Month: January 2026

After several Divorce Recovery meetings in the Church.  Nancy became my new friend.  Kindhearted and sad like all of us, but Nancy possesses a rare balance of introspection and extraversion.

She laughs and tells me the only reason is because of time.  She also had her own Horror story.

Her husband had a six-month affair with her teenage daughter’s best friend (the same age as their daughter).  He is now in Jail.  The worst part- He was a Police Officer.

Nancy and I were walking out of our Divorce Recovery meeting heading to our cars in the Church parking lot when she suddenly stopped.

“Jillie,” she said, touching my arm. “Listen, do you have an Americn Express card.”  “Yes.” “Great, she nods her head and then she looked up and smiled.  “Do this tomorrow. Buy as many $100 gift cards as you can.”

“What? Buy gift cards, Nancy?”  “Yes, because Jillie, your husband Nick will cancel all your credit cards.  This will keep you alive with some money.”  I hugged her so hard I think I could have broken her.  “Oh my God, I would never have thought of that.  Thank you so much.”

“Also,” Nancy said as she dug deep into her purse.  “I want you to take this.” She handed me a small wooden box with a gold clasp.

“This is your Worry Box.”  “Worry Box?”  “Yes.  Open it.”

Inside was a deck of 3×5 blank index card.  I look up at Nancy puzzled.

Nancy pulled a pen out of her purse.  Then she took an index card from the box.

”It gets rougher,” she said. “You will need a place to put all your worries. Start each sentence with–she started to write on the card.

“Dear Worry Box, please take all my Worries away.”  Then date it and write today’s Worry.

“You will look back someday and be immensely proud of what you have accomplished by giving your Worries away.  It will help to keep you resilient.”

This time the tears fell.  “Nancy, I am almost embarrassed by how hungry I am for help.”

She laughed.

“At least, Nancy I have tissues.  I’ve learned to carry these daily.

Thank you so much Nancy.  Your advice and friendship you don’t know how much it means to me.”

 

Don led me down the hall to room 101 where the door was wide open.  Every chair occupied.  Immediately,  I wanted  to turn around and run.  Don went to the front of the table with me following him.  Everyone stopped talking and looked at us.  “Everyone this is Sandy.”  I nodded.  Everyone said in unison. “Welcome.”

“Sandy.”  Don said, “Come over here there is a seat.”  I sat down, and he whispered in my ear. “We are going to go around the room, and everyone has a chance to talk or not.  And since this is your first visit no pressure okay.”

On the other side of me was a brown eyed young woman who also whispered in my ear, “We will help you here.  Just remember, ‘Feeling is Healing.”  I sat that first night numbly.  Weeks later I started to talk like a dying solider trying to spit out his last words before death.  Wait, It gets worse.  In my desperation Divorce Recovery gave me a wonderful feeling to walk into the room and be recognized, acknowledge and helped.

The whole experience felt like to me as if the room was a giant bird’s nest.  All i had to do was sit in the middle of the nest.  Everyone in the room would spread their wings around and across me until I was warm and safe.  There was a lot of hugging and tears.  And a place to go on holidays  and such  kind people in my group.

They would share their stories and i began to realize how lucky I really was in my life.  One night I was no longer the longest married, divorced person in the group.  April came in.  She was 80 years old.  And her husband had run off with a 65 year old and was draining their bank account.  We all tried hard to comfort here.  She kept saying over and over, “How do you switch pilots on final approach?”

Incredibly there was a man whose wife had been robbing banks not with a mask and gun but as an accountant.  Story after story left me with th awakening of a word I never thought about.  Don said, “Everything in your life could be taken from you except one thing.  Your freedom to choose how you will respond to a situation.”

They say the exhaustion from divorce is like a full-time job

Two days later I found a Church that sponsors “Divorce Recovery” classes.  Today will be my first meeting.  A long-paved winding driveway, besides a beautifully manicured lawn, and I find a parking spot in the back of the Church.  I was told when I enter the Church from the parking lot to go downstairs to the basement.  I am to look for room 101.

I knock.  No one answers. I grab the doorknob and cautiously push the door open.  ‘Hello,” I say as I peek my head inside and look around.  I look at my watch the Divorce Recovery meeting would start tonight at 7p.m.  Oh, I am 15 minutes early.  I walk inside.  The room is vast and bright.  Right in the middle sits a humongous round table surrounded by 20 chairs.  One wall has rows of tall windows that brought in the light and a view of the parking lot.

