Becoming Less Defined As The Days Go By

I like absolutes. The not-moving and not-breathing mouse I found on my kitchen floor last week was definitely dead, a victim of death-by-poison. The hole he crawled in through was definitely filled, along with every single crack in the apartment. A trauma with a clear start and end.

There are, though, some big questions I can’t nail down.

I don’t know when my relationship ended.
I know it was August 12, my mom’s birthday, when I found out, he admitted, he was cheating. I know I woke up that morning in New York, called my mom to say happy birthday, walked to a store and bought a sassy black raggy skirt and then to Whole Foods, where I bought mint-infused water. I know I talked about that water for hours—the tall, slim, perfect bottle it was in and it’s complete absence of an aftertaste. I know I was in high spirits when I got home, preparing to meet my husband downtown for the Glamorama Fashion Show and dinner. I know after our conversation on the phone, he said “I can’t talk about this now, I’m working. Can we just talk when I get home?” and then I filled my trunk with clothes, my still-unpacked suitcase from New York, and I started driving. I know I slept in a hotel room that night and woke up too crushed for words, alone. But I don’t know if that’s the day things actually ended.

I don’t know when it stopped being sad.
For awhile, everything was a memory linked to him, us. Of course couples and some song lyrics made me sad but so did parking lots and Starbucks. Every word he said made me sad because none of them were “I’m sorry” or “I want to be with you.” and I have no idea when my memories changed, when I officially started to feel better without him, started to think I almost ended up with him and being with him was not better than being without him.

I don’t know when the divorce will be finished.
I don’t understand how all the steps work and it costs me money to ask the attorney questions. My email asking “What’s the status” was billed at $200. I don’t know when I’ll get another invoice, when we’ll sign something saying we’re not married anymore, if I’ll end up financially ahead or in the hole for all of this.

I don’t know how we ever even got started.
I married a man who didn’t stand by me, told me he’d love me as long as I never got fat, didn’t think I could stand up on my own, didn’t want to travel the world with me and didn’t enjoy conversations that didn’t have a purpose.

This is a trauma without a beginning but not one without an end. And there is one absolute worth savoring. That mint water bottle packaging still gives me a thrill, the taste is still as good as the first sip and it will remain a staple in my fridge.