Trainwreck divorce: What do you do when your ex breaks into your house and throws your clothes into the garden?

Finding zen in the strangest of circumstances

This post was written in early June, as part of a flurry of writing I was doing and then forgetting to post.

“It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.”

I do love that quote, originally attributed to Abraham Lincoln.  I have been mulling it over lately.  I wonder if there is an action equivalent…such as, “It is better to let them think you’re an ass than to behave like a cretin and remove all doubt.”  

You heard it here first.  You may quote me on that.

I received a call from a concerned neighbour today about the radical state of disrepair of my house.  This is the former “family home” which is still my home and still the home of my children.  The wife left our home, moved to another country, and occupied an investment property so that she could bring the asset into the pool of marital assets.  But you could fit the entire house into our living room.  The things people do.

What I don’t understand, other than that we rent the family home, so her staying there would have meant fewer assets in the marital pool, was that her reason was “to be closer to the kids.”  Fair enough.  Only honey, the kids like to be at home, in their rooms, surrounded by their stuff, their memories, not living in some dinky little place next to their boarding school.

Must have looked good on paper.  But the reality must just contribute to her anger.  The kids end up spending most of their “free time” at home with me.

“Your house is an eyesore.  It looks abandoned.”

“I’ll be home soon.”

“There are boxes all over the garden.  Clothes.  It’s been raining.  What’s happening?”

“What do you mean, ‘clothes’?” I asked.

“Yeah, there are clothes scattered all over the front garden.”

Anyway, this was a bizarre conversation that woke me up today.  When I was planning my departure for surgery, knowing that I would be away for three months, I was very worried about one thing.  That was that my wife would take advantage of my absence to break into the house and snoop, steal, do whatever.  I had a real fear of this.

My “adult” kids wanted to be able to go home, but I wouldn’t let them while the divorce is still active as I was afraid that my wife would use their presence as an excuse to gain entry.

“We would never let her in,” they affirmed.

“She’s your mother.  I would never ask that of you.  And anyway, you know perfectly well that she would just go in.  So, what, you’d physically stop her.  No way.  And you shouldn’t.  She’s your mother.”

They didn’t quite believe me that she would force her way in.  I was mortally afraid that she would gain entry while they were there, and this would inject poison and suspicion into my relationship with my children.  I can thank my lucky stars that this is not how things played out.

Now my kids know that a part of their mother which they didn’t believe existed is very much real.

While my children were gathered around me, and I was essentially confined to a bed as I recovered from what is one of the most profound surgical operations available, my wife broke into the family home, and made off with whatever she chose to make off with.  I actually don’t know yet, though I will find out very soon.

Since the place was locked up like Fort Knox, she will have had to break through two sets of chains, three deadbolts with different keys on two doors at the front, and innumerable internal doors.  She did this once before—break through the internal doors—and did so much damage to my bedroom door that you can’t just change the lock, but have to change the door.  I shudder to think the kind of damage that has been wrought inside.

Helpfully, my neighbour has colourfully told me that my clothes are now scattered around the garden and enjoying plentiful Spring showers.  I suspect it will be my nicest stuff.  It appears that she’s like that.  It has this sense of art-house French cinema…I wonder if she shouted at all as she threw stuff off the upstairs balcony.

Had I found out when she did it two months ago, I would have freaked.  Mainly since I would have been so helpless to do anything about it.  I’m still logistically helpless as I won’t be home for another ten days or so, but I am no longer literally helpless, confined to no more than 3 times per day on my feet for no more than 10-15 minutes each…and with ice packs strapped to my vulva 24/7 to bring the swelling down.  

Nope.  I am galivanting.  Feeling good.  Aching to get my body back.  I am struggling to get my weight down to pre-surgery levels, and can’t wait to start exercising again.  Now that I have a woman’s body that I love and cherish, I want it to be slim and trim and lithe and to last me for years and years to come so that I may savour every moment.

Today, I lay out in a bikini, soaking up the California sun, and feeling so freakin’ blissed out despite the crazy ass goings on at home.  Later, I went and had my nails done for the first time since before surgery.  Vocal lessons are going on weekly, and I am gradually, little by little, changing my voice.  It is a tough slog, and finding a place, a new place, that I am willing to, wanting to inhabit, is going to take a lot of work.

My voice has always been described as a beautiful voice…I can’t hear that.  But it feels right.  Only a ladylike voice that still feels like me would feel more right.  So, I am committed.

I switched vocal coaches to a trans woman.  I have had group classes, and some private lessons with a very able cis woman.  But somehow, when a trans woman shows you what is possible, it is more inspiring…there is no room for excuses.  This particular trans woman is a voice specialist with a particular expertise.  She takes people who already have their voices but struggle to integrate them into their lives.  I don’t have that, so technically, I am not advanced enough, but after a lesson with her, she decided to take me on anyway, because of my attitude.

