Pancakes Taste Like Poverty: And Other Post-Divorce Revelations (10 page)

“Jessie,
listen to me. If you never listen to me ever again for the rest of
your natural born life listen to me now.”
I waited.
“You
have every right to be as irrational as you need to be. You just got
divorced. You are raising kids on your own with no damn help from his
sorry ass. Uh yeah, you're gonna be a little emotional and
irrational.
Fair
,
Jessie. You earned it.”
At this point I was fighting
tears.
“This whole thing, Jess, is painful. It...it just
really sucks.
Let
it hurt. Give yourself room to be a little crazy. You take good care
of those kids. As long as you don't drag
them
into the crazy with you, it's fine. So screw him, Jess. You don't
need to meet this woman and you really don't owe him an
explanation.”
Dad is right.
Dirty Thirty

I
felt like I deserved to have a shitty thirtieth birthday.
If
anyone had given too much of a effort, I would have felt bad about
leaving.
I ironed out the kinks in my exit plan and I'm moving
next month for better or for worse. I planned on spending my 30
^th
birthday packing and preparing to leave.
My ex called, however,
and told me to get lost for an hour because he was on his way with a
surprise. I did and when I came back to my apartment there were
balloons outside. I walked in to find even more balloons and an
immediate dousing in that crazy spray-can foamy string.
It was a
sweet gesture.
“I had to do
something
for you for your birthday, especially with you leaving and all,”
he grinned sheepishly.
I wasn't particularly moved by the attempt
because it was only the second birthday of mine he'd ever
acknowledged, but was grateful that he included the kids.
He made
dinner. I don't remember what it was because he also brought a bottle
of wine and I drank most of it. It was
my
birthday wine after all. It was the wine that made me think, “
I
should have sex with him, since I'm leaving and all.”
And
after the kids went to bed. I did.
And it was sufficient, I
guess. I was too hazy to be present.
I noticed that he was
making himself very comfortable in my bed, which was strange because
I
thought
that
perhaps his girlfriend was still in town so I asked.
“She
is,” he said, matter-of-fact as he readied himself to sleep.
That sobered me right up.
What the fuck was I doing? I don't
want
this guy. I don't want him back. But I felt some sort of sick,
twisted power in the fact that he left her somewhere and spent the
day with me and the kids.
At first I felt like I'd won.
But
then I thought about the fact that this woman felt enough about him
to fly here to visit. And I thought about how much he lied to
me
and slept with women behind
my
back. And now I was the woman behind her back. Then I felt like I'd
lost. I felt super gross and super guilty.
I kicked him out and
debated contacting her and letting her know. I knew
he
wouldn't. Their relationship wasn't my business. But I felt some sort
of moral obligation to warn her that he was a damaged man who would
take her down with him if he let her.
Chris advised me to mind my
business. I ignored him and wrote her anyway.
I knew her name
because he'd told me in passing and I'd Facebook-stalked her. I wrote
the most honest email I've ever written:
Hey,
so...I'm his ex-wife and I'm a horrible person. He spent the day with
me for my birthday and I slept with him. I am only telling you this
because I feel so much guilt and shame and I can't believe I
disrespected another woman in this way. I know you spent your money
to fly here and it was dismissive enough of him to leave you alone
all day. I feel disgusting for taking part in it. I'm sorry. I don't
want to come off as a scorned ex-wife or a cock-blocker but, without
knowing you I can still tell you that you deserve better than
that...
Again I'm sorry.
Sincerely,
Jessica
Shortly
after, I received a response but, afraid to read the wrath on the
other end of the conversation, I deleted it and blocked her.

Later
that day she left a comment on my blog saying she'd read the message
and wasn't angry and for me to please email her so we could talk.
I
did.
She shared with me that, indeed, she cared deeply for him to
have traveled so far. As a matter of fact, she thought she was coming
to meet me and the kids because she
did
think that she was going to be a step-mom.

However,
upon arrival, she noticed that he was different. He was neglectful
and, in her words, “obsessed” with me. I told her that
was unexpected as he didn't spend much time with his kids anymore and
didn't send any child support anymore. She said he didn't talk about
the kids much but he spent a lot of time lamenting the loss of the
marriage.
I should have felt some sort of satisfaction in this
but really I just felt sad for him.
The entire trip, ultimately,
only served to show her that she has problems with attachment. She
said she'd been in treatment for Love and Sex Addiction before and
this experience inspired her to go back to meetings and get her
boundaries and standards together. She even suggested I find some
groups when I move to Mobile. I said I'd look into it.
We ended
the conversation wishing each other well in our future and vowing
never to give him any part of our hearts or bodies ever again.
It
was, by far, the shittiest and most awkward birthday I've ever had
and just the sour taste needed to shut the door on Tampa once and for
all.
The
Wendy Syndrome

I'm Wendy.

This particular round of emotional archeology
started innocently enough.

My oldest and I were watching the 2003
live-action version of Peter Pan. Typically, PG-rated children's
movies based on early 20th century books should not create physical
manifestations of anxiety in one's body. But there I was, watching
aghast, palms sweaty, experiencing a myriad of emotions I couldn't
explain.

OK, Self, time to pull out the picks and
shovels.

Later that week, Kelley was razzing me over my
bizarre attraction to Chef Gordon Ramsay.

"Ewwww! You think Gordon Ramsay is sexy!? He
looks and acts like some bad little boy!"

I think I found something!

And later that week I had a discussion with my
ex-husband that made it very clear to me that I was dealing with a
boy who refuses to grow up. He is textbook "Peter Pan complex."

If he's Peter then I am most definitely
Wendy.

Oh goody.

