Way back in the middle of June, I got a shit-ton of paperwork from my ex-husband's lawyer. After the agonizing wait for the year-long separation to run out, the time had officially come to file for divorce. I read through all the forms, scrawled my illegible signature across each one, and got them notarized. I sent them off the day before I left to spend a month in Los Angeles. While away, my ex sent me an email to let me know that the papers had been received and formally filed on July 12th, my twenty-sixth birthday. In a mere six weeks, the process should have been complete.

Four months passed. Because he had to file in the summer, most people working for the family court system were on vacation. This led to a huge backlog of paperwork and ridiculous wait times. All because every judge in that godforsaken city decided to spend six weeks at the cottage instead of placing three stamps and a signature on my divorce papers. Every day I would check the mailbox, and no matter what other goodies might be in there for me, I'd always swear a little under my breath when once again, my divorce judgment failed to show up.

And then, today, the Day of the Dead, after a very full weekend of Halloween-related debauchery, it finally arrived in a nondescript white envelope. The paperwork that officially severed my last remaining legal connection to my ex-husband.
I proceeded to pour myself an awful lot of bourbon over ice and am going to get blazing drunk. I can't imagine a more logical or appropriate course of action.

The process not completely over. 31 days after the judgment was granted, I can request a copy of my Certificate of Divorce, the last bit of paperwork that will ever need to be processed in the matter and something I will need if I ever want to get married again (ha. ha.). But the judgment is the important thing, the formal degree that the marriage I once had has been dissolved.

Because here's the thing: while I've been using the term ex-husband since Ed and I separated, we've still been married. We've been completely autonomous, completely apart, since I got on a plane at the end of June last year, and as more time and geographical distance elapsed and I started to scab and scar over. But the feeling of being somehow still being bound to another person that I would be perfectly content to never see or speak to again was deeply uncomfortable, and the wait has been awful.

I expected to want to celebrate. I expected to do an undignified dance and invite everyone I know out to drink with me. It's a kind of freedom, to be sure, but even more so it feels like a cauterization. An old wound that might have eventually gone bad has been reopened so it can finally heal. This is good; it also hurts like a motherfucker.

I have a high pain tolerance. Winter is almost here. Its the Day of the Dead. I'm ready.

Labels: Le Divorce

The last time I wrote an entry on my birthday, it took the form of a catalogue of everything fucked-up and horrible about the previous year. It was also a defiant announcement that I was not yet beaten; that I was starting over.

This past year has been immeasurably, inconceivably better. When I told myself last year that this was the start of something, that things were about to change, I had no idea how drastic and universally positive that change would be. I have a loving, supportive, crazy family and the best friends in the entire world. My roommates have improved my quality of life more that I could have imagined. I am happier than I could have imagined. The people in my life stun me every day with their generosity and loveliness.

Right now, I am in Los Angeles, where I have been teaching a workshop for the past two weeks. I have also been having one of the best times of my life. I got a sunburn in Santa Monica, went on every ride and saw every show at Universal Studios, and bungee-jumped off a 150-foot bridge in the middle of the Angeles National Forest. Next week I'll see Harry Potter on opening night at Grauman's Chinese Theatre, tour Beverley Hills, and then head off to San Francisco. Today, I wentto the Getty Centre and saw some of the most amazing illuminated manuscripts. Now I am sitting in my hotel with a glass of white wine and some leftover strawberry cake. It has been wonderful.

It has also made me fall even more deeply in love with my life at home. I can't wait to get back to Toronto and keep going. I can't wait to see my family and friends. I can't wait to hug my roommates and snorgle the animals. I can't wait to knock my twenty-sixth year right out of the park.

Labels: Celebrations, Le Divorce, Toronto, Travelling

Since last summer, however, my sex life has been mine and mine alone (remember that key word ALONE), and I've still avoided bringing it up. Now, however, as one horrifying date has past and another approaches, I am breaking this particular blog-rule of mine and talking about it.

So, Family Members who Read This Blog: you've been warned.

I have not had sex for year.

