Like a Ghost Who Continues to Haunt You

Okay, so what is now years ago, I'm in what at that time was a rare argument with my then-wife, Connie. I think I know her better than I know anyone else in the world. I know I love and trust her more than anyone else in the world. She is saying unbelievable, never-heard-before things to and about me: "I don't love her." "I never was a good husband or father." "Bruce (her "special friend") will be so much better a father for our son than I." At one particularly low point she said she "wished I was dead." I am reeling in shock at what she is saying, at her never before seen or heard vitriolic anger.

I manage to form words I thought would console her, or defuse her, or something her, "You are upset, you can't possibly mean what you are saying."

She explodes, "Don't tell me what I mean. The only time I say what I really mean is when I'm angry. The rest of the time I say what I think I'm supposed to say."

"So unless you are angry, you are not really telling me truthfully what you think?" I'm dizzy, heart palpitating, veering between crying in frustration and laughing at the absurd statement.

"Yes, I have to be angry to say what I really think!" Discussion ended. No more words to be said or listened to.

So today, here I am listening to phone messages from her inviting me over to her house tomorrow afternoon for an informal birthday party she is giving our son.

But there is still more background:

For the last two years Connie and Bruce have ignored me whenever we meet in public and no one we know is near. However, when there are observers--people we know--nearby Connie and Bruce are civil, even cordial.

In addition, the other party she had for my son recently was a cast party for one of my play casts last year. I found out there was a party when one embarrassed kid asked me if I would be upset at students who went to the "secret party." I pretended to know all about it, feigned exhaustion as my reason for not attending, and reassured the kid it wasn't really a secret party.

Finally please note: While we were married Connie never was comfortable hosting a cast party. Out of a hundred productions, I can count on one hand the times we hosted my students.

So with the swirling nightmare above as context, today I find myself listening to her recorded messages to see if she sounds angry so I can decide if this is a sincere invitation or something else.

I wryly decide she is probably insincere because she doesn't sound angry. After a moment the absurdity of this whole convoluted nightmare hits me and I begin to laugh.

More than one consoling person has told me--with a direct gaze and falling inflections--that, "Divorce is like a death" * pause, deep look * "You have to go through the stages of grieving."

If that is true, then an ex is like a ghost who continues to haunt you long after death. I don't believe exorcism is one of the stages of grief. It should be.