Apparently I am the Villain Now

Apparently, I’m the Villain Now. 

Well, that escalated beautifully.

Apparently, somewhere between “everything finished” and “start the divorce documentation,” I was quietly handed a new role.

The Villain. I didn't audition. 

Nobody sent me the script.  There wasn't even a costume fitting.

Yet somehow, here I am. The ungrateful wife. 

The difficult woman. The one who supposedly wanted the divorce.

What a fascinating rewrite of history. I almost want to applaud.

Because apparently the easiest way to become the good guy is to let the other person carry the ending.

Very efficient. Very elegant. Very cowardly.

And before anyone gets confused— No.

I am not heartbroken because I secretly want him back. I don't.

I'm angry because apparently the person who finally stops holding the door open gets blamed for closing it.

That's the part nobody talks about. People see the final action.

They don't see the exhaustion that came before it.

They see: “She filed for divorce.”

They don't see the years before that sentence.

The waiting. The distance. The compromises. The uncertainty.

The countless moments when I swallowed something because I thought keeping the peace was somehow the same thing as keeping a marriage alive.

They don't see how many versions of myself I edited.

Hair shorter or longer. Makeup or no makeup.

Perfume or no perfume. Jeans or not jeans. Louder or quieter.

More “behaved.” Less myself.

Apparently I was supposed to keep giving pieces of myself until the marriage finally became sustainable.

Spoiler: It wasn't.

And now, because I'm the one who has to deal with the paperwork, suddenly I'm the villain. 😂

That's adorable. It's almost as if the paperwork itself filed for divorce.

Maybe next time I'll ask the photocopier to explain itself.

Because let's be very clear about something: He told me to start the divorce process.

So if I actually start it, apparently I've become the woman who destroyed the marriage.

That's impressive.

Tell someone to walk toward the exit and then accuse them of leaving.

That's not irony. That's fucking acrobatics. 

But perhaps that's how some endings work. One person gets to tell the story.

The other person gets to live with what actually happened.

And I'm done fighting for control of the narrative.

Call me ungrateful. Fine.

Call me selfish. Fine.

Call me the woman who couldn't appreciate everything she had. Fine.

You can even make him the misunderstood hero who tried so hard while his terrible wife finally walked away.  

Have fun with the screenplay.

Just don't ask me to memorize it. Because I know what happened to me.

And I know what I gave. I know how hard I tried. I know how many times I adjusted myself. 

And I know the difference between being grateful and being obligated to stay.

Those are not the same thing.

I can be grateful for the good things. I can acknowledge the help I received.

I can remember beautiful moments.  

And still say: I don't want this life anymore.

That doesn't make me ungrateful. It makes me finished.

And maybe that's the word nobody wants to hear.

Not angry. Not bitter. Not desperate.

Finished.

There's a particular kind of freedom that comes when you stop trying to convince people that you're a good person.

Because suddenly you realize:  They don't have to understand you for you to know yourself.

So if I'm the villain in somebody else's version— fine.

Give me the black dress. Turn down the lights. Cue the dramatic music.

I'll walk into the sunset looking absolutely fucking fabulous.

Because I have spent enough years trying to be the good woman in somebody else's story.

Now I'd rather be the complicated woman in my own.

And if that makes me the villain? Good.

Villains get to stop explaining themselves.

And I'm very, very tired of explaining.