Actually, a little over a year. In April of 2008, my ex and I went on a trip that was supposed to be our honeymoon and ended up effectively being the end of the relationship (though we were not formally separated for another few months). While on that trip, we had sex for what would be the very last time in our marriage. Prior to that, we'd not done anything approaching sex for a good six weeks (a length of time I considered horrifying, but which my ex seemed to have no problem with whatsoever). That one fateful time I got some action on my honeymoon also marked the occasion when I may have been the drunkest I ever managed to get in my life. We both drank a lot; I know I had at least a bottle and a half of white wine myself, and that I needed a lot of help walking back to the hotel, and what once we got to the hotel I couldn't actually take my shoes off my myself and actually laid down on the bed crying and begging for help. I didn't actually remember the sex until weeks later, when my ex brought it up, and I managed to unearth a very hazy memory of something possibly happening. So, really, that last time barely counts, but it was still The Last Time Sex Happened during my marriage.

Initially, I had absolutely no desire to get any action. I was fucked up and sad all the time, and I was aware of myself just enough to know that even something uncomplicated would be a terrible idea. Then, a the very few romantic-ish encounters I did have ended up either fizzling out before they really began, or by ending up being rather terrible ideas. I realize I haven't really written about my love life (ha!) such as its been either, as I certainly haven't wanted to offend or embarrass or even just bug anyone. In any event, what few opportunities I have had have either not worked out, or were opportunities I ultimately did not want to pursue.

But then Spring came, and sometime in mid-May I realized, to my absolute horror, that I'd gone over a year without so much as a shag. There have been longer droughts than this, to be sure. But this realization has brought with it a ravening pack of insecurities gnawing at everything from my body image to my saleability as a hausfrau. While Spring has been a season of love for everyone else, it's simultaneously made me want to get out meet someone and bust this slump, and made me want to never leave my house again.

But it wasn't just the One Year of Nada passing that made me break down and finally write this post. It was the slow and horrifying creep of another anniversary. Whereas I the one year mark snuck up on me, and I only realized it has passed weeks after it actually happened, I can see this point from afar. On my next birthday, in the middle of July, I will have gone my entire twenty-fifth year, my quarter-century year, without a single bit of action. If that's not a terrifying prospect, I don't know what is.

This post is not an invitation. I am sure that I could go out and find myself a straightforward shag if I really needed to prove something to myself. But what is really behind this my own terror at being single again and, for the last year, not really having any idea what to do. Having time to myself, time to heal and grow and have a really great time, actually, has been both awesome and necessary. But lately I've been feeling to pinch of it, and found myself at a loss for what to do about it.

I haven't brought up my single-and-actionlessness as an issue to many people, but on one of the I think two occasions it has come up, a friend said, "Well. What are we going to do about that?" I joked that I'm not sure I'd even remember what to do at this point, which is both hilarious and a little bit horribly true. As a serial monogamist, I've dated very little, and never really got very competent at noticing when someone was interested in me or knowing what to do if there were (whether I returned the feelings or not). As always, I am sure something fantastic and unavoidable and life-changing will happen. I just need to relax, invest in a plunging neckline or two, and forget about the damn date.

Labels: Le Divorce, Too Much Information, Toronto

Getting served was not actually all that bad. A portly blond asshole with an earpiece handed me a bundle of papers, asked if my last name was Dutch (at least I come by my crazy honestly), and I went back upstairs to read and plot. The papers themselves are very straightforward. I have scheduled a consultation and will proceed, no meltdown required.

The day was rescued by my absolutely awesome and amazing and incomparable friends. LTP did not leave my side the whole time. a raw came over and made sandwiches to sustain me while we awaited the delivery. Gennie and Em came over with sparking wine, macaroni and cheese, and chocolate chip cookies. We watched Obama speeches until my faith and joy in the remaking of the world was restored. It was, actually, an almost wonderful day.

The following night, Menagerie House decided to go out to dinner and a movie. It had all the makings of another fabulous night. We had delicious sushi. I almost stole a giant sign form Chapters that read "Smarten Up," but was caught at the last second and had to pretend I only wanted my picture taken with it. Then, we watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. That's when things started to go downhill.

The movie was fantastic. From the opening scene, featuring a dying mother and her daughter in hospital in New Orleans while Hurricane Katrina was about to hit, I knew I was in trouble. The film isn't moving at all, really, providing you have never known loss or true love or aren't ever saddened by things like the impermanence of the world. I, of course, bawled for over half of that bullshit three-hour film. Gennie had to teach me to release tension in my face and buy me a shot of Maker's Mark at the Rex before I felt restored enough to make it home.

