January 2003, Virginia Beach, Virginia

By R.V. Delumpa

“The thread is spun under tears, the cloth bleached with tears, the shirt sewn with tears, but then, too, it is a better protection than iron and steel …The secret in life is that everyone must sew it for himself … (Then) there is peace and rest and comfort in sorrow.” - Søren Kierkegaard

It started with a call. One day in January, I woke up and found myself in my other life again. The old life, the one with the ghosts.

Those damn ghosts. I thought they were long gone. I prayed that they were gone. I fooled myself into thinking they were gone. But no. They found me. They found me in the little Virginia town that I lovingly call Mayberry.

Mayberry, where I fled after I realized that my 16-year marriage was really over. Mayberry, the town where my young daughters and I appear so normal to others around us. Normal, like mannequins perched in a window, perfectly hiding the mess behind them.

I should have sensed that the ghosts were beginning to stir when I received that first phone call, the one from her. It was my ex-husband’s new girlfriend from Texas. She was nervous. She had not heard from him in 24 hours, and it was not like them to go for so long without communicating. And then I realize that we had not heard from him in the last few days either.

It was at that moment that I knew that she had no idea about his past. She was consumed with the idea that he could be with another woman. I actually felt bad for her. She seemed so scared.

“No,” I assured her, feeling strangely calm, “it’s definitely not another woman, but let me see if I can find him.”

The ghosts started dancing.

As I went out to find him, the ghosts came out to find me. Those ghosts. I thought that they would never find me again; I thought that I changed everything - my hairdo, my tax bracket, my weight, my hyphenated name, my therapist - but somehow, the ghosts still found me on that day in January.

They haunted me. They tortured me. They laughed out loud at my so-called strength and preyed on my exposed weaknesses. Time had stood still, and here I was living my life in hell all over again. Yes, hell was horrible, but strangely, it felt like home. I was home.

Because somehow in the midst of all of this madness, I felt needed. For the first time in a long time, I felt needed. Truly needed. No one needs me like he does. No one ever will. No one. Ever. And it felt disgustingly good. Thomas Wolfe was wrong; you can go home again. I was home.

With my ghosts in the background, I spent the rest of the day on autopilot. Driving through town. Peering into his apartment windows. Calling local hospitals and jails. Thinking about the last time I spoke to him. Nothing. I came up empty, and I headed back home.

When I got home, I pretended like nothing was wrong as I paid the sitter and looked at the beautiful sleeping faces of my young daughters. It never ceases to amaze me how easy it is to pretend. Pretend that everything is OK. Pretend that you feel normal. Pretend that drugs and alcohol don’t control your life. Pretend.

And when the phone rang late that night, it didn’t even surprise me. Not in the least. It was the psychiatric hospital calling; I listened carefully as they told me the information about the telephone number and code that I needed in order to get in touch with my ex-husband. I carefully wrote the numbers on the grocery list next to the phone.

Without even hesitating, I dialed the number and entered the code. Then he was on the line. He spoke in hushed tones. He sounded tired. And it didn’t even shock me as I listened to him tell me that he tried to commit suicide.

Sadly, I wasn’t even surprised. It is what it is with him. And I have come to believe that after 16 years of marriage, there were no surprises left.

God, what kind of life have I been living?

Ironically, at the moment I was spiraling out of control, doing that familiar dance with him, I didn’t even cry. The tears were suspended. Repressed. Ignored. Instead, I listened. Took notes. (His car is at a house in Sandbridge, he needs shoes without laces….)

The ghosts were celebrating. And they watched as I performed. Made arrangements. Took control. Helped others feel better. Called his parents. Cooked dinner. Wrote lists. Remained strong. It’s what I have done for almost 20 years. I was home.

The tears came later. Much later. And sadly, despite my façade of happiness, they have not stopped. I wonder if they ever will.

“The secret in life is that everyone must sew it for himself…(Then) there is peace and rest and comfort in sorrow,” Kierkegaard wrote.

I have stumbled through my life since that day in January. Sleepless. Unsettled. Hesitant. Scared. Angry. Alone. Conflicted. And through the tears, I am still waiting for the peace and rest and comfort.

Damn ghosts.

R.V. Delumpa is a freelance writer living in Virginia Beach, Virginia, still hoping that the ghosts are gone for good.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Friday, July 27th, 2007 | Email This Post

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