I went back out and into the hall towards the long racked green leather sofa shoved against the wall.  I slumped back into the couch.  I sit and wait.  I try to get my neck and tight shoulders to relax. I read once pretend someone just pulled your hair.  A good trick it feels better, but I look like hell.  I feel like shit. I have been crying now for eight days straight.  The worst is in the morning and going to bed at night.

I look at the pasture that desperately needs mowing.  How do you run a lawn tractor?  I don’t know.  That was Nick’s job, like taking out the garbage.  As i sit waiting, I thought of an old saying my Mother used to say about the three greatest living hells: To be in bed and sleep not; to want the one who comes not; and to try to please and please not.   The smell in the basement of the Church reminds me of something, what was it?  Oh…suddenly that smell of ammonia brought me right back to the early 1960’s and elementary school.

Those early cold mornings.  My brown and white saddle shoes feeling heavy on my feet.  My bare cold legs.  The crisp itchy tulle slip that made my skirt poof out like and open umbrella.  My pink pullover sweater my mother had knit. I had straight cut bangs an inch above my eybrows.  My hair pulled back so tight in a ponytail I could barely open my eyes.

It was Parent night at the school.  The teacher had taken my parents over to the bulletin board on the wall.  All of the classroom student’s names were on it. Being that my last name ended with a Z my name was always at the very bottom. On the bulletin board each student had a Gold Star for every accomplishment behind their name.  By the time my parents got down the alphabet to see my name you could hear all the air getting sucked out of the room from my Mother’s gasp.

I had no Gold Star.  Not even a half of one.  My father turned around and slapped me across the face so hard I dropped to my knees.  My face inches from the floor where my nose inhaled that awful Ammonia smell.  “You idiot.” he cried out. He yanked me up with my arm and we immediately left school.  The Carnival I had looked so forward too.

The following morning and for several thereafter, my father would come home from work and sit with me at the kitchen table going over my studies. As i remember from that was his large heavy hand wrapped around mine in a vice grip, pinching and hurting me.  He would lead the pencil in my hand tracing the alphabet with me or writing large numbers in my Big Chief writing tablet going over the multiplication tables.

And that is what happened. I have thought about this long and hard enough to know that this was a truly defining moment in my life because…I didn’t give a shit anymore.  I was such a small little person, but I knew “I was an idiot nothing could change that.

‘Hello.”

Deep in thought I push the memories aside, burying them under my file of ancient history. I jerk and jump up.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” said a skinny elderly man.  He reached for my hand and he shook it with a light touch.  ‘I’m Don.  Welcome to Divorce Recovery.  The group you never wanted to join.  He had a halfhearted grin. He wore a baseball cap, plaid shirt and blue jeans. “Fellow me.”

‘Your name is Sandy right?”  I nodded.  I know I lied. But I don’t know these people and I’m too embarrassd to tell them my real name.

Richard drew in a sharp breath of exasperation, “Wow. You put all your eggs in the wrong basket. Didn’t you.”  I hung my head in shame.  ‘”Jillie,” he started drawing circles on his notepad and lines and arrows.  “You. Will. Foreclose.  How much is your Mortgage.  $325,000,” I said weakly.  We need to fiqure out how many months before this will happen.”  He starts writing the coming months in big, bold letters.  “I say you have six months.  And remember, it is 2010.  “We are now in the worst recession since the ’30,s.  Do you have a divorce lawyer yet?

‘No.”

”You are in trouble here, Jillie.  Please pay attention.  Let me get you a glass of water.”  I sat there watching him maneuver through his backroom.  I could hear water come out of a faucet.  “Here you go,” he hands back to me a paper cup.  Something was rising inside of me.  Did Richard say Foreclosure?  I felt like tossing out the water and crushing up the cup and stomping on it on the floor.

I hesitated a moment, then drank all the water and smashed the cup with my fists on the table instead.  Richard did not even notice.  So busy writing on his pad and talking. “Now, what I see is that the Mortgage will not get paid.”  Richard stopped and gave me a long look and a slow, sympathetic smile. “Jillie, the only way you will get out of this mess is to re-marry.”