Yesterday was an absolute symphony of uselessness. Lily and I staged a mini Battlestar Galatica marathon and managed to have brunch before it was somehow 7pm. WE had just enough time to grab some Thai takeout, pick up tickets from Eyesore Cinema (which, between the hot indie boys and proliferation of European horror films, may be my new favourite video store), and make our way to the Trash Palace to meet Bill K. We watched an amazing film called The Massacre up North (the drill-bit-to-the-brain scene was beaten only by the bubbling-pitch-and-crossbow-and-kidnapped-girl-in-medieval-garb scene) and bought Luchedor masks. Apparently Stacey is an ardent Mexican wrestling fan and buys up authentic masks all the time. Lily and I wore ours to the mini post-movie party at Bill K's place, where there was South Park and cheese and scotch.

So getting served sucked, and getting divorced in general sucks, and sometimes it still makes me very sad sometimes. But it's hard to stay sad for long when food is delicious, the luchedor masks plentiful, and my friends are more awesome than I could possibly deserve.

Labels: Le Divorce, Toronto

I don't want this blog to become Natale Whines about her Divorce Central. That said, a little bit of whining is necessary today.

I received a call today that I have been anticipating, occasionally impatiently, for some time. My divorce papers have been prepared and, sometime this afternoon, I will be served. Someone will come to my house, along with a witness, to personally hand me a bundle of papers stating that the process of ending my marriage has formally begun. If I do not contest (which I will not) or complicate matters (ditto), the divorce will be finalized as soon as we've officially been separated for a year. Sometime between early July and mid-August, I'll receive some more papers, stating that my marriage has been completely dissolved.

This sounds very boring and official and bureaucratic, and it is. It's also a miserable process. No matter how much I want this over and I know that ending my marriage is right, it still feels awful.

There is a melting feeling in my stomach. This is final. It's very much the end of something. It is time to let that other way of living go. If I am honest with myself, I have to admit I have had occasional fantasies of reconciliation. I have been lonely. I have questioned. But now that is happening and I feel so certain that it is right, I have to let that go. No more balancing between the old life and the new. Just being. Present. Here.

I am getting served today. I am getting a bundle of papers that represent the end of another life. What happens now? Do I return to a maiden state? Am I free? Am I tethered? What will I look like now?

Labels: Le Divorce

It's been many years since I was properly single. Ed and I were together for six all together. We started dating when I was only nineteen; we met, in fact, while I was still messily extracting myself from a nearly-three-year relationship. I don't really count the time between the end of that experience and the beginning of my relationship with Ed as being "single," but rather more a mad dash to put myself back together, to sew up all my seams and reattach all the limbs I'd lost in the process. That means, honestly, that in the past nine years I have no experience being single.

I am enjoying it. There is so much time, so much space, a great big world to explore and very few tethers preventing me from spiraling out into orbit. I am responsible only for my cats and friends. I love the ownership that I have over my choices, the sense of being beholden to nothing.

That said, the experience is also terrifying. A dull fear has been building at the back of my mind, but in the first few months of this separation it was easily drowned out by the wailing panic and screaming, searing pain that dominated most of my emotional register. As I got better, the sheer excitement of the move to My City and life with my friends shut it out. But now, as I am starting, just a little, to test my wings and interact with new people a bit, the fear has suddenly picked up a megaphone and started a terrifying monologue.

The thing is, I am afraid I won't find anyone else. This probably sounds incredibly stupid, since I've been single for five months and am still a basketcase and shouldn't even begin to be concerned over it, but there it is. Seeing Ed last weekend at The Wedding only intensified this irrational terror of dying alone and eventually being eaten by the cats. I found myself in the same room with a man who could not only deal with me, but with some cajoling actually agreed to marry me. That marriage was broken. And now, as I pick my way through the wreckage of the relationship, I find myself increasingly terrified that it was a fluke. That I am somehow intrinsically unlovable, and that I blew my one shot at happiness by not being able to make it work with that one person who could do more than tolerate me.

The rational part of my knows I am being utterly ridiculous at best and dangerously emo at worst. The self mockery doesn't seem to be alleviating the fear, however.

