time spent offline

When we both said we’re done and the judge signed off on the papers, they said I should anticipate seven stages of grief: Shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, testing, and acceptance. “In no particular order,” they emphasized. It was supposed to make one feel better; You will feel like shit, no doubt, but don’t worry if it’s in no particular order. But I knew there would only be six stages for me regardless of the order. “I think I’m depressed,” I say to her. This is years before; there are no judges, just a woman with a yellow notepad I’m hoping will see my tears and prescribes me the cure. “Chemically imbalanced,” I add for emphasis referencing my Psych 101 notes in between sobs. “Trust me you’re not depressed,” she says and adds I just need to do some internal housecleaning, that there’s a little girl in there (she points to her heart) trapped with all the debris. When time’s up, I leave. I never go back. And this time around when they say I should anticipate seven stages of grief, I know I will skip one naturally: Depression. I never get depressed, I rage. Google defines rage as a “violent and uncontrolled anger,” and if you search what causes anger, Google says “intense emotions like fear, frustration, or pain… feelings of helplessness.” I don’t get angry either, I rummage through the debris and I weep. Tears are the feminine expression of rage.

Men don’t cry. He yells instead; roars and rummages through the house looking for something to fix, exhaust his rage patching up perfectly fine fixtures. But for the most part we both stare at the TV, the screens: It numbs the fury. There are no tears, no yelling, roaring, rummaging through the debris when the screens are on. The screen noise pacifies us, it placates the fear, frustration, pain, and feelings of helplessness we silently endure. The screens are loud enough to distract us from having to face years of things left unsaid that piled up to the brim until we can no longer see each other through all the debris. “Are you listening?” I can’t, there is too much noise. “Can you put down your phone for a second?” I can’t, I need to numb the rage, I need to not feel because I’m afraid I won’t be able to handle what will surface, what the silence would reveal to me, if I stop scrolling for a moment.

Once in a while, he posts on Facebook how much he loves me, how happy… The likes and comments pour in. It sickens me, how much I crave the likes and comments, yet how little of the truth the post conveys. That night, lying next to each other, with no screens to numb the pain, I weep with the rage right up to my eyeballs. He laughs. “Why are you laughing?” I say in-between sobs. He doesn’t know, he says, he doesn’t know why but he continues to laugh. He’s so sorry, he adds laughing. That night, without the screens and exhausted from all the rage, I sleep like a baby. In the morning— my phone, the internet, the whole world far, far away from me, the silent reveals to me the truth I have been avoiding all this time: We can no longer manage the debris.

Those last few months, I turn to my diary ferociously. I spend most mornings outside, soaking up the sunshine and writing in my journal until I exhaust myself. I let the rage ran wild on the empty pages. “You’re still writing?” he asks surprised as he passes by me to get something from the garage. He never asks what I’m writing about: He knows, and he doesn’t want to know. I ignore him. He leaves me alone. The more I allow myself to express the rage—  away from the noise, the screens, the world all together, the truth begins to unravel itself. There is a certain peace that comes from surrendering to the truth; how heavy all the debris that’s been piling up over the years have become, how unbearable. This surrender to the truth frees me in ways no amount of ScreenTime can soothe me. Encouraged by this freedom, I turn my attention away from the internet and I go even deeper, inwards.

Those last few months, I make friends with beautiful summer days spent outside; I read, I write, I attend HIIT classes, and water the garden; In-between I dance the pain away. At night, when he gets home, we stare at the TV. One day, when he leaves and I can no longer pacify the rage, I can no longer fathom another night spent staring at the screens with all the things left unsaid between us suffocating us, I set the house on fire; burn it to the ground with all the debris. He never returns. The next day the status update on Facebook says no longer rummaging through the debris.