I Heart Talking to Myself

We've all seen or been that child sitting in a corner, with dolls or a bat-mobile, simultaneously pretending to be both villain and good guy. No one ever told me to stop pretending, so I talk to myself constantly. Instead of cop and robber, I rehash missed come back lines to perfection and imagine future discussions prematurely with a little self absorbed vocal pollution. I've been divorced now for seven years, but there is one conversation I still rehash often.

It was apparent my ex wasn't going to win any awards for her communication skills; Troubles would arise and my requests to verbally resolve them, along with suggestions to attend couples therapy, were ignored. I suspected she was having an affair and straightforwardly asked if she was, on several occasions. Not satisfied with her denials, I did some research.

Getting the phone records was easy. While most phone calls were made to my parents or hers, I would call unknown numbers if I couldn't find the number in my data hungry organizer. After a few days and dozens of calls, I came across Stephen's number.

Finding his number on the list was no surprise, but it wasn't until I matched the dates of these calls to my social calendar that I knew something was going on. Confronting her at this point would have solved nothing, because this wasn't proof. I decided I had to hear one of these phone conversations and with the help of a simple Radio Shack device, I did. I'd turn the recorder on whenever I was out and, upon returning from an overnight work trip to Peoria, I hit the mother load: The best and worst phone calls I could have every hoped for or feared.

The first of two calls was Stephen checking his voice mail from my house. The second was an hour long conversation with accounts of their entire relationship: Initial intimate encounters, deception tactics, and how she was going to eventually leave me. When I finished listening, I was appropriately white faced and shaking. A good friend drove me to my parents house where I retold the story, cried to my lawyer cousin while soliciting advice, and stalled my inevitable return home till I knew my ex would be asleep.

I was awake when my ex shook me on the couch, to tell me she was leaving for work. As soon as she drove away, I retrieved boxes from my car to pack up her belongings. I delivered them to the house of her confused and teary grandmother. Lastly, I left a note in her car: "I will never talk to you again, unless it is through a lawyer."

Strangely, I was happy. I had suffered our marriage (and attempts to save it) for so long that, having the end in sight was a relief. Not talking to her ever again, as the note suggested, was merely wishful thinking. We talked for hours as she sobbed and pleaded with me to reconsider. I was unreceptive to her suggestions about therapy at this point, but she had asked so many times (pleaded really,) that I reluctantly agreed to go. It was at this point that I lost the upper hand and she told me she didn't think the marriage would work out. In the frustrating, commonly rehashed version of this conversation, I never agree to counseling.

I generally use talking with myself for more constructive, future realm conversations. Like talking with a hiring manager about a job in Seattle. For a week I have been prematurely hashing together this possible 2nd interview by imagining concerns and squashing them with precise, intelligent arguments while in the shower, car, or alone in my office. I'm as prepared as I can be and I'm looking forward to talking to myself about the third interview.