So this has been my state of mind of late. Not that peachy. I've been trying to prove myself wrong by actively pursuing interactions with the opposite sex. I am certainly not looking for anything -- quite the contrary -- but it seemed like a good way to show myself how stupid I was being would be to have some positive, mildly flirtatious encounters that would hopefully provide a bit of a confidence boost.

Instead, I have come to the only somewhat startling revelation that people are actually afraid of me.

It started with the little old ladies in Yorkdale and Forst Hill who clutch their purses tighter to their sides when I approach. I do have very short pink hair and dress like Tank Girl, so I wasn't initially shocked by their nervousness. I am probably the weirdest thing they see all day, poor loves. Then, a clerk in a comic book store actually scurried out of my way after I simply stood my ground in an argument about the writer behind a certain run of Constantine. And finally, in a conversation that marked the end of what I had hoped was a fun little flirtation with a co-worker, I had the singular pleasure of making a man several inches taller and a full decade older than me take two full steps back and then flee my presence by merely uttering the phrase "I am not most women." I wasn't even angry at all; just intense.

Forgive the whining; this week's been a bit tough on me, to put it mildly.

Wanted: Someone who is not afraid of a 5'2" gypsy-punk who might just be smarter than you. Handlebar mustache, top hat, and penchant for the circus not mandatory but desirable. Must like cats.

Labels: Le Divorce, Rants

Tara and Neil were married this weekend. There ceremony was performed by the same pastor who baptized Tara and her family. The weather could not have been more perfect, the mood was incredibly joyous, and no couple has ever been lovelier than "the dashing bride and the blushing groom."

I've been simultaneously looking forward to and dreading The Wedding for weeks. Ed and I introduced Tara and Neil to each other, and so I've had the unique privileged of watching a relationship from the very very beginning. I've also been very close to both of them, so watching them marry was very much watching the union of two people I've loved very deeply. For these reasons, I was thrilled to be there.

However, this was also the first time Ed and I were in the same room since we separated. Also, there was going to be quite a few people in attendance whom I've also lost, and seeing them was going to be difficult to varying degrees. And, of course, it was a wedding. For these reasons, I was terrified to be there.

The weekend was, in the end, relatively peaceful. I did not have a psychotic breakdown, though my hands shook so badly throughout the ceremony I was certain I was going to drop my bouquet. Everyone was polite, no matter how distant. and seeing Ed was like getting hit in the chest with a blast of wet concrete, but I made it through. I did not fall apart.

And today, when I got home, I found that the very first bit of paperwork had come in, The process has started. Is the worst, maybe, over?

Labels: Family and Friends, Le Divorce

So I drank the chardonnay.

I hate chardonnay. It's is my least favourite grape, scourge of the house white, feet-like and over-oaked and not for me. I've never found one that did anything for me. At best, I was left unmoved; at worst, openly repelled.

On our second-last day in Paris, Ed and I spent the day going around to various open-air markets. We'd had a series of very, very bad days at that point, and after an epic meltdown the day before were trying to reclaim what joy might be left in the trip. We went to the market that stretches for half a kilometer around the Bastille metro station, filled with incomparable produce and spices and beautiful things. I didn't buy much when I was in Paris. On that day, I bough some herbes de provence and lavender, a kilogram of the best strawberries I had ever encountered, scarves for my mother and grandmother, and a bottle of chardonnay.

There was a very small stall set up between a cheesemonger and a woman selling asparagus. The man behind the stand was a ruddy-faced, portly fellow with wire-framed glasses and an apron. nearby, a man with an impossibly theatrical moustache smoked a pipe played the accordion. Ed, tired already, sat down. I sidled to the stall when I noticed the man was both selling wine and, more importantly, offering samples. I arrived in time to hear a fat businessman order several cases of the 2005.

The wineseller, it turned out, owned a very small vineyard in the village of Chardonnay and made some of the only name-controlled chardonnay on the planet. I confessed that I generally didin't like it and begged him to reeducate me. He took pity on my Canadian-ness (apparently the North American climate is completely unsuited to the grape, and we over-oak the shit out of it) and offered me sips if the 2004, 2005, and 2006 vintages. Each was life-changing. I had very little money left, so after a seroius deliberation process I bought a single bottle of the 2005. I brought my prize over to where Ed was sitting. He was impressed with the novelty and we made plans to drink the bottle once we got home, on our 3rd anniversary, a few months away.

