would burst forth into a torrent of crying the very second I saw my mom. You see, crying in front of my dad (I bet a lot of guys will understand this) was weird. I wasn't like I'd never done it, but there was never that kind of matronly protection one gets from a mom. So I knew, the moment I saw my mom it was going to open the flood gates. And I wasn't wrong. She held me as she pretty much replayed the same words my dad had already told us as she cried as well. Finally it sunk in to my brother, and he, too, began to sob. I'm not sure if my 6-year old sister ever fully understood it at the time, or if she just cried because everyone else was. But she cried just the same.
The rest of that day is a meaningless blur. I don't know what happened after and I don't really care, either. But the next day, which I do remember being a Monday, I walked to school just like any other day and met Chad at his house. He was the first friend I told because I knew he'd be the one to understand. And he was. He told me that it sucked and that life would go on. And that was enough for me, because if Chad could move on, so could I. Well, it did suck. Especially when my dad actually left. He lived with his parents for a while before finding his own place, and those days were weird going over there for weekends and just seeing him so morose and broken. It sucked a whole lot.
We eventually moved, too. And that will bring us to the third book of this little ride down memory lane. Stay tuned!
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