As I get older and continue to date but not marry I can only expect there to be more ex-wives that exist my my world. Some ex-wives are your friends. Your boss may be an ex-wife. You, yourself may be an ex-wife. Sometimes I feel like an ex-wife though I’ve never been married.
I’ve had two experiences with ex-wives on the fringes of my love life. One in a prior relationship and one in my current relationship. If I were to write a novel about my perspective of the prior ex-wife story, chapter tiles may include: The Key; The Break-In of 2009; When She Found Out About Prague; The Lawyer; The Toll; Weekly Wednesday Meetings; Half Of Everything; Gottman; Forward Your Mail Please; The House and Car; The Cats; Her Grief; My Unrelenting Jealousy.
This new journey I recently embarked on in February of this year could be the beginning of a follow-up novel: The Ex-wife: On-going Sagas, Part II. The most recent chapter being: The man who is featured in my love life is surfing in Mexico and I went to pick up his truck and your Subaru was in it’s place. Blah.
“In 1979, a woman participating in an armed feminist group spoke the following, anonymously, over a telephone:
“I am preservation, self-preservation, everyday life, adaptation, conflict mediation, the release of tension, the survival of the objects of my love, nourishment; I am all of that against myself, against the possibility of understanding who I am and how to construct my own life; I am, precisely in my madness, in my self-destruction. And so I look into myself and try to stop thinking about what’s good and what’s bad, what’s right and what’s false… I feel a need to smash myself, to burst, to not always think in a continuity with my own history. Maybe that’s because I have no history, perhaps because everything I see as being my history appears otherwise to me, like a suit of clothes put on my back that I can’t get off of me… And so then I start to think about the act of smashing myself, bursting, fragmenting myself, about searching for myself within our collective research, our possibilities, our collective utopias, meaning that I can’t break with my resignation and subordination if I don’t break with the enemies that I’ve unmasked, if I don’t recognize my rage, and if I don’t make it explode with my violence against the ideology and apparatus of violence that oppresses me… If I don’t find in other women as well my desire to get out, to attack, to destroy… To destroy, to take down all the walls and all the barriers…”