I’m still single 20 years after my divorce – men called me 'damaged goods'

I’m still single 20 years after my divorce – men called me ‘damaged goods’

Robbie* and I met when I was 21, and he was 29, and the early days of our relationship were passionate and spontaneous – we went on holiday within a few weeks of our first date and were living together within two months. We were besotted with each other, and it wasn’t long before we started discussing marriage. My parents married at a similar age, and their relationship was still going strong, so I had hope that, no matter how impulsive it seemed to plan a wedding so soon, it would work out. (Photo: Supplied).

Cracks begin to show

The cracks in our relationship started to show not long after we returned from our honeymoon. The early passion gave way to domestic drudgery. We would bicker about little things like housework, while not addressing some fundamental flaws in our marriage. The biggest one being that Robbie was broody, and I couldn’t imagine having kids in my immediate future, or ever. I began to suffer from depression at 24, and was put on medication for my mood that wiped out my libido. Our sex life was non-existent, and sometimes I even flinched when Robbie tried to touch me. As well as depression, I started to experience paranoia, and was convinced Robbie was cheating on me. Just after our third wedding anniversary, I found myself compelled to look at his emails and texts in the middle of the night. We were arguing every day, we were both miserable, and Robbie was emotionally distant. I wondered if he was looking for a way out of the marriage. (Photo: Getty).

Confrontation led to pain

I took his laptop into the living room and browsed through his history. He’d been on a dating site that day, and the password was saved, so I logged on. There were over 20 chats, some of which ended when a meet-up was arranged or phone numbers were exchanged. I noticed the account was created three weeks after we got married. Three weeks? The ink on the marriage certificate was barely dry. I immediately confronted him, telling him the marriage was over. He went on the defensive, telling me he hadn’t cheated, that it was all “just talk”. He then tried to turn it around on me, blaming my lack of intimacy on his seeking affection elsewhere, which was really hurtful. My parents and friends encouraged us to try marriage counselling, but I didn’t see the point – in my eyes, the relationship was beyond repair. I moved back home with my parents, humiliated about the end of the relationship. (Photo: Kawee Srital-on/Getty).

Trying to get back into dating

I was just 25, and while we were both deeply unhappy, it doesn’t mean the break-up was easy. I spent the rest of my twenties watching people I loved get hitched, while still processing the end of my own marriage. We were separated for a year before the divorce was finalised, and during that time, I tried to get back into dating but found it hard to trust anyone. When I did go on dates, the men I met were wary about dating a divorcee, often “joking” about my emotional baggage, with one saying before we met that they wouldn’t date someone who was going through a divorce, because they were “damaged goods”. I already felt embarrassed about getting a divorce in my twenties, without the judgement of strangers making me feel worse. It was a sentiment that was never levelled at my ex-husband, who was happily dating weeks after we split. Robbie was friends with my brother and sister-in-law, and I would often see his face on my social media timeline. A couple of years after our separation, he remarried and had a longed-for baby boy, and I was genuinely happy for him. (Photo: Getty).

Accepting myself and healing

We kept in touch now and then: he messaged when he found out my mum was terminally ill, and I reciprocated when his dad passed away suddenly. We made vague plans to meet for a coffee one day, knowing it would probably never happen. I dated but struggled to make a relationship last, and realised I was a lot happier single. Time helped me heal from the pain of my divorce, but still I knew in my heart that kids weren’t something I wanted, and that was a deal breaker for some potential partners. (Photo: Getty).

Hit with shock

However, a decade ago, I had some shocking news. I found out Robbie had died, awaiting a kidney transplant. Years of long-forgotten feelings poured out of me. Shock, sadness, anger, pain and confusion. I was inconsolable but couldn’t work out why I was so upset. I had no claim to him. We hadn’t shared a home, a life or a surname for eight years. I was happier without him, but that didn’t mean I didn’t still want him as a small part of my life, somewhere, silent, in the background. Once a person is out of your life, the assumption is that you no longer have the right to be upset. But there is a term for mourning a loss that falls outside societal norms: disenfranchised grief. It encompasses losses like mine, or the death of a lover who was married to someone else and never really yours. It also covers non-death losses such as infertility or the end of a platonic friendship. (Photo: Getty).

Finding support from a new community

When I posted about his death on social media, friends messaged that my grief was “over the top”. So I scoured the internet for people who would understand my feelings and found forums full of others whose pain had been questioned by society. People separated for decades, but who still ached from the loss of a former partner. I was comforted to know I wasn’t alone, but saddened by the scale of private mourning. People may dismiss your feelings because of their own prejudices, but just because they wouldn’t mourn the loss of an ex doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to. I’m not ashamed of the pain I felt now that he’s no longer here, and I don’t know if I’ll ever truly get over his death. Although we kept in touch, there was no real closure when we split. We always promised each other a proper chat about things left unsaid. And that’s the real kicker, there is no real resolution when you didn’t have the opportunity to say goodbye properly. Now at 44, I am happy to date casually, but don’t see myself ever living with a partner or getting married again. I am too comfortable in my own company and don’t need a man to disturb my peace. (Photo: Getty).