On the flight home, Ed and I filled out a customs form and realized that we had brought back too much alcohol (some vodka for Ed and several bottles of wine exceeded the unexpected small per-person limit). We got into a fight about how to handle it that ended extremely badly. We ended up telling the border patrol exactly what we had, and they let us keep it. The wine was saved, but it seemed then that maybe we couldn't be. It would, in fact, only be a few days before Ed asked to separate for the first time.

I actually don't know what happened in May and June. I really can't remember what happened during those months at all, save for a few days. I must have left The Print Shop; I must have started my job at Pages and worked there for many shifts. I must have visited with friends and worked on the magazine and written poems. All I really remember from that time, though, is the morning I begged Ed to try, and punched the glass sliding door in grief when he refused to answer me. Later, I went to a late breakfast with friends, in a complete daze, and dimly realized that I could no longer use my right hand (It was distinctly broken, I now believe, though I never sought medical attention, like a complete idiot. eventually the swelling and bruising reduced, I began to move it again. recently, the ache even went away). Sometime later (a few days? a few weeks?), Ed asked me to move out. I remember weeping all night, actually all night and into the next day, begging to stay. To try. The next afternoon, swollen and probably unrecognizable, I went to a poetry salon and acted like a complete basketcase. Ryan and Jonathan and Kaylan consoled me; Ian walked me home. Late that afternoon, Ed agreed to let me stay. An indeterminate amount of time after that, on the night of Markapalooza, Ed told me over the phone that he wanted to separate, but knew I couldn't afford to leave, so we could live in the same apartment, as roommates. I refused. This time, I still wept, but not as much, or as long. and I begged less. But I still begged.

I remember almost nothing at all about visiting Ontario at the end of June other than, right at the end, there was an ultimatum. Shortly after I returned, ultimatum was called. Things got even stranger. On June 28th, I finally gave up. I agreed to leave.

Then Ian fell, and everything changed.

I intended to drink the bottle of Chardonnay on what would have been our third anniversary. I would uphold my end of the bargain, at least. Instead, I had dinner with my brother at The Cook's Shop. The tortellini was fantastic. I drank most of a bottle of Valpolicella instead, and fell asleep early, like the sad bastard that I was.

Finally, I moved to Toronto. I carried to bottle with me like a totem, in and out of more than one party. The moment never seemed right, and so it remained unopened. Then, at the end of my first weekend here, there was a moment. Gennie, Bill, Lily the Pirate and I were all sitting in the living room. There was a pause, and a moment of peace like I could not remember feeling for a very long time. Bill then suggested, very gently, if the time was right. I stood up and found a corkscrew.

The wine was a golden colour, not pissy like most Chardonnays I have tried. Bill commented on the forwardness of the flavour, then it's unexpected mellowness in the middle. We agreed that it had a muskiness to it, a delicate kind of complexity.

And I could feel in my mouth the same golden light that I had felt in my eyes that morning at the Bastille market. The smells of fresh meet and cheese and produce all competing, the sun and the dusk and the sweat under that. Somewhere, a fruitseller cut open a mango, a tropical high note above it all. I could feel the tightness in my throat that day, felt again the knowing that even this, even this place, might not be enough. In my right hand, I clutched a bag of leaking strawberries, soaking and staining their paper bag. Like blood. Like I was holding my damn heart in a blood-soaked paper bag.

So we drank it, and when all I had left was the strong green bottle, the white and gold label, I felt lighter. I don't have to carry the bottle with me any longer, waiting for the right moment, or just waiting. I am learning to put things down, to stop carrying them. To drink them. To drink deep.

Labels: Booze, Le Divorce, Travelling

1. I did not think I would cry this much. I expected that this would be a very emotionally turbulent time for me, of course, but I did not expect that any human being could cry this much. It's really kind of embarrassing. I have to actively hide now to keep people from assuming I am actually a walking waterbed that has sprung a leak. There has not been a movie (of any genre) that hasn't made me cry, including Wall-E and Batman. There has not been a single night that I have not cried as I was falling asleep. Usually, now, it's just a tear or two, not a full-fledged torrent. I can't actually remember what life was like before I cried all the time.

