There’s a beautiful French song, À la claire fontaine, with that as a refrain: “il y a longtemps que je t’aime/jamais je ne t’oublierai.” It is also the title of the movie Joaquin and I saw Wednesday night, an odd tale of a woman released from prison who goes to live with her sister and has difficulty re-entering life, which he disliked and I liked. Of course, a film’s being French automatically raises it 20 points in my estimation, and even the streets of Nancy have that particular French logic and charm that appeals to me, so I am biased. But I know what I like. I like the texture of French, the warp and the weft of it, the differences in the muscles of the face and the turns of phrase, and absent a trip over the Atlantic anytime soon, I’ve made a resolution to see at least one French film per month. That, I think, will be as healthy for me as a regular yoga practice or a trip to the therapist, if not more so: there are few things in which I find so much pleasure.

Otherwise, the week has been up and down. I felt, earlier this week, a lifting of the immediate sense of the sorrow of having lost my husband and partner and lover, mostly based on the feeling that since K. is not that person, is no longer that person, no longer wants to be the person I thought he was/did  — not just with respect to me but in general — that it is appropriate. His treatment of me ranges from casual, superficial chatty (mostly about work, booze, minor rock stars, and the drug and partying habits of his coworkers) to contemptuous and rude; his engagement with the kids seems minimal; he does not repond when I try to talk to him about them or when I solicit his input on issues relating to their welfare (their mental state, their school plans, etc.).

Of course, I don’t know what goes on in his head. I just know that I have an increasingly clingy and anxious son and daughter and that my son continues to assert that he doesn’t love Daddy because Dadfdy doesn’t love him. And that Daddy remonstrates with him rather extremely for minor offensives (such as a diatribe about how WRONG it is to not cover your cough that went on for several minutes and was negative, e.g. “That’s wrong. That’s wrong. You have to stop doing that. That’s bad.” in a way that seemed to me out of proportion).

And I know that on Facebook he has a lot to say about what music he’s listening to and his Saturn return (to which he attributes this life change, at least in part). There were several Facebook updates Monday night to that effect. And it took all my restraint not to point out, on Facebook, that a)he’s not yet having his Saturn return and b)even if he were, many people get through theirs without dumping their wives, damaging their kids, and becoming only 10% parents.

He is not impressing me.

Part of what I’ve been dealing with this week is disappointment with him for dumping me. And that’s what it was. I believed that our commitment was at least great enough that any decision to split would involve communication and sincere effort to find another solution. I see now that he didn’t want to communicate or collaborate and that he felt he’d already expended the effort. So in that sense, our marriage was a sham. My sense of responsibility for/duty to it went on and on. His seems to have allowed him to make the unilateral and immediate decision to leave, regardless of the cost to me, to our future co-parenting relationship, and to a large degree, to the kids.

I can empathize with his feeling that it was wrecked and he should bail. Unfortuately, I don’t think he knows that because of that, he has treated our relationship with no respect and me, as a person, poorly. As we expressed in a counseling coversation a couple of weeks ago: he doesn’t see why we can’t be friends, because he doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong. I feel that the trust between us has been destroyed and that any attempt at being ‘friendly’ is token.

Because really, most of what we had going for us was his avowed commitment to and love of me and our family. And that made me put up with a lot, try to work with a lot, and forgive a lot: a lot of disregard, absence, poor parenting, poor self-care that impacted others, superficiality, lack of intelligent conversation, etc.

And now he doesn’t love me and he’s not committed to me, and I’ve seen his commitment to his children erode, and he’s just this guy who makes small talk about boring things, who wears makeup to hide breakouts, who loves fashion and gossipy magazines, who is excited about his bar job and his hairstyle and the minor celebrities who come in there and the cocktail recipes and who doesn’t have anything to say to me about anything of substance. I don’t know why I should be surprised — maybe there was never much there there. After all, I did supply the works of literature, subject, thesis, many of the ideas, and some of the verbiage for his senior thesis (go Reed ’08). He wanted to write about Radiohead.

So for a couple of days I felt like this: maybe it’s hard, but I’m better off without that. And maybe it sucks, but if he wasn’t that person then I don’t want to be with him.

But then last night I remembered that hauntingly beautiful song and all the hopes I had and all the depths I thought I saw in him, and I sat and cried. For a long time.

J’ai perdu mon ami,
Sans l’avoir mérité
Pour un bouquet de roses,
Que je lui refusai…

Je voudrais que la rose,
Fût encore au rosier
Et que ma douce amie
Fût encore à m’aimer

If wishes were horses.

And don’t even get me started on today’s comment: “Don’t you think the child support is ample enough?”

As though I were going on a cruise with it, or something.