Re-marry.  Is this 1950 or 2010?  I am seeing how Richard sees me. Sitting in front of him is a customer who he has mostly always dealt with the husband, but now he has this dumb, uneducated housewife asking for his advice, and he already assumes because I am a dumb, uneducated housewife that I only just need a little pat pat pat on my head.

Foreclosure? Because I am just a housewife?  For the last 39 years, I have sat around on my lazy butt eating bon-bons, watching TV, reading True Confession books, letting the kids run wild!  Bull shit!  After all, I know I have one skill;  talking on the phone and booking appointments.  I will NOT lose my house in Foreclosure.  I will NOT end up and Old Wallmart Greeter or worse homeless with a shopping cart full of my meager possessions walking the streets.

I am feeling impatient.  I loved Nick and was proud of our 39 year marriage.  Right now, I am not proud of myself.  If you can no longer trust your spouse, who can you trust?

“Well, there are low-income Senior Citizen homes and best go check those out now, “Richard said and continued.  “What are you, how old are you now”.

“57.”

 

All of a sudden, I wonder about everything.  Was everything in our decades of marriage nothing but a lie?  What was real? What was fake?  How could he have hurt his daughter and me? The two people in the world who would have died for him.  Would he have ever died for us?

I finished my coffee in one big gulp, threw the cup in a recycle bin and went inside the restroom.  I clean up my tears and walk through the grocery store and head out the front door.  Richard’s Accounting office is inside an old concrete building. Built -in the 50’s today it look like a carbuncle, short and squatty next to the high rises.

Parked in his nearly empty lot I walk towards his office.  Before I could knock Richard came through his door and at once gave me a big bear hug.  “You could have hit me over the head with a bat.  I have never been more shocked” he says. “Come in, Come in, he pushes a stray gray wispy hair behind his ear. He waves me into his office, holding the door open behind him.

“Thank you, Richard, for seeing me this morning.  I’m pretty scared.” “Sit. Sit,” Richard says with emphasis.  Immediately greeting me is an extensive library desk, not a foot away from the front door and shoved against the picture window, mismatched chairs on all three sides.  Adjacent is a row of metal filing cabinets.  Law books are laid on the floor-a small table with a printer and a narrow path to the back wall.

The office smells like old newspapers.  And I guess you could say Richard was…Thrifty?  Tall, lean with rounded shoulders, he always dresses in the same white shirt with bowtie and gray slacks and black shoes.  He had done our taxes for years.  However, we had never discussed anything personally. The hug was a surprise. However, i was not going to hesitate. I had no one else I could trust with such personal information.

He reached behind him for a Kleenex box and sat down.  ‘I’m sorry, Richard. I honestly haven’t stopped crying since it started. ‘Jesus, how long have you guys been married?” He said quietly. “39 years,” I said, clutching my tissue. ‘Oh, my Gawd.  Jillie, I’m sorry.” “We eloped when I was 19.”

Richard grabs the yellow notepad and pen lying on the table. “Okay, let us get on to business.  First off, you are going to Foreclose.

I stare at him blankly, shaking my head. “NO. NO. Richard.  The property is the only retirement I have. Nick is drinking and drugging and has a whole new group of friends.  I can’t believe he will be able to hold on to his job.”

“Well, you have to face facts, Jillie.”  “Do you have a job?” “No. I work with Nick.” “Do you have a College Degree?” “No. Richard.” Nick has three degrees and three designations.  I barey finished high school.”

Monday morning and I am early to Richard’s office.  Really. Early.  I did not sleep a wink all night and kept looking at my cell to see the time.  1:OO AM  2:30AM – 4:00AM.  Finally, at 4:55AM I get up and out of bed, dog-tired.  As I brush my teeth, I study my face in the bathroom mirror.  My balloon face had calmed somewhat down.  As I am spitting out the toothpaste, washing my face, I grab my brush, put my hair up into a ponytail and brush out a few bangs.  I add a little more face powder to the bags under my eyes-a couple of coats of black mascara and a bit of lipstick.  Then I went into our walk-in closet looking for something to wear.

