You can find Serge's personal website, Thunder Pie, here.
There never was any possibility of my ex-wife and me making things work for our kids’ sake. Kids have so much power and magic and sway. But one thing they cannot do, and should never ever be expected to do, is to place the sparking defibrillators on mom and dad’s busted love.
I love my kids so much that I start freaking out when I begin thinking that there are zealots who might consider me a lesser man, or a lesser father, because my children’s mom and I ended a marriage mutually, when all else had failed.
Maybe it’s because love, true love, the kind you wanted to fight for to the death, it dies hard down in my creaky bones
I’m struggling with so much, but I think most of it is ego. I can’t wrap my head around the idea of someone who wanted to be with me forever not wanting that anymore. Isn’t that weird? Think about it. It’s high comedy if you read it right.
We’re getting along better than ever and that makes me happy because we need to do that, it makes life so much easier. But it makes me sad too, you know. Because it feels like I’m meeting a girl for the first time and I kind of really like her.
Single parenting is harder than hell. The lack of that other parent/partner to step in and offer up even a moment of relief when I’m dealing with a double-meltdown as I’m trying my hardest to get dinner on the table, that’s a tough void to explain to people who don’t walk in my shoes.
Grief, the word often reserved for the survivors of the truly dead, is a massive and vital part of this whole divorce thing, too.
We were young and free and in the greatest city on earth. We were married and unsure and in love but uncertain.
Maybe I want to feel this way, huh? It’s possible. I don’t know. Maybe sometimes I turn on the Sad Beauty Machine myself just so I can crawl inside some specific moment and hang out there a little bit longer than I’m really supposed to.
Feeling like a failure at love and romance and marriage and friendship and sex and fatherhood? Man alive, it’s hard to say if it’s just one of those things or all of them at once, but they’re all kicking you in the jaw today and I can see that all over your middle-aged face.
“Decorate me, dude,” she whispers. “Make me a home. Make some damn coffee for God’s sakes.” And I did. And I do. And the house offers up this rare chance to feel rooted in something, like I belong here and need to make this place work, at a time when I could easily let myself get blown away.
Divorce doesn’t give a damn about your dumb memories. I used to wake up early every single damn day in December, even longbefore we had kids, sneaking out of the bedroom to plug in the lights for a woman I loved so that when she finally dragged her butt out of bed, all sleepy-eyed and grumpy, she could walk into a magical, dazzled room. I’ve had to ask myself a lot of questions this past year about things I did wrong, about why our love died like it did.
We giggle. I rarely giggle anymore. I’m 43 now. I can’t speak for my ex; maybe she giggles/maybe she doesn’t. You lose the ability to know that kind of stuff when you break up. You never know if or when she’s giggling. You only know it ain’t really going down around you.
My love is boundless, endless, immeasurable and I swear it to you from the gates of Hell waiting to devour a liar, but I’m scared I’m going to have a heart attack. Or maybe just a total nervous breakdown sometimes when all three kids are sirens at once, hammering volume into my head like bullets or nails.
No matter who you love, if you love them long enough, your sex life will crumble at times. Anyone who tells you otherwise is an asshole and a liar. Real love, true love, requires you to move outside your feeble, primal mind and to realize that lust and passion are like tides and winds.
So many people stop acting single and interesting once they get married. I don’t know why it happens, but I know that it does. It happened to me. I killed original kick-ass parts of me off and replaced them with everyday boredom, with the daily grind.
I am not going to stand here and pretend to you that I’m ecstatic about any of this. It’s been painful as hell. It’s been beyond heartbreaking. And it’s made me second-guess every single emotion I have ever felt since I met my ex in a Salt Lake City bar once upon a time.
You can never change. Didn’t you know that? You had to get it all right from the moment of your birth and guess what? You did not.
My son looks at me, his beautiful, dirt-streaked face a ten-car pile up of uncertainty and surprise and hovering delight. Am I messing with him? Am I really actually suggesting to him that we ought to have some ice cream even though it’s almost 8:30 at night