The Strange Moment In My Marriage I Only Experienced Once
Echoes of a fading marriage.
Gabriel Ponton | Unsplash I was lying alone in our bed, examining the sheets, curtains, and wardrobe doors. It was a brightly decorated, airy room, always smelling of lavender. The white, distressed furniture gave the impression of happiness lingering for a hundred years. A few years ago, I would have laughed at the idea of pink sheets; where would I have ever used something pink? But this pink set was so sweet, so soft.
I don’t know when my mind wandered to the point that I picked up my phone. I opened the search engine and typed “how divorce works.” I wanted to learn how it would be if I decided to divorce the man I had been quite in love with for 7 years.
It was the first time I had entertained the possibility of divorce. After reading some of the search results, I panicked. I felt like I was doing something forbidden. As if someone was going to check, as if someone would see, I quickly deleted the search history from my phone. I remember hastily getting out of bed and starting to tidy up. Not a trace of that strange moment should remain.
Once I started cleaning, I couldn’t stop, like those housewives who can’t resist tidying up. When had I last dusted the top of the fridge? I rolled up my sleeves and quickly took care of everything. I cooked a nice meal in the oven. Close to when my beloved man was due to return, I opened a bottle of wine. I remember not being able to make much eye contact as I finished the meal, trying to force a laugh.
It was as if I had committed a crime and was mumbling to hide it.
Photo: JOHN TOWNER/Unsplash
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A few months later, our fights became louder and more ruthless.
The house felt oppressive to both of us. We found every opportunity to stay away from each other. A few more months after that, our fights started to make us sick. A significant part of our daily life was spent being sad, crying, getting angry, drinking and getting drunk, and sulking.
Things reached a point I could never have imagined. After almost a year of this crisis, one day, I realized he didn’t care at all about the pain, the ache, and the suffering I endured. Nor did I care about his pain anymore. There was no room left for each other in us. “I’ll be here for two more days, then I’m leaving. We’re getting divorced,” I said.
“Of course, we’re getting divorced!” he replied.
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We didn’t get divorced the next day.
But sometime later, again lying in the same bed, on the same sheets, I was examining the room. This time all the cupboard doors were open, everything was everywhere, and I was packing. The beautiful curtains had been taken down, and replaced by simple sunshades.
“It’s done,” I said. I remembered that strange search of mine from months ago. The moment when the idea of divorce felt shameful.
The beauty of this room, being deeply in love with that man, having dreamed and settled in this house at a young age, and becoming a ‘divorced woman' all came together, reminding me of that bizarre moment. Was that the right time? Had I had a premonition? Had this relationship ended back then? Had we unnecessarily prolonged and hurt each other? Had things turned out this way because I entertained the idea of divorce?
None of the above. This marriage just didn’t work. And I was leaving.
It must have been the right time; any other way was impossible. Adding various meanings to marriage or divorce and complicating things further was pointless. Both of us were trying to do what was most logical and healthy for us. Yes, divorcing was much harder than getting married or deciding to marry. But nothing could harm me more than aging in an expired marriage.
I recently noticed a small tear in those pink sheets I still use. It must have been scratched by the cat. “Their color has faded, they’ve worn out,” I said. I laughed.
Just because they’re very beautiful, doesn’t mean they’re meant to be used for years. When it’s not meant to be, it’s not meant to be. This became my summary of the idea of divorce: When it’s not meant to be, it’s not meant to be.
Remembering that day in bed with my phone, from time to time, feels good.
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Duygu İslamoğlu is a writer, journalist, and doula based in Istanbul. She writes for Yeşil Gazete and Habertürk, and also publishes articles on Medium.