The Answer to Gay Marriaged

I've been pseudo gay-divorced (the answer to pseudo gay-married) for three years.  One would think the division of property, rights, and abuses would have ended like two years ago.  I am not so lucky, or so smart.  Gay divorce is not covered in civil procedure.  The break up is private; the division is never one size fits all.  I know a lesbian who left all of her worldly belongings in the house she shared with her partner and just walked away.  She left the couch, the spatula, her clothes, everything.  This seemed like an excellent way to move forward.  Unfortunately, when you’re staring down the barrel of lost love and forlorn madness, you hold tightly to anything and everything that is up for grabs.   

My ex was petty, and we were both fairly unstable during this difficult time.  We both said and did things we are not proud of, though it was indicative of our relationship on a whole and spoke to why I finally ended it.  One such example of our near inability to let go was The Bathmat Fight. I had started to venture out to stores on my own, something I had not done in ten years.  I picked out a shower curtain and a bathmat that I loved. ‘I’ was not a word or statement made in a very, very long time.  Later, this bathmat would appear on the chopping block. My ex fought tooth and nail for the luxurious purple bathmat I had chosen for my new apartment.  What I realized is that all materials acquired in one domicile are shared in the cocoon of ‘us’ until the absolute last minute of the relationship. 

Case in point – I took the responsibility in the breakup of housing all our shared crap.  Why? Because my parents have a large basement.  So really, it is not I who harbors our past life, it is my poor parents who have been staring at boxes and totes for three years.  I’m sure they’re thinking ‘WTF is up with lesbians?’  Our books and tee shirts and vacation memorabilia and tchotchkes and VHS collection and my record collection and all of her work gear from a former career have been lovingly packed and stored in south Jersey, far away from either of us.  Convenient because we don’t have to stare at our failure daily, or relive the pain of our separation, or deal with throwing away ten years of our life.  

These possessions have come back to haunt me many times over.  I received a text from the ex yesterday, she’s going to be in town soon visiting her mother. What an excellent opportunity to finally rid myself of this responsibility.  I told her she needs to get her stuff, it’s been long enough and my parents really want their basement back.  She responded in true form ‘Sure, I’ll take the couch and nice bookcase too while I’m there’.   Jab, stab, one-two punch.  We are NOT going to be adults about this.  Why the fuck am I arguing with someone I DIVORCED about shit that has basically become the property of my parents?? Despite the suggestions of friends and my current gf, I have not thrown her shit out or dropped it off at Goodwill.  I have maintained it, held onto it, kept it, honored it. I treated it as I treated our relationship, with respect.  And now she wants to take the couch? Which, by the way, would never fit in her small apartment in the Midwest, just as it does not fit in my small apartment in the Mid-Atlantic.   

Gay-divorce is ugly.  I wouldn't recommend it.  There is a joke amongst my friends – it goes like this ‘I know I USED to have a hair dryer, I remember my sister gave it to me cause she didn't like how it dried her hair.  It’s gotta be somewhere around here…..Oh, right, lost it in the divorce.’  ‘Where’s that damn System of a Down CD?  I know I had all their albums.  Oh, yeah, lost it in the divorce’.  Three years later and I’m still looking for shit I don’t have anymore! 

I spent my birthday alone this year. Quietly thanking the universe for 33 years and hoping for 33 more. There was one moment where I really broke down and felt lonely, then I saw the card the ex had sent and thought about every endless fight and the year we broke up when she kicked me awake while I slept on the floor of our second bedroom trying desperately to carve space between us, and I truly felt gratitude for those experiences that built me strong enough to weather that storm, to create something new, to appreciate the silence, to keep moving forward.