Have you ever known anyone who gotten a divorce on the grounds of desertion? Well, take it from someone who has, it’s a stone cold trip. Try it some time.
Once my husband vanished and left the country, he was essentially untouchable—securely tucked away with his new love on another continent—safely hidden among a billion people in a third world country. I had no known forwarding address or verifiable contact info.
All I knew for certain was that my Runaway Romeo was with ‘her’–hanging out in some small out-of-the-way town called Mumbai. Well that certainly narrowed things down and made it easy, eh?
I sort of knew what to expect; I’d gotten a divorce decades before. It was one of those quickie dissolutions to end a short marriage entered into at the tender age of sixteen. I’d married the first guy who came along just so I could get away from home.
This time when I visited a divorce attorney, I was told that this divorce would be a bit different. Even though he had deserted me, I was going to have to jump through a few hoops and prove that I made sufficient good-faith efforts to try to locate my little runaway.
Woo Hoo! Even more jollies! In addition to all that, I had to send divorce notification to his affair partner at her workplace.
Yay! More humiliation.
It was amazing. When formal notification of our pending divorce arrived at her place of employment, Runaway Romeo called me immediately. Imagine that!
With his ego insulted, he was surprised that I would initiate such drastic measures so soon. After all, he’d only been gone 10 months. Furthermore, poor pumpkin hadn’t yet decided which one of us he wanted—New Floozie or me.
Duh! Call me clairvoyant, but I already knew that answer. And besides, it wasn’t up to him anymore.
Please Approach The Bench
Thankfully, it was a beautiful sunny day in early January when I was arrived to appear in Domestic Relations Court and finalize my divorce—alone.
At my appointed time on the docket, our case called aloud, “Divorce case number 666 … Chumpy (The Dump-ee) vs. Houdini (The Dump-er)”.
Accompanied by my attorney, I walked to the front of the hearing room and stood before the judge’s bench.
The judge lowered her head, furrowed her brows, and quizzically looked around the courtroom. Apparently she was expecting Sir Houdini to step forward. She appeared to be puzzled and annoyed. There were strict rules (and numerous very visible warnings!) posted around the building about being on time for court.
My attorney leaned in and whispered quietly to the judge, “In Absentia … desertion, Your Honor”.
“I see …”, said the judge.
Reviewing The Documentation
As would only happen to me in such circumstances, Murphy showed up at the last minute to join us in the festivities.
After an extended shuffling of paperwork, it was discovered that my attorney’s paralegal had submitted the wrong version of the divorce petition forms(!) to the court.
The judge, sensing my concern, spoke up and advised me not to worry. Then (and I kid you not!), she whipped out a bottle of WhiteOut and began making necessary corrections to the forms in ballpoint pen. In her handwriting, she added the following:
“Said defendant not present due to having absconded to India with his paramour.”
I stood there, not knowing what to think of this keystone-cops-esque kind of legal proceedings. The judge looked sheepishly at me and said, “Sorry. I don’t do these types of divorces very often.”
I replied, “Neither do I, Your Honor.”
The judge paused for a moment and smiled at my use of humor in what was obviously an awkward situation. She then turned on the dictation system and began recorded the “Let the record show …” formalities. With that concluded, she stamped what would then become my very odd-looking, yet still very official, divorce papers.
Okay, So … It’s Me, Right?
I stepped into the empty elevator. As the door closed for my ride back down to the parking garage, I paused for a short moment of reflection, engaging in a bit of self-talk.
“Okay, so you just got handed your second set of divorce papers … What do you suppose the common denominator is here, darlin’?”
“Me!” I said curtly to myself. Just as I said that, the elevator doors opened to welcome a fresh crop of couples rushing upstairs for their appointments with destiny in the Domestic Relations courtrooms.
“The common denominator is ME. And the stupid stops here, today!” I said out loud.
Rolling my set of divorce papers like a scroll in my right hand, I hit the elevator door as to underscore the seriousness of what I’d just said. I stepped out of the elevator and continued with, “Girlfriend, this is proof positive that you have a broken picker!”
Playing Right To The Script
When it was all said and done, I came to realize that even though I had been the plaintiff who initiated the divorce, I was simply staying on script, playing to my husband’s wishes—his grand plan.
He knew that inaction on his part would eventually initiate action on my part. Simply put, he forced me to to do the dirty work and get the divorce. I’d bet good money that to this day he tells people, “Hey, she was the one that divorced me!’
Yeah, right. You keep thinking that if it blows your skirt up. When you got the vocational training you were after, you engineered a way to leave the Marine Corps. You did the same to your commitments and marriage to me.
Abandonment or desertion—same thing. It’s simply a matter of semantics. What remains is that you’re nothing more than a cowardly runaway. A run, run, run, run … runaway.
At one time I had over 27 blogs. I am in the process of going through those sites and consolidating my humor posts here.
