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Category: Tragic Divorce
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People are not disposable to me, and the following letter to my former boss proves just that. I am not allowed to send it, which I understand, but I just needed to write it.
Paul,
When we gathered in the library two Fridays ago for an emergency meeting, I linked arms so tightly with Kelly. Steve had summoned us there, and your absence was so palpable. Fearing the worst, we braced ourselves for the shock of hearing that another heart attack had claimed a person we loved so dearly.
Boy, did we get that one wrong! What we heard left us shaken to the core and feeling like one of us just might perish from a myocardial infarction. And, we didn’t even know the real punchline to what we deemed some sort of surreal “joke” at that point.
I have to tell you that never in a million years would I have thought your arrest would arrive this way. Getting in a bar fight, driving under the influence, even doing the dirty with a mommy or a staff member were quite plausible possibilities with you, and there would be nary a flinch from most of us if one of those scenarios came to fruition. After all, you lived life on the edge, and we loved you for it. But, the story that was exposed was so vile, so heinous, so unexpected, and so out of character that so many of us still can’t wrap our heads around it.
Social media is destructive; you told the kids that all the time. You would sit them down and drill through them that what one does on social media can cause lifetime damage. You spoke of sharing with your own kids that they should be hyper-vigilant about posting anything that could be even slightly questionable, even mentioning that Snapchat posts do not disappear after 10 seconds. You would hold assemblies where you would rage with frustration that you had spent the entire day with Seth and with cops, immersed in HIB investigations resulting from cyber-harassment. Pardon my French, but what the hell?
You are everywhere. Somebody sent an email out the other day after finding a pair of Foster Grants reading glasses, and I imagined you answering that email with the old slogan, “Isn’t that you behind those Foster Grants?” When I’m driving and one of Pink’s songs plays, my mind goes to you and to your crush on her. Last week was the Advisory Day Senior Prom, and I just kept thinking about the number of marriage proposals you missed out on from the female octogenarians, who, like us, found you so charming.
Walking into the building and seeing your once vibrant office devoid of even the slightest shrapnel of you is downright eerie. Such a powerful presence for so long, now just a door without a nameplate. Stories spin in our heads as we try to make sense of what will happen to you, to us, to the people of Denville, and, most importantly, to the thousands of children who revered you and who will now forever question even what seems certain to them.
Personally, you were my rock, my friend, and my vault. You were one of the five who knew my story and my pain, and you provided me with a sanctuary. For 7 hours each day, my classroom allowed me to be 100% in the now, with no time to visit my tragic past. I would tell the kids that they were, like Alanis Morrissette sang, “the best platform from which to jump beyond myself.” Paul, your laissez-faire approach to administrating made me a better teacher, and it was a win-win for both of us. You left me alone, and, without sounding egomaniacal, I was able to shine at what I did. God, I miss you.
Valleyview will survive and move forward. Seth will continue to steer the ship, and we’ll all be his first mates and stay afloat. It will take a while, but this story will be replaced by another shocker. That’s how life goes. What will remain, however, are the questions surrounding your hidden heartbreak that led you to a very dark place. May you get the help you need, because so many of us know that it wasn’t our Paul who behaved so irresponsibly, dangerously, and narcissistically. It was somebody who was determined to hit rock bottom, aided by the heavy anchor of a complicated and disturbing past.
God bless you, my friend.
Marla
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I woke up about 5:30 this morning, which is late for a work day but early for a weekend. Though my practical mind was telling me to stay up and finish my SGO, PDP, Domain 4, and PD Log, my lazy self was promoting just a few more minutes of shuteye. It is typically during these “just a few more minutes” moments when the nightmares occur, so I really did combat my lazy self when she told me to go back to sleep.
My Rebecca, also known as my Mishamooey, was in my dream this morning, and she was resting on me. My arm was lovingly around her, as it so often was when she was in my life. There had certainly been palpable tension amongst the various ensemble characters in my dream, but for five or so magical minutes, my Rebecca surrendered and let me love her. I was actually crying when I woke up.
It is Rebecca who is a mini-me in personality. Though she looks just like Jay, her joie de vivre and creative wit mimic mine. Unfortunately, I think that she, too, shares two faces – the animated face for the general world and the injured one for her own mirror. While I am certain that her demons have been blamed on me and the “mental illness” with which they have all diagnosed me, I can’t help but think of Jay’s maternal grandmother and her life in an institution. I’m also reminded of Jay’s youngest brother, who, on Passover, tried to kill himself by slitting his throat at his wife’s cousin’s house. Boy, were they able to answer the question, “Why is this night different from all other nights?”