One side is my clothes-the other side Nicks.  My first thought is to pour gasoline on them and set them on fire.  I dig through my clothes looking for something business-like.  I chose my black pants with the seam down the middle. And a long-sleeve red blouse with matching buttons and French cuffs.  Put on black pumps. Restless and not hungry, I leave the house.

As I drive I think of all the things I want to say to Richard. And when the raio said it was only 7am I decided to grab a coffee at the grocery store near Richard’s office to wait out the 2 hours before our 9AM meeting.  There were quite a few small round tables with chairs facing a large glass case with live crabs sitting on the bottom some walking around.

So, I sat down with my coffee and drank slowly, looking at people, not use to sitting in public my myself.  I had never even eaten in a restaurant by myself. I had been with Nick since i was 16.  We eloped at 19 and Nick was 21.  Wed by a minister of the new truth who read from The Propet Kalin Kabil as we stood in a farmers field that said when we ased him he said he reckoned it was ok with him for us to get married in his field.

I was digging thru my purse, where I usually keep a notepad and pencil. A list maker, it was the only way i could keep track of my life, our life, us. So, lost I hadonly grabbed a clutch and threw in my license, lipstick and keys.  I was squirming in my sit, feeling so uncomfortable I dropped my napkin when i lookd back up.  I notice a Crab had fallen over onto it’s back.  It’s tiny legs are floundering.  Feeling sad, I wish I could put my hand in the water and flip it over.

Unexpectedly, another Crab starts to approach it.  I watch how it slowly gets closer and closer then stops and reaches out its claw.  The suffering crab clutches it and together the Crab is pulled up until it is standing.  I nearly choke on my coffee.  At once, I burst into tears. I could not believe what i just saw.  Do even Crustaceans help each other in their time of need.

Would my husband have ever saved me?

Into the middle of the living room floor, I slumped down.  I gathered my knees tight to my chest and started to rock back and forth.  I can’t catch my breath.  I feel like today’s weather, white sky with bits of blue.  No sunshine.  No rain. But Mediocre dull.

And, now, I’m sad and angry.  Nick isn’t coming home.  I’m not even getting a chance to save our marriage or…Him.  Nick could not give up the love of his live .

Marijuana.

His necessity.  His enhancer.  For years and I always believed him when he said.  “He had quit.”

Our life together is no longer something we can work out.

” WAIT I forgot to tell you I was so nervous”, I said to Sheriff Matson. The grifter was sleeping with all the Band members.  She was borrowing large amounts of money and had a routine moving into their houses and then convincing them to go bankrupt.

And today I got this:  I reached for my laptop on the kitchen table and open it to the treatening email. It said:  Email me the following:  All credit card accounts, house bills-every bill we have with account balances, ID’S and passwords, Social Security numbers and any secret codes like ‘Mother’s maiden names.”

I took a deep breath and said to the officer, “As if my husband doesn’t know my Mother’s maiden name.”  There’s faint bitterness in my voice.  And I regret it instantly.

“Ma’am,” he said, frowning, looking right into my eyes as he closed the lid to the laptop.  “Your husband is an adult.  He can give his email address to anyone he wants.  If his new girlfriend wrote this message, and…”

“But…I interrupted.  ”This new group of people that Nick hangs with now.  For all I know they could have him tied up in the basement.  It, uh, it….could be a meth lab.”

I wanted to drop through the kitchen floor.  I was as articulate as a prettified log.  But, unfortunately, my tongue is stumbling on words.  I’m too ashamed to say our loud and now forced too. I didn’t know what to do.  I didn’t know what to say.  I couldn’t stop the tears.

“He is in a bad part of town. He is living in her ex-husband’s house the three!! of them together.  They drink. I worry there are bad drugs there.”

Sheriff Matson cleared his throat.  “I can send an Officer over to their address. However, we have no reason to go to the door.  The best thing will be if they get caught drinking.  Then, we could take him in custody.  The problem here is even if you got him in re-hab, his new crowd of buddies would be standing at the exit door waiting for his release with beers and joints in both hands.”

The Sheriff shruggd his shoulders and gestured with both hands palms up as if saying, “What can you do?”   “Ma’am you are in trouble!  He is playing dirty. You need a lawyer.  I suggest you change the locks. But realize that he is still the owner of this house.  If he brakes a window to get in, he can do as he pleases because he owns the house too.

