The Spanglish Girl Diaries
I should have known, when the lazo broke, the marriage was doomed. I can’t wait to tell my mother she was wrong. I wanted a beach wedding, but no, she forbid it: “No daughter of mine marries on the beach and not in a church,” were her exact words.
Well, what good a church wedding did me: Six years later, it’s over. And to think I was reassured that a marriage in God’s house was fail proof. Can I at least get a refund on the whole one church wedding per life thing? Now what am I supposed to do—I wasted my one church wedding on him.
This is the stuff that runs through my head, what I should be worried about is how I’m going to pay my bills, eat, and finish law school.
I guess I could afford to lose weight so not eating is probably a good thing. And there’s always rice and beans—my dad has made it on that stuff for 50 years, and he’s quite healthy. As for the bills, I think it takes several months to get evicted, so I should be fine—besides, I don’t need a house this big and it holds too may bad memories. School, I’ll have to figure out how to pay for — on second thought, if I lose weight, I can work as a stripper?
Ok, maybe not: I have too many stretch marks and, of course, my family is too big—I can’t risk one of my primos or tios walking in, and there I am, twirling away… Laughing out loud (lol) #awkward #elescandalo
But, no, really, back to the church wedding—it’s unfair: He left me, so there has be a loop hole somewhere in the church rules—right?
Note to self: talk to Father Manuel about an annulment. If I ever marry again, I want it to last forever…
What am I talking about! Marriage? Never again! Or in the wise words of my Grandfather Mario—who also despised marriage, “Ni madres”— (may he rest in peace and not be reading this diary).
It’s true, when I got engaged, my grandfather warned me that marriage was murder. His exact words, “It kills you slowly until there is nothing of the original you left”—he said this in Spanish, while pretending to choke himself. Looking back, the old man was right…
Truthfully, I didn’t like being married, anyways. I don’t even know why I stayed. Then again, yes I do. It was the “GUILT,” or as I’ve formally labeled it during my therapy sessions, the “Damn Catholic Guilt.” You know, the “till death do us part” and “for better or for worse” guilt that Mexican women are held to at all costs. Well, it’s works: mainly because it’s implied that if you don’t stay, el infierno is a sure thing—too bad my soon to be ex-husband didn’t think he was held to the same standard. Seriously, is nothing sacred anymore!
Regardless, what’s done is done, I’m officially a soon to be divorcee. I’m not sure how I feel about it. It’s a strange feeling, you see: while I’m sad, I’m also relieved. I’m glad he left—that way I didn’t have to. Even so, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was devastated at first. Ok, maybe shocked is the better word.
I say shocked because when I first opened the closet and saw all his clothes was gone, I didn’t know whether to jump for joy or cry. I’m being serious. I’m so confused, I’m like a crazy bi-polar b****. I can’t even assure myself, with certainty, that I’m sane anymore. I mean there are days I’m sad, and then days I’m happy, and then there are days I want to burn our house down with all its memories.
My therapist assures me the roller-coaster of emotions I’m feeling are normal, given the sudden loss of my marriage. He reminds me that with any tragic event, one must past through the seven emotional phases of grief (shock, disbelief, denial, bargaining, guilt, depression, acceptance).
I’m not entirely sure which phase I’m in right now. I’m even starting to think the phases don’t apply to me because I’m experiencing an additional phase—the anger phase — or as I would prefer to call it, the “loca” phase because the word anger, just doesn’t do what I’ve done justice…
Let’s just say that after the shock/disbelief phase, I fell into a mad craziness of sorts—the kind of crazy that only a fellow Latina can relate to: for a week, I drowned myself in junk food and Paquita del Barrio. I also didn’t comb my hair or leave the house—and even more depraved—you’re not going to like this Virgencita, but I feel I need to come clean: I hit up a local bruja to put a spell on my husband.
In my defense, any girl in my shoes would have done the same. Not only did he leave and not tell me he was leaving, but he also emptied our bank account—the only money I had access to. I think this is what hurts me the most, his complete disregard for my well-being. After giving him six years, he just up and leaves like nothing. Never mind all I did for him and his career! Never mind all the shit I put up with from his rich snobby ass mother! Never mind all the times I wanted to leave and stayed because he begged me to! He promised he’d change, that the affairs were over, that he loved me!
No, I don’t feel bad for putting the spell on him. He deserved it. And the spell is only the start of my revenge…
Well Virgencita, thanks for listening. Until next time, I’m off to pawn every piece of jewelry in the house and find a good attorney—I should probably find a job too—and go to confession for being such a bad Catholic…
Wish me luck—I need it! #Virgencitadontfailmenow
PS. You know my therapist was right, this whole diary thing does help…
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