Today, Trump is rallying his supporters with a new mind fuck. His current mantra is “Investigate the investigators,” which is, yet again, what sociopaths do. Taking his abhorrent and psychotic behavior and projecting it onto the good guys is dangerous and destructive, and he does it so seamlessly. He’s the master of “gaslighting,” a term I learned when my dad, years into his Alzheimer’s, warned me that Jay was doing to me.
For now though, I will think of my dream and of my Rebecca. I will smile as I think of my little Mishamooey in her favorite crab outfit, the one with the turquoise top and spandex pants. I will cherish the memories of my Beckles with her bottle hanging out of her mouth, wearing only tights and her guitar. I will laugh at my Boo pretending to be Taylor Swift and singing into her hairbrush, and I will stare at her prom pictures, in shock that somebody could be that beautiful. Most importantly, I will pray that she is well and happy, pregnant if she wants to be, and that maybe one day I’ll actually be able to hug her for real.
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Zachary left me four years ago today, and I’ll never understand why he didn’t show up at my house for the second night of Passover. I have his message from the night before, telling me he was jealous that I was heading to the Billy Joel concert and that he couldn’t wait to see me the following evening. I never heard from him, and he never showed.
It’s getting harder for me to deal with my “tragedy;” the more time that passes just hurls more reminders at me. Tonight was going to be an Olive Garden night, but all I hear in my head is Rebecca, with her way of making everything funny, saying the name “Gardin de Oleeve.” She would get so excited when she could get her Chicken Scampi, and I just miss her so much. I miss them all so much.
My mother has been writing me one sentence emails lately. Today she wished me a good vacation and sent me all her love. She thinks that makes up for the ostracism, abandonment, humiliation, and not loving me. I was going to send her what I’ve posted below, but instead I just wrote, “Happy Passover.”
Mom,
My vacation begins on the 19th.There is no therapist, medicine, partner, or salute to my strength that can take away my pain of not having my children in my life. Reminders are everywhere, from the Humira commercials to the Uncrustables in the supermarket to the children on the streets saying any version of my favorite word – Ma, Mama, Mom, or Mommy. Against your guidance, my entire identity was wrapped up in being a mom, and I did a darn good job at it (regardless of whatever fabrications have been told and altered to support this ostracism).There is also no ersatz message of love from you that can make up for the fact that you break bread with my ex-husband, a man who sought and still seeks to destroy me. You made the choice you did, deciding to be a part of Lisa’s story. Sadly, the moment I came into this world began Lisa’s unhealthy fear that I would infringe on her value and her due, and we never really connected as siblings should. For that reason, I encouraged my children to be a team and to always stick together.I’ve reached out to you over the past months and years because I love you and I wanted to believe that you loved me. I actually needed you to explain to me how your Sophie’s choice was so effortless. I miss all of my children so completely, and my love for them was always and still is unconditional. And, I’d give my eyeballs for one of them to write me an honest note like this and end it with, “I love you, Mommy.”Wishing you a happy and enlightening Passover with your growing family. -
Dear Rabbi Fellner,
I hope this note finds you and Judy well, and I’m wishing the both of you, along with Michelle and her family, the happiest and healthiest 2019.
Rabbi, as you know, the grapevine in Livingston is interminable and unforgiving. You
might have heard the news that Jay and I went through a vicious and tragic divorce several years back, and I lost all that ever mattered to me – my children (my adult children). I’ve been living in the 11th circle of Dante’s Inferno, the one reserved for moms who gave their all and devoted their lives to their children, only to wind up humiliated, ostracized, and abandoned. This circle is for the moms who changed their daughter’s ostomy bag, but won’t get to change their grandchild’s diaper. This circle is for the moms who were the cheerleaders and contributors throughout their kids’ educations and relationships, but who never got to see weddings or college and grad school graduations. This circle is for the moms who didn’t have any self-love.Rabbi, my friends call me the warrior, tell me that I’m the strongest woman they know,
and ask me how I manage to smile all the time. My students tell me that my passion for
teaching and my compassion for them make coming to school a joy. My therapist thanks me for making her feel special. I withdraw when I need to, but I usually show up to life every day, crack a joke or two, and somehow make a difference.Rabbi, you may recall that I wasn’t the religious one in the Jaffe household. I didn’t grow up with much religion; my interest was, at best, social and cultural. We moved to Livingston because it was a Jewish town and because it was the only place where Jay “allowed” us to live that wouldn’t require my kids to have to go to day school. Our house needed to be in walking distance to shul, and I had to promise to make the synagogue and Judaism the main focus of our world. As long as I abided by these rules, he wouldn’t harm me.
