This Will Only Hurt a Little(79)

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m saving this seat for Jennifer.”

Marc rolled his eyes at me and took an awkward seat on the floor. A few minutes later, Jennifer Lopez—looking as if she had a permanent Instagram filter attached to her face and body—scooted in and said a soft hi to me before turning her attention to the returns. It wasn’t good. I mean, it wasn’t good for me or anyone sitting in that room. Obviously it was good for others around the country, the ones who had decided that hate speech and misogyny and literal nonsense were better than Hillary Clinton.

When I started to cry, Lady Gaga pointed at me from across the room. “NO! WE NEED POSITIVITY!!!!!! NO TEARS! THIS ISN’T OVER!”

But it was. And we knew it. My friends and Marc and I left, stunned and deflated. For a long time, we wandered around the city, which felt broken somehow. Eventually, we went back to our hotel and fell asleep for a few hours, and when I woke up the next morning, it was official.

I couldn’t stop crying. For my mom, for my daughters, for me. I felt betrayed by my fellow Americans. I felt like I truly didn’t understand anything anymore. It just about wrecked me.

“I know,” Marc said, trying to comfort me. “It’s terrible. But it’ll be fine, Busy. No one’s gonna let him fuck up the world.”

He didn’t understand. How could he?

It was hard to imagine living in a world where women are so truly reviled that a man can brag about abusing them and still get elected president.

But I did live in that world. Clearly.

? ? ?

A month later, I told Marc I wanted a divorce. I was done. I couldn’t do it anymore.

For a while now, things hadn’t been great between us. In fact, a few years earlier, I had almost asked him not to come to Charleston while I shot Vice Principals. But once he got there, everyone loved him and we ended up having a great summer with the kids.

Lately, though, there was a disconnect again. He didn’t let me talk when we were out with friends. Or worse, when it was just us, he didn’t speak to me at all. I’d started to do a test when we were alone in the car together, where I wouldn’t say anything until he did, just to see how long it would take him to talk to me. Some days we rode the whole way in silence.

All those years of feeling so alone had started to add up. I’d just assumed that was what marriage was: two people being mildly miserable next to one another. When I would ask Marc to work with me on something, he never wanted to, which made me feel like an inconvenience to him, a thing that he put up with. Sometimes he talked to me like I was an idiot. (I’m not an idiot.) (Am I an idiot?)

Disdain. That’s the word.

About nine months earlier, I’d decided I was done for good. I’d been falling all the time and thought maybe there was something wrong with me neurologically. I’d be walking and then would just fall. Hard. I fell holding Cricket. Twice. I split my knee open another time at a concert and had to walk around with blood running down my leg. Actually, I fell twice at that concert. I wasn’t drinking. Not as punk rock as it seems.

“HOLY SHIT!” my friend Rishi said as he helped me up. “Are you okay??”

“Yeah. Yeah. I fall all the time.”

He looked shocked.

As it turned out, there was nothing wrong with me neurologically. I was simply waiting for Marc to notice me. My body was subconsciously propelling me to the ground for attention. But it didn’t work. I was still invisible. I started to have panic attacks again. Bad ones.

Then Trump won. And also. Also. Also. There was a man I was friends with, another dad. We’d been having lunch and stuff. Texting. Talking on the phone a lot. Honestly, I had a crush on him. I liked him. Maybe I even loved him? He clearly liked me too. And I thought, “Well, why is everyone just resigned to being miserable for the rest of their lives? No decision is permanent! The world may end tomorrow from some war with North Korea, so may as well BE HAPPY, right?” Right.

So I told Marc I was leaving him. And I told him why, though I left out the part about the other man. He was shocked. But he didn’t want to get divorced. He wanted a chance to change. He said I owed our family that.

Emily said, “Whatever you want, Pup. I’m there for you.”

Michelle said, “It would be really awful for two years and then you would find a new normal but honestly, if you can keep your family intact, I think you should do it.”

My therapist said, “Listen. Divorce fucks up children. It just does.”

I didn’t want to fuck up my kids. I just didn’t want to be miserable. I know. This is a lot. I’m sorry. But I am. I am a lot. Marc and I started going to therapy again. We had tried it a few times in the past, but it never stuck or made a difference. This time, Marc got his own therapist. And we started to work through it. But I also kept talking to my emotional boyfriend (for lack of a better term). I know. That part is so shitty. I’m sorry. I really am. I really truly am.

It’s not an easy road. Marriage. Kids. Life. Any of it. But weirdly, the more I felt like shit was breaking down in my house, the clearer things became for me work-wise. I guess, if I’m being honest, I wasn’t totally truthful about Instagram either. The reason I started the stories—it was because I was lonely. Marc and I weren’t talking. I needed to talk to someone. It’s who I am. And so I started talking to all of you.