Things I transfer here are at least 3rd Generation edits of these posts. I have heavily edited them before bringing them over to prevent the possibility of dangerous radiation surges during view. In the early days, occasional singed eyebrows were reported by readers of my other blogs, due to the high level of vitriol.
Not to worry. I have taken great pains to clean each of them for your safety—thoughtfully removing the justified but brutal sarcasm that underpinned the original iterations. You can now read all of them at your leisure with no need to apply sunscreen or wear a badge dosimeter.
In other words, what you find here will be only good-natured teasing and light-hearted humor.
I know I’m not the only woman to face such harsh realities. Perhaps you too have been dumped, ghosted, or experienced your own Dark Night Of The Soul.
Maybe you or one of your loved ones were in a dance macabre. And perhaps, like me, you encountered your own cohort of flying monkeys barraging you from all sides.
If so, you have my deepest empathy.
I hope you never have to face the bitter reality that your husband, wife, or significant other is not the Romeo or Juliet you imagined them to be in your mind.
I hope you never have to shovel your way through a bucket full of crazy—desperately trying to find the real truth about what happened—only to a polished turd at the bottom.
Bummer. Been there. Done that.
If you have, and if you think you’re far enough along in your healing process to appreciate a little humor on the subject—stick around.
Perhaps me lampooning myself will provide you with some much needed comic relief.
And hey, if nothing else, you may leave this site feeling better about yourself by being able to say, “Well, at least I’ve not been as stupid as that woman was!’ LOL.
As anyone who has ever gone through a rough emotional time will tell you, one of the first things a counselor or psychologist will tell you to do is journal.
It’s part of Counseling 101, and apparently all psych students have to take that course first. That’s where they teach them to tell us “Get all your feelings in writing—even if you burn the paper or delete the file immediately afterward.”
Well, the first time I went back (and it was years later) and reviewed the journals I’d written right after my husband left, I found myself shaking my head and musing, “Oh, my word! Did I actually come out and say that?!” I do have to admit that it was a very entertaining exercise.
So much time had passed since I wrote those first raw essays that I found it humorous that I’d even had such thoughts—let alone documented them in writing—and finally went on to totally forget all about them.
Once I sat dawn and started reviewing/editing those old notebooks, it was like another exorcism of latent demons. That process was extremely cathartic in that I freely vented so many bottled-up emotions.
I expounded on the framework I’d started way back then, but this time I unabashedly expressed my unfiltered points of view. Points of view not only about my ex, but also about all the flying monkeys that my abuser enlisted as vicarious minions over the years.
Naturally, my husband’s very public and humiliating ghosting of our marriage wounded my pride. For a few years I cared about what people thought of me, and therefore I hid like a good obedient narc target. Doing this allowed Casper & The She Devil to define the narrative unhindered.
Those days are gone. The naive little me that people think they once knew is long gone. She grew up and located her big girl britches that had been packed away with her sarcasm and humor in all those moving boxes.
Webster’s Dictionary defines a digital drive-by (aka driving past someone’s house) as:
- When you’ve ‘got someone’s number’ and you lampoon them with sarcasm and satire in short quips and verbal barbs in digital media.
- Synonyms: satirize; mock; parody; tease.
All I can say is “Bob and weave, don’t get hit’. But as a public service, I am issuing a blanket warning to all who may eventually read my blog.
If you’re a delicate hot-house plant and you do not have the ability to laugh at yourself and/or your past mistakes, then you probably need to exit this site—like, right now because I nail a bunch of things [and a lot of people] to the cross with merciless satire.
But you can relax a little because the person I parody most notably is myself—over my former ignorance and my plethora of mistakes.
So the bottom line here boys and girls, is that you’re going to need to put your sensitivities up on the shelf and shove your defensiveness guns back into their holsters. No ‘please-do-not-to-offend-the-narc‘ political correctness will be found anywhere on this site.
Now before sweat beads pop out on your pretty little foreheads and your faces start to get red … take a chill pill. Everyone can kick back and relax; there’s no need to worry. My mother raised me the right way.
So, although the folks I write about here absolutely–positively deserve a whopping dose of public humiliation, I do use a whopping dose of restraint. [Sometimes.] Giggle. Giggle. And to that end, I have intentionally omitted using anyone’s real names.
So who am I writing about here in this blog, you might ask? Well, like the old southern American colloquialism says: “What’yall say we skip that chapter and make it a mystery?” LOL
In short, this blog is for my edification and entertainment. To date, I have not publicized all the details of the drama, but I am now starting to post links on my social media accounts as I edit things.
So if you happen across anything I write and get anonymously offended—sorry about your luck, pumpkin.
I was in pain for quite a long time and, regrettably, until I healed, that intractable pain of narcissistic abuse took center stage. In other words, I allowed my depression to sap my energy and creativity. I allowed it to rob me of my innate spit and vinegar. There were way too many times that I did not speak up for myself. In other words, I let way too many things slide. No more. The worm has turned.
In other words, just because I never said anything when all the piling on and smear campaigning was going on, did not mean that I was oblivious to what was being done and said.
