NOTE: As I mentally deconstruct the demise of my marriage, I am publishing a series of short essays about things that happened, the way I felt, and so on. It's intended to illustrate my mental state at the time, and provide a kind of chronicle of my emotional state, hopefully helping me not make the same mistakes in future relationships.

9/17/03 1:50 AM: In ... let's see, four days now I'm gonna meet with Yuri for the last time.

I've been to therapy, I have locked in my mind what I'm supposed to talk to her about. I'll likely not have notes, because I've promised not to disclose our emotional conversations on the website (all of a sudden she's super private about what happens between us, as if it matters anymore). Saturday. 3PM. A Denny's in Culver City. A nice civilized conversation about why our marriage failed and how we're dealing with that. Uh huh.

To be wholly honest with you, I'm dreading it. More than I dread doing my taxes, more than I dread paying my bills, more even than I dread the sight of a black-and-white cruiser sliding into view in my rear view mirror. Seeing Yuri is the absolute last thing I wanna do. But I would like my CDs back (apologies to Sam Kinison), I stand to gain a nice lamp out of the bargain, and I will finally be able to have a conversation my therapist swears I should have.

I finally gave up waiting for her to email me back and left a voice mail on her phone, saying I was ready to meet. I've been ignoring the concept of it for some time -- we have some paperwork to finalize (here's a quick hint about me -- I don't give a rat's ass for paperwork, especially where it regards Massa looking into what happens in my personal life). Then, as a lark, I changed one of the IDs in my Instant Messenger client (dammit, why can't I delete people in iChat?) to the ex-wife's AOL email.

Sure enough, she popped up a few days later. She was checking email while waiting for another of her endless deluge of classes to start. We got down to brass tacks (what does that mean? I've never even seen a brass tack ...) and decided on a time and place. I laughed because the Denny's is one I've been avoiding, it's had some bad service issues and is badly located based on my karaoke wanderings. I agreed to it, she went back to her endless toil, and I was left with the shadow of our meeting lingering over my week.

Even worse, my bastard iPod keeps coughing up every possible breakup and depressing song it can come up with. I know I've got rowdy stuff and new stuff on there -- I had to manually choose "Jimmy Mathis" because I wanted to hear the harmonica sample, and I have this whole new Zap Mama album on there -- but noooo, it goes for "As" by Stevie Wonder (which I sang to her, years ago, as we were getting serious and I actually teared up), or "Disappointment" by the Cranberries, or "He Loves Me (Lyzel in E Flat)" (which I put on a special CD and sang to her after she asked me "why do you stay with me?" at one point when she wasn't that horrible to be around and still would have sex with me on a regular basis), or "This Can't Be All Wrong" and "Everything She Wants" and "Great Divide" by Vertical Horizon, and so on and so on. I swear to shai the bastard machine is messing with me ...

I've tried to shrug it off -- smile at the pretty girls, keep writing, keep working, and all. Sing less ... hang on ... oh, now it plays ATCQ's "Scenario" -- bastard. Anyway, I go out and sing more peppy, less maudlin music. But I feel like one of those crash test dummies in the slow motion commercials. I'm rushing towards the wall and there's nothing that can stop it.

Last week, I saw Fight Club for the first time. I loved it so much, it instantly became one of my all-time favorites. I struggled to remember why I didn't see it when it came out. I now remember that it seemed a little "extreme" for my super-nice girlfriend in 1999, and that I didn't see it to keep from offending her delicate sensibilities. Yuri was my girlfriend then. Even at that early stage, I was stifling my natural urges to fit into the box she was making for me. This drives me so crazy right now.

I sat down with my agent (best selling novelist Jenoyne Adams, who's actually working to represent this very collection of essays as a published book, whee) today, and we talked a lot about these things. The natural backsliding I'd feel when I'd drive through Culver City near her job. The way I'd almost say, "Yuri, warm up the chair," as they got ready to announce the verdict on a lawyer show, as I'd done so many times. The time I almost called another woman "Yuri" in the throes of passion. I've developed "new material," saying new things and doing things different ways, and most of the time it's great, I'm chipper and happy and okay.

Knowing that interaction with her is merely days away, it's all papier mache, inconsequential and all too easy to poke through.

I once remarked that being married is like guaranteeing that you'll never get another present you want (if you're a guy, anyway). Divorce is like always carrying laundry detergent in your car, the existence of an emotional nomad. It's a bandsaw amputation in slow motion, with painkillers that fail you when you least expect it.

I don't want Yuri back. I'm not in love with her anymore. Given some of my latter-day revelations, I'm not even sure I like her anymore. There's virtually no way I could ever be happy with her. I'm happier without Yuri in my life. I know that. I could show you a million ways -- from the taste of another woman's lips to knowing that the scissors are on the right side of the desk because nobody could have moved them. She told me I'd miss the things she did for me, taking care of me, but I haven't -- my new "free dry cleaning" gag is helping keep the clothes under control, my house is largely mess free with avoiding making messes (I have one dish in the sink, a wine glass I filled in a moment of pique with juice). I'm considerably better off economically, socking away some money every month. Compared to the misery I felt this time last year, straining under the mortgage as I slaved away for AOHell and waited for that day.

The difference now is that there's no good seeing her can bring into my life. I wrote some Dancing in the Dark essays that I completely forgot about, because I am doing better, because I am so happy that they (and the fact I am divorced) were so far from my mind.

No more. I'm having a hard time with it, but writing helps, and dreaming of happiness helps, and singing helps, and friends help. I am not dodging or sublimating the pain (or the shame, or the guilt, or the outrage, or the fear, et cetera). I just have to get through this awful hour or so, and hope I'm doing right, that somehow this break is still healing, even after I'll have to walk on it one more time.