I can remember walking into Temple Beth Shalom twenty-two years ago, and I was awestruck by this erudite man who reminded me of what I imagined Oz to be. His voice was powerful yet soothing, his words were brilliant yet relatable, and his presence was intimidating yet welcoming. He became the reason that, week after week, year after year, I felt connected to a higher power. This man officiated at both my daughter’s Bat Mitzvah and at my dad’s funeral, and, though this man faced his own personal tragedy, he remained stoic and steadfast for all those who needed him. I miss that man dearly, so I’m writing to him.
Rabbi , the entire synagogue turned its back on me once my divorce was underway and
Jay started spewing his hatred towards me. Eighteen years as a member of a synagogue, and not one person cared about me or my side of the story. Jay was soft-spoken, wore a suit, and went to synagogue every Saturday, which was clearly enough for the clergy, the congregation, and even my comrades to also attach the word Abandoned on this Hester Prynne’s letter A. Believe me, I am not claiming innocence or purity of actions. I do, however, claim that I have never actively and intentionally sought the destruction of another human being. It became Jay’s life’s mission to destroy me, and, with the help of my children, my mother, and my sister, he nearly did.My Homeric epic has shocked most who know me, and the many Books of my tragedy would prove so heinous and inhumane that you would immediately know I couldn’t make the stories up. Even criminals eventually get pardoned, but I remain jailed in this proverbial prison from which I can’t escape. They and my love for them are everywhere. I am, after all, their mother.
Rabbi, I write to you to ask if we could meet for a cup of coffee. You see, I have no
connection to my religion whatsoever (except, of course, for my Fran Drescher voice and my unyielding adoration of Barney Greengrass Nova). I struggle to understand how disposable I was to my entire family, including my synagogue one. As Jews, we have been persecuted for thousands of years, and we remain incredulous that so many people turned their backs while generations were destroyed. Why then was I persecuted by my own people? -
Thanksgiving was always my family’s holiday. Whether my parents were taking us on a cruise, or we were just at my house or my sister’s house, it was the perfect day to celebrate the people for whom I was the most thankful – my family. This is not to say that Jay made it easy for me; in fact, he wielded the proverbial sword the most confidently and skillfully on Thanksgiving. You see, the more I wanted something, and the more something mattered to me, the more circles of Dante’s Inferno I needed to visit beforehand.
In an earlier blog entry, I mentioned the Thanksgiving when I was pregnant with Zachary. On my parents’ dime, we headed to South Florida, graciously including Jay’s family in our Thanksgiving plans. Against my mom’s better judgment, she acquiesced when Carol, Jay’s mom, picked the place to go for Thanksgiving dinner. Perhaps Carol was miffed that we didn’t want to have dinner at her place, or perhaps she was just being the instigator she always was when we saw her (which was infrequently), but a strip club by night serving an All-You-Can-Eat buffet by day was not exactly where I pictured my 4-year-old, my 17-month-old, or my pregnant self paying homage to the Pilgrims.
In addition to my folks, Jay’s folks, and the 4 of us, Jay’s grandmother and brother were also there. His grandmother didn’t even acknowledge me at my wedding (sometimes just a small vignette is enough to speak volumes), and his brother, poor thing, never experienced his testicles dropping. Joel lived in Orlando and, much like his town’s beloved Mickey, he, too, spoke in a very high-pitched voice. I actually once asked him about it, and he told me that Carol told him there was nothing wrong with him and he didn’t need to see a doctor. Be assured that her dismissal of anything wrong was not because she was the typical Bev Goldberg Jewish mother and that her Schmoopie was perfect the way he was; she just didn’t give a shit.
Dinner was inedible and uncomfortable, though not cheap. My poor Marissa ate only cookies that my mother found for her in a little section of the place that sold baked goods. Rebecca, thank God, was still enamored of her bottle, so at least she had some nourishment. My parents were horrified by the place, but not as horrified as when Jay’s father, Gerry, took the bill and announced to my father, “I’ll pay for myself, Carol, my mother, Joel, and Jay, and Al, you can pay for you, Bobby, Marla (that’s me), and the girls.” That’s how he saw things, as us versus them, and clearly my girls and I weren’t a part of his family. My parents flew us down, included them in our plans, put up with Carol’s acerbic tongue, and gave them the opportunity to see their grandchildren. You see, had we not come down, we would not have seen them until my son was born two and a half months later (that’s a story for another day).
