Today’s fun moment: The t-ball conversation

Tonight is the last t-ball game of the season.  There’s an after . . .”

That’s where he interrupted me.  “I didn’t see a game on the schedule tonight.”

There is a game.

“I didn’t see one on the schedule.”

I just looked at him.  Probably the MOM look I have had years to perfect.  I don’t know.  It happens involuntarily now.

“Why are you looking at me like that? he said with some anger creeping in.

There is a game tonight.  

He opened his mouth to argue with me again. “I looked at the calendar yesterday.  There’s no game.  The calendar is June.  It’s still June.”  He looked at me like I’m stupid.

Will you just let me finish what I was going to say. . . There is a game tonight.  It is the last one.  There is a party after for the end of the season.  You stay with Jude and I’ll take Julian home and get him ready for bed.”



All the thoughts running through my head, running through my head.

My friend told me to write them down so that I could look at them and realize how ridiculous they are.  Okay, maybe they are a bit silly, but they replay in my head when I’m tired or alone or walking in the woods.

Saturday night I woke up in the middle of the night.  His dog was curled up against my feet and I reached over to touch him and he was facing the other way, as far from me in the bed as possible.  And I panicked and cried a little and had thoughts of loneliness and hurt and felt unwanted.

I also knew it had nothing to do with him.  It just felt so much like the last 3 years sleeping with my ex, with him avoiding me as much as possible, sleeping as far away as he could, not speaking to me, all the nights I cried silently because I was so alone.  I knew it was bad, but I didn’t until Saturday know how cruel it was.  That I would panic if something even reminded me of how I felt then in bed with him–alone, unloved, ignored, hated.

And even though I knew this is what PTSD felt like, it doesn’t mean I could stop feeling that way.  My base brain was telling me I was in danger and couldn’t think my way out of it.  So I let it roll over and through me and put it aside to try to work out later.

I haven’t worked it through yet.  I still feel that crushing pressure of despair on my chest.  There are still things to be worked through in this divorce.  I think it was much more harmful than I knew at the time.

Blogging during a Divorce; the things he left behind.

Do you remember my last divorce?

I started blogging afterward, but then he found it and got very angry that I wrote about him, even though I called him EX, and threatened to sue me.

I would love to blog this time, but I know his mother reads it and tells him what I am saying.  I’ve been waiting for the divorce to be final.  As thought that will be the clear line of my new found FREEDOM.  I guess really that is just a day with a number on it and the day I declared myself single was actually October 2nd of last year.

October 2nd is the day I went home and told him we needed to talk about co-parenting and that he had to find a place to live.

October, November, December, January, February, March, April —— wait, why is all his stuff still in my house?  Why are his pictures still on the walls?  Why hasn’t he packed anything?  Why is he living in the bedroom of the convict son of the local drug dealer?

All good questions.  So I had him sign a paper that said anything left in my house by May 1st would be mine.

April 30th shows up so fast that he has no time to find a place to put his stuff.  He comes to the house with “a friend” who gets bit by my dog who is chained to the porch.  The friend leaves and this Ex has tears in his eyes when he shares this story and says he has no one to help him move and no place to put his things because the friend got mad at him.  “I didn’t have time to set anything up.”

He left piles of crap in my house.  Just like the teenagers when they moved out.  Despite my request to not leave me a mess.  Here is a list so far of things I have to bag up and get rid of:

  • A bag of used doorknobs
  • a bag of dead light bulbs
  • a bag of wooden wedge shapes
  • 6 cans of insect killer
  • 2 empty bottles of insect repellent
  • 5 empty paint cans
  • a 20 year old remote control truck
  • 3 dirty empty coffee containers
  • 24 crumpled receipts
  • chainsaw grease
  • a cardboard box with various pieces of thick cardboard cut into odd shapes
  • 2 empty water bottles
  • 5 different plastic tubs with screws and nails and trash in them
  • a big stuffed tiger’s head sewed to a sock
  • retirement paperwork
  • 3 toolboxes full of crap
  • 2 empty oil containers
  • a kirby vacuum head from a vacuum we had 8 years ago
  • used sandpaper
  • a socket set and case strewn everywhere
  • some netting of some kind
  • a diaper box with everything from the car he put in the river, mostly just trash
  • a bucket of electronic parts that had to be trash and looked like something he took a sledge hammer to and put in a bucket
  • rusty ski poles
  • a dirty role of toilet paper
  • 6 plastic shopping bags
  • a large think piece of cardboard with a sword drawn on it
  • a styrofoam piece that he cut like a kick board and colored
  • 2 vices
  • old pieces of metal pipe, plumbing parts, rusting whatevers

I have not finished.  It is taking me weeks.  I still have the area under the work bench that smells like cat pee to deal with.  And pay to dump.  And sneeze at the dust.  And scream at the spider bodies.

By the way, I was the one who took his clothes and dresser and things out of the bedroom.  I think he thought he still had a chance of staying as long as his things lived with me.  Pfffffftttttttt.

