The Day I Ran Over George Michael

Not What You're Thinking ...

It's been many years since my husband left - suddenly and completely unexpectedly - yet some days I still struggle.

None of the popular options (Angry. Bitter. Revengeful. Devastated. Forgiving) seem palatable then or now and even after so long, indifference seems elusive.

Should that even be a goal?

I’ve observed some women - much younger women, it must be said - “moving on” more traditionally, by re-inventing themselves with a new tattoo or hair colour. They might swop man-bashing stories whilst enjoying tequila shooters with other Divorced Friends and peppering the conversation with recently learned terms such as “Borderline” and “Narcissist.”

My ongoing challenge used to be resisting the urge to re-play the nearly 30 years I was married, multiple times every day, examining each scene like a forensic scientist to see what went wrong and more importantly exactly when he stopped being happy.

If he ever was.

It seems important to know if he was always pretending - not just to be happy but to being totally fulfilled.

Ours was a marriage full of in-jokes, tenderness, random, thoughtful gifts and a proud congratulatory sense that we had got so much right both with our relationship and our children. 

We also shared a kind of delighted smugness when other couples seemed to be struggling. In our world, there were only cute little disagreements over mushroom choice or thread counts.

Our thoughts were known without even speaking, and a single arched eyebrow was enough to alert the other person that it was time to leave a party. He told me how deeply he loved me frequently, how fortunate he felt, how beautiful I was.

(I only mention all this because I somehow missed the fact that he wanted to live the rest of his life as a gay man ...)

In the early days when the pain was still fresh and bright, I wept openly in grocery stores amidst curious stares as I leaned on freezer doors, fell outside in the garden to my knees and most often in my car.

One day as I was just putting my key in the ignition, I noticed a cd he had forgotten: George Michael’s “Faith” the one where he is thoughtfully regarding his armpit on the album cover.

When I found this cd I felt a shift in me. I calmly got out of my car and put the disc beneath the back tire. In a rocking action whose speed and rhythm mimicked the sexual act itself I drove forward and reversed till I could hardly see for tears.

Later, I would gather up the long silvery splinters, put them in an envelope and throw them away.