2. I very rarely want to talk to anyone about anything. Seeing people, even (especially?) old family friends who I dearly miss and under any other circumstances would be dying to see, is incredibly difficult. In some cases, I've blurted out the events of the past few weeks just to get it over with. Sometimes, I've been ridiculous enough to actually pretend I've gone selectively deaf to avoid answering a question. I've variously entertained the ideas of never coming out of the house again, and wearing a t-shirt that says "separated," and handing everyone I see a sheet with a bullet-point summary of the past 10 weeks or so.

3. People really want to pick a side. Someone, clearly, must have done something terribly wrong. It really seems unfathomable that there could not be a villain.

4. I am far more comfortable being the villain, if a side must be picked. I dearly wish I could just call Ed an asshole along with the people who have proclaimed him so mere seconds after learning about our separation and long before they ask what actually happened. It would make my life a lot easier, and would mean that I didn't have to deal with point 5 nearly as much. Instead, I find myself talking about what a marvelous human being he was, what a good man, and assure them it just didn't work out (also I am very difficult). If they press (and they often do!) then I mention that well, he did have the regrettably stuffy habit of chastising me when I dined on kittens, and that really would never do.

5. Many people are much more comfortable with me being the villain than our separation being relatively quiet and amicable. I have been asked, to my face, and usually in that falsely comforting "you can tell *me* the truth now" tone, if we are separating because I had someone else on no less than five separate occasions. I've also had people, to my face and with not even a hint of apology, immediately ascribe the separation to my career, ambition, activity level, or all of the above -- and not in a "could this have been a contributing factor?" kind of way, but in a "if you'd have stayed home and been a better wife this wouldn't be happening" kind of way. On one memorable occasion, I was told simply "Well, I am not surprised -- I imagine you're very difficult to live with."

6. I realize that I really had no idea who and how would be by my side during this time. In many cases, I was not surprised. My family has been tirelessly supportive. My best friends, my girls, my Toronto coven, have stood by me. Another of my best friends has kept phone dates with me despite being in the midst of buying a house and planning a wedding. The literary communities in TO and Calgary, as well as further afield, have been awesome. I was, perhaps, simply amazed by how much love, how much support they offered, and how unconditionally. However, there were some, friends, acquaintances, and family alike, who surprised me with their support. People I was afraid to tell about the separation shocked me with their sound advice and unquestioning acceptance. People I certainly knew and whom I though liked me well enough surprised me )often to tears) with their love. There are a few, as well, who I expected would be here with me, who I expected would always be here with me, who are conspicuously absent. I miss them.

7. I miss absolutely everything. I miss the mountains. I miss the air. I miss the sunlight on the carpet in the late morning. I miss walking to Nellie's to write for a couple of hours. I miss walking up 8th. I miss meeting friends for breakfast at Dairy Lane or Take 10. I miss the farmer's market. I miss my bedspread. I miss riding the C-Train to the University. I miss the sabbath. I miss the babies. I miss my job. I miss everyone and everything with an intensity that shocks me.

8. I am beginning to realize that if I stayed in Calgary I would have done myself serious harm. I certainly had a place to go and a way to support myself, and it is not as though I was without a support system. But I am not sure I could have made it through the winter without something very bad happening. I feel like I narrowly escaped something.

9. There are some things I am just never going to learn. I am that goldfish that just keeps slamming its face against the side of the tank, despite the fact the glass was there yesterday and it will be there tomorrow. There is something in me, even when I know something is a horrible idea and going to end badly, that sometimes just cannot resist.

10. There is a part of me that wishes things could be different, even if I were lessened by it. This part wishes I could have been quieter, softer, easier. It wishes I chose differently or not at all. It wishes I could have felt less and handled more, even if this meant I was blunted or dulled. There is a part of me that wishes I were still there, because it would be easier and this is very, very hard.

11. I had no idea this was going to be so hard. I knew it was going to be the hardest thing I had ever done, and I am neither interested in an easy life nor likely to shy from a challenge. This is still harder than anything I could have imagined. This is the kind of difficulty that makes taking a shower an unbearable prospect, that feels far less heroic than grossly masochistic or just plain stupid. It makes me wonder what is wrong with me, that I can't just admit defeat and go home.