Gaslighting and conversations that make no sense. I feel crazy sometimes.

Jude brought his report card home with two tardies on it.  Hmmmmm, his dad was the only one driving him to school in the morning at that point.  Here is the ultimate, clearest gaslighting conversation ever to happen in the history of gaslighting.

“How was Jude tardy twice?”


Not that I know of.

I feel like there is something super sacred and magical about this conversation.  So I had to share it.  If you don’t know if you’re being gaslighted there is an easy test.  If you leave a conversation with an involuntary twitch in one eye and the back of your head hurts like someone hit you with a board, that’s gaslighting.

So I melted down. I didn’t need an intervention.

My 19 year old made eye contact and stated that it was time for an intervention.  Oh, she has a lot to learn if she’s going to work in the psychology field.

You are moody lately.  Either talking fast and running around or angry and then crying.  

Oh, so you’re saying I am bipolar then.”

“No, you know what bipolar is.  Just moody for the past month and a half. And I don’t know what’s wrong with you or how you’re going to be.”

“Could it be menopause?”  I asked and that seemed to stop her for a second.

“Or maybe the divorce?”

“Or finances?”

I decided to make her a list of all the problem right now that I face every day because I am the only adult in the house of 5 or 8 people depending on the day.


Then I showed this list to my friend, who thought it would be a good idea to make a diagram of it.  I might do that just for fun later today.

And then my boyfriend asked if he was #1 on the list.  I told him he was before menopause and after the bills, on the same level as Alex biting me on the ass while I was making a fire in the wood stove.


Crazy Making conversation about T-ball.

I still don’t understand what happened.  I found a notice in Jude’s backpack about T-ball signup.  He really wants to do that this year.  We talked about somehow making it work after last Spring when his best friends played and we didn’t have time to take him.

So the ex shows up this morning and I hand him the notice with sign-up times.  I can’t do Monday and Friday nights but we’ll make it work.  He stares at it for several long minutes.

This is just like Basketball,” he spits out angrily, “they don’t tell us what time practices are so how are we supposed to decide.”

He doesn’t have a team yet so they won’t know what time practices are.

“But they should tell us so we can decide.”

It all depends on what team he gets put on.

“So this is just a sign-up time.”


“Then I definitely think he should play,” he said and walked away with his chest puffed out, proud that he made a decision.

And this is why we aren’t together.  If I hand someone a half piece of paper with sign-up times on 2 Friday afternoons when I am obviously working, I expect to talk about the best time to go sign him up.  Not IF he is going to play.

But he wasn’t done yet.  He came back and said “If you wanted something else you should be more clear.”

More clear than handing him the sign-up times for T-ball?

This kind of conversation makes me feel crazy.






When Your Ex is not an Adult

Here in Vermont we have a fall tradition that saves us from breaking our legs and hips and elbows all winter.  We gather our empty buckets and head down to the town garage in the Fall when it’s hot and dry and we fill them with sand, to store in our garages until icy days in the dead of winter when we need to spread the sand on the steep paths to our houses, which we tend to put on top of hills to avoid the Spring floods.

Now my soon to be ex is a procrastinator.  He waited until the sand pile was damp to fill up the buckets.  He is not a Vermonter and so doesn’t understand that damp sand will freeze solid in a bucket and become useless when it’s -20.

There was one bucket of sand left in the garage and I needed to sand the path so that my elderly mother could visit the house without having to call an ambulance.  A frozen solid 80 pound bucket of sand.  I tried to carry it up the mountain to the house, but made it about 15 feet and knew this was a terrible idea and I would pay.  In my younger days I would have dragged it, banging against my legs.  But now I bruise and ache and tend to become dysfunctional if I carry something that heavy.

So he came up to say good night to the boys.  And I told him I tried but couldn’t carry the bucket and asked him if he would carry it to the basement to thaw out.

It’s not my job.  There are plenty of other people who can do it.”

It’s heavy.  Can you just carry it up for me?

They can do it.  (Pointing at my daughter and her boyfriend.) It’s not my job.”

Gina can’t pick it up.  Can’t you just carry it up tonight or get it when you come in the morning to take the boys to school?  What’s the big deal?

I do EVERYTHING around here and get nothing for it.  Why should I do it?”

Why can’t you do it?  It’s just a bucket of sand.

“It’s not my problem.”

The boys are listening to you.  What are you teaching them?

“How to DELEGATE.”

No, you’re teaching them how to get out of things.  An adult would just go get the bucket.

I’m not an adult.”

By this time I don’t know if I was trying not to laugh or totally infuriated that a 300 pound man couldn’t just carry a bucket of sand 200 feet for his family.  Or maybe I was trying really hard to make a list in my head of what EVERYTHING is, seeing as I kicked him out and I’m not really sure what he does.  And I was watching Gina and her boyfriend trying not to say anything.  Although Gina did say “Are you really talking about a Bucket?”

So she made me this cartoon, which includes my boyfriend, who offered to bring me lots of dry sand when he comes later this week.28081509_10156271145686108_478470030_o.jpg