“Thank you.”  I lean back against the kitchen chair.  I appreciate that so much.” For a moment, the Sheriff hesitated, and then he continued. “And, well, I would consider moving fast in getting a lawyer and a restraining and financia order.  As you said, you told me your husband has a gun.  Also, because my thought is the girlfriend would much more like to live here.  It is a beautiful place.”

“One more thing,” he said as he leaped to his feet.  “I suggest you find a Divorce Recovery group.  They are in Churches mostly.  He nods his head. ‘Right. Well, I’ll leave you then.”  I walked him to the front door.  He let himself out then turned around.  He took a step back and looked at me, smiling.  Then, he said, heavily with much feeling. “It’s a shame that you will foreclose.

Have a good day, Ma’am.  As calm a voice as possible, I answered. “You too sir.”

Numb.  I closed the door.  I walked into the living room, looking at the floor-to-celiling windows that bring in abundant natural light.  I watched as Sheriff Matson’s police car went down the driveway and out of my sight.

I couldn’t move.  I stood still, staring out the living room window.

House eerily quiet.

 

“Call the Police, Mom.”  My daughter’s words are pounding in my ears.

Call the Police.  Call the Police.  I keep thinking of our business.  I don’t want to hurt my Husband or his reputation.  NO.  STOP IT.   Think.  Do it Now.  Deal with your fear later.  I hold my breath paralyzed with embarrassment spewing out tears and panic words to the Operator on the 911 Call.

Restless, waiting with no idea when the Police Officer would arrive.  I make coffee.  I pour myself a cup before it has finished brewing.  And sat at the kitchen table and worried.

The knock on the front door shook my thoughts away.  No one else was expected, so it must be the Police.

I push away from the table.  Put my coffee cup in the sink and walk to the front door.  I had never seen a Police Officer up close.  In the car many  times. Nick ceaselessly getting traffic tickets.  Nick pulled over and was given citations never tried to be polite.  No, he was nasty and always got the Ticket. I uses to say to Nick; you get more flies with sugar than vinegar.

I open the front door.  There stood a big life-size Officer in full uniform.  Acessorized with handcuffs, gun, badge and spit polish shoes.  He introduced himself as Sheriff Matson.  He handed me his card and shook my hand.  I noticed a bit of gray on the short side of his flat-top haircut.

I smiled and introduced myself.  He did  not return my smile.  ‘Follow me, please, and we will go into the kitchen.”  I said, wishing I was  doing the right thing.  We both sat down at the kitchen table at the same time.  I am tearing up and trying to hold it in.  I said quietly.  “I’ve never called the Police before.”

Sheriff Matson nodded.  ‘Would you like some coffee?  I asked.  “No , thank you, Ma’am.  But you go ahead if you’d like some.”  I shook my head no.

It’s okay Ma’am.  I’m here to help you. Now, tell me your situation.”  He pulled out a small notepad and pen from his uniform.

I turn my face away and say a High School friend of my husband (a Bass Player in a Band) asked him to help him get rid of a band groupie.  “She was a known Meth Addict, Alchoholic, and Gambler.”

I took a deep breath looking at the table, not the Officer.  “I woke up one day and my husband had moved in with the grifter in her ex-husband’s house. The three of them are living together.”

Two days later, I got this,”  Reaching for my laptop on the kitchen table.  I open it to the threatening email.

Without asking, I read it out loud to the Officer.

I can’t do what Nick does.  I’m not the personality.  He has the education.  I just booked the events.  The only real skill I have ever had seems to be talking on the phone.  I learned that my smile was my best asset a long time ago, and I guess the adage smile when you dial is me.  I look at the calender.  The March bills.  BILLS.  Oh my God, I have to get the money out of the bank account NOW before she does.

Where would I put the money?  I need to put it in a safe place.  PAIGE!  Our  college-age daughter Paige I had opened her a bank account. Nick never paid any attention to the bills; he would not even know where it is at.

I have to call Paige.  Our daughter away at college.  I have to call her now. The first thing she said after I stopped babbling and crying was.

“Who will walk me down the aisle.”

At that moment, It was like the World was Silenced.

“Mom?”

“Mom”, call the Police.  It is identity fraud, it is against the law.  Call them right now to see if they can help us.  Then run to your bank accounts, withdraw all the money, and put it into my account.”