She had been a substitute teacher in a group class, and I resonated with her for other reasons too.  She is absolutely stunning and when she shows you boy voice, it creates cognitive dissonance—there is no whiff of the man about her, unless she chooses to speak it.  She also finds a way to bring emotion into her students—she makes all of us cry.  There is a trans trigger, and she knows how to work it, and harnesses this energy to get us to do the heavy lifting.

I will admit that I am not very good at doing my homework or my exercises, at least not without being taught by someone I want to be a good girl for.  She is less than half my age, but oozes Domme, and is an inspiration.  So I can’t wait to start with her in earnest.

Today, after my nails, the weather was balmy I decided to go for a long walk through a neighbourhood that I really love but haven’t visited much since surgery.  I said goodbye to a shopkeeper of a shop that has sold me the ultimate dominatrix outfit—she’s a total sweetheart.  And I found my way into a spiritual/crystal shop that I had bought a few pieces in before surgery, and to which one of my children had gone to buy me a healing crystal.

A quick aside on this crystal.  One of the frequent complications in sex change surgery is that some of the stitches give out.  If you can imagine the stress that gets put on your groin area, you can get an idea why.  60% of bottom surgeries end up with problems such as these.  It isn’t pretty if one of your new labia detaches and rolls up like venetian blinds. Regardless, any such problems cannot be corrected until all healing is done…and a revision will be required.  One of my stitches separated, almost all the way.  It was held by one last stitch in the middle.

I asked my doctor what to do.  The response?  “Try not to spread your legs so much.”  My bad.  It’s kinda funny.  My child went in search of magic and ended up in this shop to purchase something for me.  I had indicated that I would like a small pendant of the Goddess Kali, so that was confirmed, but when they came home, I was given a large clear quartz crystal.  For those in the know, it is a powerful healer.

I wore it in my underwear right next to the wound.  I’m not kidding about miracles or the miracle of the human body, but the torn seam sealed shut.  It worked.  And I can now safely say that I am a part of the 40% who get through this surgery without complications.  Touch wood.

So today, I found my way into this shop and the owner recognised me immediately.  I like her a lot.  She kept calling me ‘baby’.  No priors.  Swears.  I told her, “if you keep calling me ‘baby’ I am going to shop in here forever.”

“Yes baby,” she said.  “I can see you.”  I’m telling you, witches.

I was after moldavite.  “Do you have any moldavite?”

“Too strong for you baby,” she said.

“I can handle it.  I’m strong.”

“Too strong for you baby.  Tectite instead.”  Similar properties, much milder.

“But where can I get moldavite?” I asked.

“We sell it.  You’re not ready baby.”

“Okay.  May I see the tektite.”

“Show my baby the tektite,” she directed one of her acolytes.  As it is with stones, one in the pile spoke to me and was soon nestled in my hand.  It lies, as black as coal next to my feet as I write.  Very present.  It is a stone of accelerated transformation.

We got onto the crystal she had placed in my panties via my child, and how it healed me.

“That was your child?”

“Yes.”

“Beautiful, calm energy.”

“Yes.  A sweetheart.”

“Baby like you.”

“Ha.”

“Your real child?”

“Yes.”

“I remember.  Wanted Kali for ‘papa’.  You are ‘papa’.  But you have mama in you baby.”

“I know.  I am only ‘papa’ for my children, ‘mama’ for everyone else.”

“Strong baby.  You well now?”

“Yes.  All gone,” I said making a gesture to my nether regions to show what was there was no more.  Her eyes widened.

“So beautiful,” she said, “so happy for you baby.  Are those real?” she asked waving towards my chest, “no padding, no nothing?”

I gave them a squeeze.  “They’re real.  I can make milk.”

“Really baby?  Oh my.  Goddess.  You’re a Goddess.”  If that doesn’t put a spring in your step, I don’t know what will.

I was energized to walk over an enormous hill to get home.  14,000 steps today.  Pretty good.  I am almost back to my daily walking average, and if I keep at it like this, I will be holding steady.

My vulva is still a bit swollen, the labia are “fat”…but that’s okay.  They are the part of my new anatomy that take the longest to lose the swelling.  That and the mons pubis.  But it almost looks completely normal.  Amazingly my scars are almost completely invisible in place.  I still have the five cuts in my abdomen which you can see clearly, pink outlines around white scars, but they will heal in time.  And all will be good.

P.S. I will share what awaited me when I arrived home in due time.  

P.P.S. As you can imagine, this act has made into legal correspondence. How many of you actually believe that my wife did not read either my legal correspondence or all of my personal diaries when she broke into my private office? She swears she didn’t, but the upended filing cabinet says otherwise. My favourite part? She will have seen a photo of yours truly with the new Ms. BeyondNonBinary on my desk. Priceless