12. From somewhere impossible (and maybe rather ridiculous) I've managed to find an unshakable little spark of optimism. I get genuinely excited whenever I contemplate moving in to my new place, starting my new job, even simply unpacking. I will be reading as part of a new series, Decadent Rare, in TO on September 17th, and I am as giddy as if it is the first time I've been on stage. Somehow, when I think of my impending move, instead of every organ shuddering and clenching like a sane person, I am looking forward to starting over, beginning again. Whenever I forget for a moment or two exactly how miserable I am, an odd film of cheerfulness clouds my vision and I can't help but look at the great unknown ahead of me as some kind of ridiculous adventure. That feeling, that little bit of tenacious joy, keeps me going.

Labels: Anxiety, Le Divorce

While there has been an unofficial countdown going on for a little while now, as of today I have begun formally counting the sleeps until me, my cats, and a big old rented cargo van pull up to our new apartment in Toronto. Gennie C, LTP and Merlin will already be there, unpacking and celebrating and shedding. I will unload all my worldly possessions, wave my parents goodbye, crack open a bottle of wine and make my new roommates promise me that if I ever again speak of staying with my parents for more than 48 hours, they will shoot a blow-dart soaked in tranquilizer into my neck and duct-tape me to the wall until I regain my senses.


Do not mistake me: I am deeply grateful to my parents for taking in their tangerine-haired wastrel of a daughter. They have fed me, clothed me, and bought me necessities for seven weeks now. They helped me get my boxes home when I ran out of money to ship them. Hell, my mom flew to Calgary to help me *pack* those boxes (she also made me the best soup I have ever tasted). I would never, not for an instant, want to imply that I am anything less than speechless with appreciation at how awesome they have been.

But there's always a however. And when one's wastrel daughter is a twenty-five-year-old poet and professional shit-disturber, and when one's parents are the very traditional European sort prone to fits of antiquing and early rising, and when one's father in particular is blessed with a streak of quaint sexism with a healthy side of racism...yeah. Seven weeks can be a long time.

I have not forgotten all of the survival techniques that I learned as a young woman. I listen to my ipod when trapped in the car and flatly refuse to watch any programming on the Fox network. I try to keep from pointing out the underlying messages of violence in the commercials. I bite the insides of my cheeks and dug my nails into my palms.

I am ready now. I am ready to rebuild my fortress, retreat into a universe of my own making where I will not be reprimanded for refusing to wear a skirt and makeup every day or called a "fallen woman" without irony. I am looking forward to being able to discuss anything faintly resembling politics without being told to adjust my tinfoil hat. I am looking forward to life with my friends in my city.

and counting.

Labels: Family and Friends, Le Divorce, Moving to Toronto

Ah, small town. I now remember how I came to hate you.

My parents are very quiet people. My mom is the exact opposite of a gossiper, but she does have her few confidants. And one of said confidants hasn't grasped the meaning of her title and it's relationship to the word 'confidential.'

I was at a drug store yesterday, purchasing no less that three separate types of feminine hygeine product (if that's not a Do Not Disturb warning I don't know what is) when the cashier asked me if I had found a solution to my problem.

I stared blankly for a moment.

"You know, how you're going to move all your stuff to Toronto! I hear you were having some trouble moving. How are you doing, anyway?"

I mumbled something about a cargo van and blood loss, and fled.

That encounter was a little odd, but by far not the worst I have had. A few days ago, I went into a local coffee shop that may or may not rhyme with Tim Morton's, and ordered an XL triple-triple. Once again, this very obious Leave Me Be hint was not heeded and the cashier pounced.

"Hey, I was sorry to hear you left your husband."

Blink. "Yeah, that's not exactly -- yeah. Alright."

"We've all been wondering -- what are you going to do about your name?"

"My -- what?"

"Well, when J. got divorced, she changed her name back right away, but S. just kept hers for, you know, the kids. And E. has like twelve names. What are you gonna do?"

"Well, I kept my name. So I am going to continue to keep it."

Despite the hassle that I get every single damn time I say this, I insist on telling people that I kept my name. It is important. I had a name and I kept it. It is mine to publish under, to sully, to squander or to see in lights.

"Oh."

And then, anotehr employee, who had been taking orders from the drive-through (spelled "drive-threw" on the sign, incidentally) covers her headset mic with one hand and calls over her shoulder:

"You must have not been that committed then, eh?"