I looked up "Wendy Syndrome" on the
inter webs and learned that there is little about it but the
descriptions of Peter/Wendy dynamics in relationships pointed to men
treating their wives like mothers and wives using their husbands as
protection from their own taboos or negative impulses.

Here it is. An emotional brontosaurus to dig up
and assemble
.

I'm sure I have never seen a more accurate
description of mine and Johnny's marriage. And all the players were
present. My living room had a diverse and constantly rotating tribe
of Lost Boys, in the form of drinking buddies and other addicts, and
he “adventured” with fair share of Tiger Lily's and
Tinkerbells (six or seven while we were married, that I know of) and
while
my
Peter Pan was out fighting battles and having
adventures (in bars and concerts and yoga retreats) I was at home
crying, fretting, fussing, doting and playing mom - to everyone.

But don't feel sorry for me. I don't. Apparently,
that is what I wanted.

I believe people only do things that work for
them - even dark, sad, harmful things. I have always wanted
that
guy. That untamed, over-confident, feral, playfully wild guy. I have
never wanted the chivalrous giver/protector/provider.

On the surface I do, but deep down, no. But why?

I am close to the answer but more on that later.
For now, let's talk about this Peter/Wendy dynamic.

To understand Wendy we must first understand
Peter.

Men displaying Peter Pan tendencies have an
inability to cope with what they perceive to be the perils of "the
real world" and, namely, adulthood. These men tend to glorify
adolescence and cling desperately to that state of entitlement and
egocentricity.

To do this, a Peter needs a Wendy to
handle all of the adult aspects of his life. Women who take on the
"Wendy" role are often multifaceted, but Peter doesn't
notice or care. Once his Wendy has been designated, she is never
anything
other
than a loyal caretaker from his perspective,
not unlike the way some adult children struggle to see their mothers
as women.

Wendy replaces the "mother" and Peter
ping-pongs between his feelings of devotion and reverence toward her
and his urge to rebel against her in displays resentment and false
independence. For Peter, as long as there is a wild, earthy woman, a
destructive, adventurous peer group to play with (Tink and the boys)
and a civilized voice of reason holding down the fort at home (Wendy)
then all is right in the world.

Eventually, however, Wendy grows tired of her
maternal role and his narcissism and wonders if her Peter is capable
of giving more. When he can't give her a straight answer, she moodily
retreats.

I recognize this classic Wendy-style emotional
manipulation. I was a master.

This is the dance Peter and Wendy perform day
after day, year after miserable year. Wendy is using the ol' magnetic
"opposites attract" routine. When Wendy withdraws, Peter
feels two things: guilt from hurting the woman who obediently cares
for him while he disregards her feelings, and panic, because he knows
he is completely incapable of taking care of himself.

Unable to cope with his feelings, Peter angrily
storms away only to be so overcome by his feelings of insecurity that
he runs back to the arms of his Wendy. She is now sated, reaffirmed
and knows her place in his heart. And also fully aware of the control
she has over his emotions.

But why did I become
Wendy and choose suffer all that neglect and drama in the first
place?

But there is a little-known, secret side of us
"Wendy girls." It is a dark, vengeful, dangerous side.

In the Peter Pan tale, Wendy is fond of telling
pirate stories to her two younger siblings - much to her parent's
dismay. In their eyes, it is time for Wendy to start acting like a
young lady and the night Peter steals her was to be her last night
sharing a room with her brothers – no more pirate tales, no
more playing pretend.

Peter Pan seems such a convenient and well-timed
form of escapism now, doesn't he?

Mom and Dad want me to be a woman but this
cute, flying dude says there are pirates and mermaids in his 'hood?
SOLD!

Of course, Peter never meant that
she'd
get to hang out with pirates. He needed a mom figure to tell stories
to him and his boys. It's a bait and switch I know well. Remember
that pirate tales were Wendy's favorite and pirates are cunning,
crafty, violent. Fantasizing about Captain Hook offers Wendy
something Peter and her parents could
never
give her –
true adventure and a taste of danger.

So what's this have to do with my Wendy complex?

Pretty much everything.

I met my ex when I was 19 years old. I had just
"taken a break" from college. I put it in quotations
because the truth is that I wanted nothing to do with college. I
hated it. I didn't want to be there. I worked at Urban Outfitters and
at a skeevy modeling school. I had a roommate and we lived in Ybor
City - Tampa's version of Bourbon Street. I remember having this near
constant feeling of "I don't want to be here."

I know now that "here" was adulthood. I
wasn't ready. I just didn't want to.

My ex wasn't exactly a "put together"
person when I met him. Actually, he was the extreme opposite of put
together. But I think that, subconsciously, I knew that the only way
I was
ever
going to "grow up" was through outside
force. I would never
choose
to. Something was going to have to
make
me.

My
"forbidden impulses" included
laying around, drinking and a lot of other things involving men.
Hitching myself to someone
more
impulsive let me live out
the full reality of those forbidden impulses without actually
experiencing
them. He took the hits for me. He had the "fun."

But he's not happy. He has indulged nearly every
impulse that has been presented to him. I was able to see what would
have happened if I had indulged my impulses, too. In a way, I used
Johnny to protect me from myself - my destructive self, my shadow.

And there was a time in our marriage when I took
to a life of "piracy." I had my own Captain Hook. I became
“Red-Handed Jess.”

I had three children in five years, so the years
between 20 and 25 were spent breastfeeding, changing diapers, and
calling Johnny at three in the morning, telling him to come home or
else. My life was not mine. My dreams, goals, thoughts did not
matter. I was dealing with three children at their most needy and
volatile and a husband with addiction issues.