This is how I dealt with the first year of my separation from my husband of 21 years, my best friend of 27. It started innocently enough online — those idiotic free readings. I would be on that site three or four times a day and night hoping each time for a different reading. I simply wanted an answer to my now out-of-control world. I then progressed to an actual appointment with some woman in Hapeville that I had heard about on the radio. Her house had the distinctive odor of kitty litter that lingered in my nose for weeks, and it was decorated like a giant sized playhouse. Glittered stars hung from the ceiling along with pastel colored scarves and an endless array of Christmas lights. She told me my husband was gay and had homosexual encounters; she even went so far as to consult a “psychic” friend over the phone that confirmed it. I left there feeling stunned and stupid. She assured me that he did love me, that we really were soul mates, and that we would be the best of friends in the years to come with our respective lovers (his being a man). I eventually talked myself out of this reading, but not without consulting a few girlfriends on the way. They all agreed that this might explain his “rapid departure” and not very solid reasoning.
Mr. Lewis once told a mutual friend that he grew tired of coming home to pizza boxes on our $15,000 stove — thus the definite need to blow up our family. Bullshit.
After going over this one obsessively for a while, I then decided to shake myself a martini or two and watch the Food Channel until 3 a.m.
The next day I made an appointment with a divorce Lawyer. He had only been gone 30 days; I guess I instinctively knew what was next. I then met a now wonderful girlfriend at a divorce retreat. And guess what? She habitually consulted psychics. I convinced myself the universe was speaking to me, and these odd, yet intriguing, people would eventually provide me with the answers. After an afternoon martini (or two), we visited her psychic. He was a lovely English man with no shoes, warm face, and an intriguing accent, which made me want to believe everything he said. He told me I was not going to get a divorce, that this was a horrible mid-life crisis, and that he would come back to me in May. It is now June. He too assured me that he loved me, and we were soul mates, but he would want to leave again in his 50s after we lived overseas. Now this was a lot to take in. Once again, I obsessed over this reading, watched the Food Channel until 2 a.m. and experimented with a mango martini, which was quite yummy. I decided it would be my summer drink of choice. At least I go that out of the way.
My last psychic visit (yes, I went back) said that he was an asshole, was only concerned about money, and had a girlfriend who dumped him when he told her he had left his wife. This one I believe.