My Survival Guide to Love

Dale Craig

Written by a person just like you.

No PhD or BAppSc or IOU or UOMe.

Just the qualification of LIFE

This is an IndieMosh book

brought to you by MoshPit Publishing

an imprint of Mosher’s Business Support Pty Ltd

PO BOX 147

Hazelbrook NSW 2779

http://www.indiemosh.com.au/

Copyright 2017 © Dale Craig

All rights reserved

Licence Notes

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Disclaimer

Pseudonyms have been used in this book, and other details may have been altered, where necessary, to protect the identity and privacy of people mentioned. While every effort has been made to recall past events accurately, the memories contained within this book are the author’s and may differ from those of others. Although the author has made every effort to ensure that the information in this book was correct at press time, the author and publisher do not assume and hereby disclaim any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause.

For my three children.

Living proof I did something right.

Preface

Before we start, I want to make it clear that the women who became my two wives are lovely people. That’s why I married them. I never planned on getting divorced. It wasn’t a package deal. So this leads me to ask the question: Why? Why did I become a Didn’t?

I met Lilly, my first wife, in the Spring of 1984 at a writers/actors party. We married two years later. In 1989 Josephine (Josie) was born, 1991 Lawrence (Lawry), and 1993 Cassandra (Cassy).

After sixteen years of building an empire, seven days a week at times, the foundations of our family shook. By 2002 we toppled.

I met Sarah, my second wife, in late 2003. Our sons both played on the football team I coached. Sarah had two children: a boy and a girl. By 2009 the foundations were wobbling again.

I said I Do, then I Did in the marriage, but in the end I Didn’t.

Chapter 1

Day 1: The leaving

The walk down the driveway is painful. My steps are slow and heavy, lacking energy and purpose but most of all, direction. I dawdle along with Penny our Labrador sniffing around my shoes. She’s ever hopeful my appearance will lead to a walk. I’m still tipsy from the night before; I wouldn’t have the courage to leave if I were sober. I woke up this morning, grabbed a plastic bag and filled it with underwear and toiletries.

It’s autumn. The leaves are leaving — just like me. The days have begun to cool and in the afternoons the sun fades quickly on the horizon. A breeze that once promised warmth now carries the whispers of a cold chill. This season of change, from the heat of summer to winter’s cold and grey greeting, is a lot like my life. There’s no avoiding it.

Each forced step reminds me I’m walking away from the only meaningful thing in my life. That I’m walking away from the best part of myself. That I will never be fully whole again.

I stop. For a long time I just stand there in the driveway, totally confused. A part of me feels this surge of elation. Freedom. I rediscover my sense of self-worth and dignity. I’ve found the courage to leave, to resolve the relationship deadlock, to put an end to living in fear. But at the same time I’m devastated because I don’t want it to end. It’s like receiving two letters in the post — the first one saying I’ve won first prize in the Lotto draw. Great! The second being test results from the doctor saying the little mark on my chest, which I thought was a piece of dried jam, is a rapidly growing melanoma. The elation of finally acting after months of procrastination has been crushed by the devastation of doing it.

What to do? I try to think through the fog. What to do now? I know what’s ahead; I have no illusions. This has happened to me before, but now I’m ten years older and a future alone isn’t so appealing. The thought of telling my parents, children and friends that another divorce could be looming is sickening. Talk about embarrassing.

I knew this moment was coming but I didn’t know when. How it would unfold and in what manner. Last night, Sarah and I attended a fundraiser for my youngest daughter — her school cross-country running team had made the final of the World School Girls titles in Brussels. The money raised will help pay for flights and accommodation. (They ended up winning.)

I drank a bit. Okay a lot. When we got home I was told to sleep in another room. I refused. It was my bed too. The red wine courage had kicked in. We lay there like two strangers staring at the walls. Then I reached across to touch her.

‘DON’T!’ Sarah said. ‘It’s over. Don’t touch me again.’

I jumped out of bed yelling — all huff and puff and don’t-talk-to-me-like-that. I said something about her still being my wife and that I’d had enough of this shit. I was over it. I stormed off and crashed in the spare bed for the night.

Now here I am Sunday morning wishing I was anywhere but.

That’s it. Done. Easy to say and another thing to do. Over. That marriage was like going to a dance party. The vibe is upbeat — you’re having a great time and you don’t want it to end. You want to live in that moment forever and make it last. Then reality kicks in, you realise you’ve had too many drinks and you’re starting to fatigue but you try and recapture it. Keep it alive. But it’s long gone. And now you’ve got to deal with the hangover.

Talk about confused. So much noise and chatter: Go back! Turn around. But it’s either today or tomorrow. We can work it out. Walk out or be thrown. Can’t believe this is happening. Can’t keep living a lie. Elephants of doubt dance behind my eyes. What to do? Where to go? F@#k! Not again. To start all over again. No! I never planned this at my age.

I’ve hit another iceberg. It’s like the scene of a major car accident on the highway of love, my life will be smashed up and fragments of it will be strewn all over the place — lost dreams, aspirations, dignity, self-confidence, integrity — all lying in the gutter for everyone to see. Again. The sudden carnage of another lost love will slow the traffic of life so that people can gasp and gawk, then drive on, their curiosity appeased. All of them relieved it wasn’t them. Not today at least.

I freeze mid-stride. A shudder ripples through me, offering a numb form of protection. Doctors have a name for this — it’s called shock: life’s protection against the impact of shattering moments that merge into hours, days, weeks, months. Perhaps years. This is the Knowing of what’s to come, and it paralyses me. Why can’t I have the naivety and innocence of the Not Knowing?

