Written By: Sarah Geidl
My parents got divorced when I was 19, the summer going into my sophomore year of college. I was at the crossroads of immaturity and delusion of being an adult, so needless to say it didn’t have a positive effect on me. The silver lining however was that then my binge eating problem and my tendencies to get drunk to the point of utter humiliation to cope with my emotions made sense finally. My parents, much like myself, were different people after the divorce. My father softened all his rigid, unappealing edges, and suddenly instead of constant reminders of my never ending colossal failures he spoke only praise for my small accomplishments and had a newfound pride in the family linage that I was becoming.
My mother on the other hand, seemed to turn into the stereotypical witch in all fairytales. Specifically, the witch that starts publicly dating the same man she had an affair with only a week after the divorce is finalized and immediately ignores her children existence for him. David, my hairy replacement, was a balding, paunchy, fat man who stood at a staggering height but the way he spoke made him seem extremely small. Constantly putting others down, and bragging about his children who, to an outsider would almost sound fictional. His son was a star athlete on both the football and baseball team; no doubt both time wasters to get away from his horrendous father. His daughter was a 4.0 student who volunteered with the elderly and enjoyed attending tea parties, obviously a secret nymphomaniac without morals dealing with her daddy issues. Every vile word out of his mouth caused me to cringe, but I was reassured by my friends that all home wreckers who date your parents cause your skin to crawl.
He was also married when they originally started dating, and was getting a divorce so he and my mother could be together. He referred to his soon to be ex-wife only as “Cathy the Cunt”, which to me sounds like an amazingly empowered superhero. A few months after he and my mother started dating publicly I gave her an ultimatum; to either choose him or me. I was tired of constantly explaining how uncomfortable he made me and the guilt she made me feel for not wishing her happiness. Though I was confident that she would realize how hurt I was and chose me in this grand ultimatum I had conducted she didn’t choose me, shaping what our relationship would look like for the next few years.
The argument where I decided she needed to make a choice branched from her asking if I would like to have my first Thanksgiving with divorced parents with herself, David, his vile children, and the demons that spawned him. I immediately burst into tears since the thought of that made my skin separate from my muscles and crawl onto the floor. She informed that my happiness wasn’t more important than hers and I needed to deal with this since they would be moving in together. With that sentence I could feel something in me snap, red hot coals filled my brain instead of the grey and white matter that normally was there. Taking in a deep breath I quieted the shrill screaming in my head and told her that it would either be me or him in her life. I assumed that my mother would pick her own flesh and blood, which she carried in her womb for nine months, instead she chose a man with more back hair than personality and his pack of apes he called a family.
Though she still doesn’t speak to me she posts old pictures of me on Facebook occasionally and tells my little brother I’m not related to her side of the family. I was always under the impression that the maternal instinct was the strongest bond in this world, but now I am beginning to believe the strongest bond in the world is waterproof mascara on those sensitive baby lashes on the inner corner of my eye. That is also the most painful bond.