Let me be even more clear on this matter so there is no misunderstanding. Know this: all the games, the posturing, and the orchestrated character assassination along the way did not go unnoticed.
What’s that old saying about laughing? He who laughs best, laughs what? … Yes … laughs last. Yes-sir-ee Bob! This whole ‘Ordeal’ has been a real knee-slapper for me and now it’s your turn. Sort of like that line from the the old classic scary movie:
‘I know who you are … and I saw what you did.’
But once again … I remind you: relax and breathe. I’ll reiterate that I don’t use anyone’s real names. I don’t even write under my own real name, so everyone’s safe. I’m going to leave it up to you all to wonder who I’m talking about as you read my posts and watch my videos.
As Pooh said, “Think … Think …. Think …”
After my husband ghosted me, I was a bit like Rip Van Winkle. In a stress-induced coma, I was immobilized and unconscious. I grieved like an idiot—for almost nearly five years.
Well, even brown bears can’t hibernate that long (!) so I eventually had to wake up. Duh!
When I finally did wake up, I decided that is was high time to stop all that stupid.
My first order of business was to dispense with the black garments of my widowhood—once and for all.
Seriously y’all, I really needed a change of clothes. My husband hadn’t died—he left me for another woman. Big difference.
As anyone who knows me would attest, black has always been my favorite color. As a consultant working with physicians, a black business suit was a staple in my wardrobe. Besides, what’s more slenderizing than black?
So, after I thawed out a bit from my extended hibernation, I took a long hot shower. Then once I had my body temp back to normal, I went searching through my closet to decide what I should wear. Y’all, I want you to know that I have always been a trailblazer. I had 50 shades of black long before people became so enamored with the color gray. LOL.
Looking through my closet, I decided that ‘basic black and pearls’, a happy countenance, bright eyes, and a wry smile would send a much better message about who I am than that sad-sack, Jackie-Kennedy, wife-in-mourning, black-veil-thingy I’d been wearing for so long. Ewww!
My humor imp (‘Erma’) said: ‘You know, my dear, there’s a fine line between an outfit and a getup.’
I’d lost weight from all that grieving, so I thought, why not look through my ‘skinny’ clothes? Bingo! There is was. I grabbed my favorite Little Black Dress and proceeded to rummage through my jewelry box for that string of pearls.
I scurried off to put them on. After I finished dressing, I looked at my reflection in the mirror.
Interestingly, I noticed that I was somehow standing a bit more erect. That rounded-shouldered, old-lady-posture that I’d developed from spending so much time crying in fetal position was gone.
I took a half a step back and looked at myself in the full length mirror. I ran my hands over my waistline and hips, straightening my beautiful black dress. Pleased with what I saw in the mirror, I nodded approvingly.
Looking at myself, I had this nagging feeling that something was missing—but what was it? Hmmmm …. I already had my pearls on.
Deep in my gut, I felt that I needed a little something extra for my coming out party. Something tasteful … something that would add a bit of pizazz to compliment my dress … something to visually announce ‘the new improved me’.
With that in mind, I went back into the closet. Standing on my tippy-toes, I rummaged around on the top shelf again.
Pay dirt! There is was! In a wooden box shoved up next to the wall, I found just what I needed: a black party mask for the festive occasion.
Yep, that’s the ticket! I told myself.
I smiled at the ‘real me’ who—like Rip Van Winkle—was also facing a new world after a long, deep, death-like sleep. LOL
I leaned in, checked my hair, and winked at myself. I then turned off the light and boogied down the hallway—singing my own words to an iconic rock song.
Fittingly, the song had a dark Scorpio vibe that I needed. And like magic, it was pulling me away from my fun-loving Leo side of my personality, and over to my ominous Scorpio side. Astrology types say that a female born with a Scorpio Moon (as I was) thinks like this:
“My darling, I might appear to be nice … but never lose sight of the fact that— although I have forgiven you—I will never …evah! … forget what you did to me. Capeech?”
As I walked on, I fully expected Erma to say “Silly Girl!” as she had said so many times whenever I admitted loving Whats-His-Face. I figured she’d think I was being ‘out there’, with the party dress, mask, and all.
But surprisingly—when she heard the song that I’d picked out and was singing—she did something that shocked me. This time, she didn’t say, “Silly girl”.
Rather, she unfolded her arms … held them straight out and up … and gave me two [2!] enthusiastic thumbs up as I walked by.
So, what do y’all think? Me? I think it’s wonderful to finally be back … Back In Black.
Back in black—out the sack
I’ve been too long—I’m glad to be back
Yes, I’m—let loose—from the noose
That’s kept me hanging around
Been looking at the sky—-cause I’m on a new high
Bring on the hearse—gonna let him die
I got nine lives—cat’s eyes
Using every one—and I’m running … BYE!
‘Cause I’m back
Yes, I’m back
Well, I’m back
Yes, I’m back
Well, I’m back, back
Well, I’m back in black
Yes, I’m back in black