I left.

But I have been thinking, dammit. Thinking a lot about my name. It's the one thing that I haven't had to change, and I am deeply grateful for its constancy through this experience. And having a name that was half someone else's right now would be unbearable. Taking my name off the utilities, looking at pictures, and staying in the city where we met has been awful enough. Having to use a name that was really Ed's name every day, and decide to deal with teh pain of keeping it or deal with the pain of changing it again, losing identity again, might just been the straw that put me in the hospital.

But beyond that, I have been thinking about my initial decision not to change my name, the endless bullshit I had to out up with becauseof that decision, and how I have not regretted it for a second.

When Ed and I first started talking about getting married, long before we were even engaged, I wasn't really sure what I was going to do. I'd grown up in a world where women took their husband's names, and thought I might follow suit, save me the hassle, though that never felt right. Then my mother suggested, in jest, that we should both change our names, combine Walschots and Schmutz and become the Walschmutzes (which endured as a nickname for ever). I was actually quite taken with this idea -- the two of us conbining what we had to make something new seemed an appropriate meaphor ofr a marriage and a family -- but when I brought it up as a real option Ed flatly refused to consider it seriously. When pressed, he said that he had a name, he liked it, and he was keeping it.

I thought about that for a very long time. I too, had a name. I hadn't always liked it; I had tried on a few new ones, accumulated nicknames and titles and insults, but we'd eventually warmed to each other, my name and I. I liked the sharpness of my initials, the three consonants all angled lines. I had even published a little under that name.

So I kept it -- and the act of keeping it both made me fall in love with it, and seemed to invite the whole wide world's disapproval and input.

I did not keep my name to be contrary. I did not keep it because I was not committed to the man I believed I would spend the rest of my life with. I did not keep it because I wanted to invite all this trouble or rile up the locals. I kept it because it was mine. It was my name, what I was called, and it had the power of twenty (now twenty-five) years of being my name behind it, reinforced every time I was called. My name had the magic of being my name.

Labels: Le Divorce, Open Letters to Late Capitalist Society, Rants

In nine minutes, I will be 25 years old. Three weeks ago, my marriage ended and I watched a dear friend jump off my 7th-story balcony. Two weeks ago, I quit my beautiful new job, packed all of my things into a few boxes, and left the city that has been my home for the past four years. This week, I may have lost another dear friend and I am not sure why.

In the past week, I have also reconnected with my oldest, dearest friends and have a real sense of hope, of possibility for a future here. I have begun to look at apartments, and may even have some leads on potential employment. Today, I have received possibly the best birthday present ever.

A month ago, I went to Book Expo and learned about my industry from the other side, at the same time that I was fighting to hang on to my marriage and slowly, steadily losing my grip.To months ago, I was in Paris and saw the Opera House for the very first time. Three months ago, I began treatment for post-traumatic stress. Four months ago, I first learned that all of my PhD applications had been rejected. Five months ago, I was first diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder and began a round of medication that would eventually cure my migraines and let me sleep for the first time in months. Six months ago, I began going to couples counseling with Ed. Seven months ago, I have fought with an every-increasing sense of loneliness and separateness from my family and old friends. Eight months ago, I launched my first book and toured across Canada promoting it; then I got the news that my mother-in-law had suddenly passed away. Nine months ago, I started to suspect that there was something terribly wrong with me. Ten months ago, I had my first nervous breakdown. About one year ago, I successfully defended and handed in my thesis and thought that at long last all my trials were over; I handed in the project, waited for my degree to arrive in the mail and believed that now all I would have to do was enjoy a year off to get my life and my head in order before starting in on my next grand adventure.

So here I am, having just turned 25 (it's just past midnight now), starting over again from the very beginning. In the morning, my official birthday, I will start looking at apartments with my soon-to-be-roommates: Gennie C and Lily the Pirate. I will call my brother to make sure my glorious jungle cats are still happy and growing fatter in his care. I will breathe in the smoke and the honeysuckle here, and drink coffee with my friends, and pet Tess, my new magical familiar and circus rat.

I will not make any more apologies for who I am. I am Natalie Zed. I am here to live and to write and to wreak havoc.

One quarter of a century down. Breathe. Begin again.

Labels: Anxiety, Le Divorce, Married Life, Too Much Information, Travelling