I have believed for the longest time that irony is built into the fabric of the world, akin to a universal constant like Pi (mmm… Pie). Obviously this is garbage, because irony requires someone to perceive it as such and if Alanis Morissette has taught us anything, it’s that people often get it wrong, which is kind of ironic.
I am therefore acutely aware of the irony of my present situation. What I mean is that all of my previous relationships have derailed on suspiciously familiar tracks. The only common denominator is me, ergo ego sum causa. Consequently, even though I am sufficiently self-aware to understand where and when things go wrong, I still managed to remain oblivious of the warning signs signalling the demise of my marriage. It’s a bitter (and somewhat jagged) little pill to swallow.
In between bouts of self-loathing, I reached out to a wise friend who suggested that I write my wife a letter to better articulate and understand my feelings – even if I never delivered it. “A Schrödinger’s letter?” I thought, “Why not?” And so I did.
It began as whiny, self-flaggelating missive, but the more I wrote, the more I realised that there were other facets to this shattered gem that I hadn’t seen before. This new perspective allowed me to comprehend that she had spent so long making me feel weak and worthless, that I had begun to believe it myself. The letter rapidly degenerated into a vitriolic rant about how my mind-reading abilities were never going to measure up to her unreasonably high expectations, so it would have really helped if she’d occasionally thrown me a frikkin’ bone. It was abundantly clear in weighing up the prospect of us staying together that the scales were heavily skewed towards the “con” side of things.
The red mist was upon me and I was poised to put a call through to my attorney, when I noticed the post-it note I’d scrawled and stuck on my monitor two days ago – the one featured in the image above. For those who are unable to decipher my handwriting, it says, “Don’t make any decisions when you are emotional”. “Fuck you, Past Me!” I raged in my head, “You’re not the boss of me!” Fortunately, it gave me just enough pause to regain my sanity and I managed to follow my own advice. Ira furor brevis est and all that.
Honestly, it sometimes feels like the damaged part of my mind is off on its own magical adventure, leaving behind a lonely brain cell to deal with the incoming feral pack of Issues, like the short-straw retail worker tasked to open up on Black Friday.
However this turns out, I’m glad I listened to my friend. I’ll probably never send that letter, though. Monsters are capable of mercy.