A practical person would see the benefits of the Knowing, the experience to pre-plan, contact a lawyer, organise a place to go, secure a financial position, create private banking accounts, contact accountants, warn relatives and friends so they can be available to offer support.

I think of how I’ve walked away from love in the past — my first marriage. But that breakup wasn’t like this. This time I’ve been sent away. Frozen out of the relationship. Told it’s over. Finished. I can’t accept this truth. This difference between walking away and being sent away — it’s killing me. Away: to go, to leave, vacate.

My elder daughter’s cat, Tink (short for Tinkerbell), sits on the fence staring at me. She gives me that condescending move-to-one-side-you’re-blocking-my-view sort of look. Then she returns to preening — disinterested in my appearance. That cat hates me. I never wanted it. I inherited it from Josie when the novelty wore off.

Penny is snuffling, persisting with her efforts to get my attention. She drops a ball at my feet and nudges it forward with her nose. I give her a pat, unaware that I will never walk her again. Penny, our surrogate child — the result of years of trying for another child after a reversed vasectomy. I will return in the coming weeks to throw the odd steak over the fence to her, but like most things in my impending separation/divorce, she will be lost to me.

I wave to a peering neighbour and decide I better do something. What? I don’t want to look back at the house. The opening of the side gate would have woken Sarah. She was probably awake anyway. After what happened the previous night I doubt if she slept that well. I know I didn’t. No. Don’t turn. Keep going. To do that you have to move — remember? Move! One foot, one foot, one foot … pretend you have a purpose. Pretend you know what you’re doing.

The neighbour over the road gives me a smile. He potters in the garden, raking up leaves and bending down every now and then to pick up a twig or tug out the odd weed. He glances over at me again, questioning why I’m just standing there looking lost. I get into my car, start the ignition, anything to avoid that question shaping on his lips, ‘Is everything alright?’ I don’t have a clue what to do or where to go. I will avoid my parents, family and friends for a while — avoid the embarrassment. Maybe, just maybe, it will all blow over and not eventuate.

An advertisement for weight loss comes on the radio: How to Lose Weight and Rediscover the Real You. I mull it over. What is losing weight to losing a life? Losing an identity, your spouse, access to your children, or step-children you’ve learnt to love, your home, finances, possessions, routines, family and friends from the other side, not being able to financially stay in the neighbourhood, losing the hopes and dreams and aspirations of the life you created for each other while cohabitating on your love island? Losing your sense of humour? Sleep? Even losing your mind if the passion of it all grips you.

Then it strikes me how similar a weight loss program is to a separation or divorce. I know that although I will lose so many things, in time I will slowly reacquire them. The faces, names and places will be different, along with my dreams and aspirations, because I am now, in some ways, no longer the same person. I’ve been shaped, am still being shaped, by this experience. I already have the stretch marks of love plainly visible.

Now I will be a little less trusting and giving and maybe for the first time, practise the art of withholding.

My mind goes reeling back to my first marriage. Eighteen years with Lilly. How the deterioration of our relationship led to a point where every conversation ended in argument, an emotional war zone. We couldn’t even agree to disagree because when we did, the compromise just confused us. So I moved out. I wanted my children to witness love, to breathe it in, see the way fairy tales said it should be, not duck for cover and hide every time their mother and father were in the same room. So I left. And then a few months later returned to try again, only to realise I had emotionally vacated the relationship. Forever.

And here, in this marriage to Sarah, I cling to the memory of our first six peaceful, loving years where our blended family enjoyed lots of holidays, fun and frivolity. Until year seven arrived. Suddenly, what had always appeared to come naturally became difficult. A good investment went bad here, another career move happened there. Our move away to a coastal holiday town meant our children to other spouses were suddenly isolated from their family and friends. Little pressures built. The continual hour-long drive up and down the highway most weekends for drop-offs and pick-ups, all brewed and percolated with statements like, ‘things aren’t working out’ or ‘we should never have left the city and sold that house.’

Now I sit life-tired. Weary of working six and seven days a week, renovating four houses in seven years. I’ve made money and in my hurry to make more, lost it. This is the reality. Fifty years old, and I’m on the verge of having to start again. The thought of having to repurchase silly little items like tea towels, bread knives and bottle openers fatigues me. I’ve lost hope in the future. I’ve lost hope in life. Where is the energy that drove me in my early years?

I’m on the ropes.

I know love creates its own magic. It’s like an unfathomable link, this connection with another person that binds you together. It’s a suggestion at the start — a smile, a hello, a desire that over time you breathe life into. You create a bubble and live in it. When the connection is broken, you feel the distance — their "awayness". They’ve popped out of the bubble.

I didn’t marry with the intention of getting divorced. I believe in love. Always have. Always will. It wasn’t a package deal for me. I entered the agreement with hope, enthusiasm and endeavour. Doubt and common sense were not attributes I brought to the equation. Surely this is all some sort of misunderstanding? Surely we will soon be reconciled?

Chapter 2

That sinking feeling

It’s been an hour. Sarah may not be too sure if I’ve walked out or not — I could just buy milk and return home. I could, but that will only delay the inevitable. I reckon anyone can live a successful life but to truly f@#k it up, that is art. I’m the Picasso of here-we-go-again. So I sit in the car for so long I lose track of time, returning to one of the skills I acquired during my first divorce: the art of staring at absolutely nothing. My body is here but my inner core is somewhere else. I wonder