As we were staying at my parents’ place, we had driven to the restaurant with my parents. My dad, a volatile turned docile man, was enjoying his grandchildren and his retirement so much that it was rare to see him lose it. But, when Gerry Jaffe poked the dormant bear that day by making it abundantly clear who he saw and didn’t see as his family, Alan Starsky started to spit fire. Justifiably angry, my dad let so much pour out that had been dormant, including the way Jay’s parents had treated me through the years.
Suffice it to say that Jay Jaffe welcomed me into an even lower circle of Dante’s Inferno after that car ride, as he swore through gritted teeth that we would never spend another Thanksgiving with my family …
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Every day, without fail, I get a reminder that my kids are no longer in my life. Whether it’s a colleague getting married, a little boy in the mall crying for his mama, passing the Uncrustables in the supermarket, or a commercial on television for Ulcerative Colitis or Crohn’s medications, the alarms of sadness are deafening.
Today, I had two blaring reminders, but only one was consequential and crippling. You see, I still insure my two younger kids on my health insurance. My daughter, who is 26 and a married lawyer, is on my plan, and my son, who is 24 and an accountant, is also on my plan. It was part of my divorce agreement, and, quite frankly, whether they’re talking to me or not, I wish that I could insure them forever. My insurance is that good, and their health is paramount.
That said, their Explanation of Benefits come to me, and seeing one in my mailbox sends me into a panic. I start begging God to not let it be an oncologist; last year, Zachary, who is on the immunosuppressant Humira, had a CT Scan of his left breast. I nearly passed out, as any mother would, and I recited my mantra, “Just let them be healthy and happy, even if I’m not a part of their lives.”
Jay is supposed to keep me updated on the kids’ well being, but he doesn’t. It is far too enjoyable for him to let me have all of the pain and none of the pleasure. No graduations, no weddings, no babies for me; I only get the torture of seeing that my kids went to doctors and not knowing why.
Today, Rebecca’s Explanation of Benefits and a reimbursement check to a radiologist arrived. All I could dissect was the doctor’s last name and that Rebecca had x-rays of an upper extremity. Again, this keyboard dances with my shaking fingers, as my mind runs wild and my palpitations blare.
Inhumane? Damn right it is.
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My intent on this blog is to have an outlet to share my painful story, and I hope I can do so with humor, with honesty, with self-deprecation, and with compassion. My writing has been on hold because of fear and because I don’t want to cause my children any pain. Ironic, right? They have completely abandoned me and publicly humiliated me, but I only want them to be happy and healthy. You know what that’s called? That’s called being a mom.
I’d like to address my username and the title of this particular entry. Throughout my twenty-four year marriage, if my husband and I were having any sort of disagreement, he would say, “You’re kuh-razy. You’re kuh-razy.” He would say it in front of the children and in a diabolically calm way, the way he said everything in order for people to believe that nothing could ever be his fault. “No, not Jay? Jay, who speaks so softly? Jay, the one who goes to synagogue every Saturday?”
Jay’s maternal grandmother lived in a psychiatric facility before we even started dating; he said she was bi-polar and crazy. She wasn’t kuh-razy, she was apparently just crazy. Shortly after Jay and I met in college, he planned on introducing me to his parents on Family Day. He told me that his dad was a great guy, but that his mom was crazy. He shared that, when he was young, he and his brothers used to beg the dad to divorce the mom because she was crazy. Clearly, Jay had his prevailing word of choice for any woman who was even the slightest bit challenging …
When my parents moved to Florida in October of 1993, I was 6 and a half months pregnant with my son. My dad had just turned 60 and my mom was only 56, and, like most grandparents, they missed us terribly. My parents paid, like they always did, for the 4 of us to fly down on Thanksgiving, and, knowing that Jay’s parents were in Florida also, my mother was going to make a reservation for everybody to go out to dinner. Jay’s mom, who was difficult and with whom Jay was not very close, said that she would make dinner in their condo for everybody. This, believe me, would not be a gesture without consequence, so my mother and I were keeping to the original plan of going out to dinner.
About a week before Thanksgiving, very late in the evening, I heard Jay on the phone with his mother. “Mom, we’re going to have to keep the plan of going out to dinner for Thanksgiving. Ever since Bobby and Al moved down to Florida last month, Bobby has been making Al’s life a living hell because she misses the kids so much. She’s crazy.”
A Martini Toast 