This is my journal entry from September 25, 2025, part of my daily autobiography The Kind Divorce — my real, unedited days, published in order.
my ex-wife absolutely went off on me today, and I can see how I contributed to it. The tension started last night. Around 9:30 p.m., she came out of the kids’ room after putting them to bed and sat down on the edge of our bed. I sat beside her. She looked completely drained—no spark, no energy left for the day. She didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to connect, and certainly had no interest in sex. I could tell she just needed rest, so I asked if she wanted to go to bed. She said yes, took a shower, and went straight to sleep.
When we woke up this morning, I expected some warmth—maybe a little gratitude or affection for my consideration the night before. Instead, she was cold. Detached. So I matched her energy, which never leads anywhere good. As we were about to leave for me to take the kids to school, I said something that clearly hit a nerve: that I always have energy for everything that matters to me, that I’m never tired when something is truly important. She knew exactly what I meant.
After dropping the kids off, I went to yoga with a yoga instructor at my yoga studio. The class was wonderful—relaxing, energizing, grounding. I saw a friend again and gave her a shirt she said she’d embroider for me in exchange for a copy of Author in St. Petersburg. I came home feeling good, centered, and ready to reconnect with my ex-wife.
But when I walked in, she was furious. Completely unhinged. She said she was done, that we should get a divorce. She said she hated my work—that all I did was “word vomit” onto a page—and that I should stop writing books altogether because they were useless and would only cause problems. She told me she thought we’d make great co-parents but would both be happier with other people.
I argued for our marriage. I told her it made no sense to get divorced, that it was inefficient. The same issues we struggle with would just follow us into new relationships. I’m not under any illusion that there’s some perfect person out there. Everyone has struggles. To me, the ideal scenario is raising our kids together, working on our issues, and growing as individuals and as partners.
I asked if her parents had ever struggled during their forty years of marriage. She said of course they had—that there were always things to work on. I asked, “Then why can’t you do that work for us?” I reminded her how much I’ve worked on myself: getting sober, doing massage training, studying hypnotherapy and life coaching, reading hundreds of books, talking openly about my challenges, constantly seeking to improve. I asked what she’s done—if she’s ever had a single life coaching session, or gone to therapy, or gotten a sponsor in Al-Anon, or worked the steps, or made any meaningful change that would make our relationship stronger.
I told her I couldn’t keep living with a woman who consistently struggles with our sex life, blames me for it, and treats my desires as if they’re wrong. I need to be with someone who supports my work. For years, my ex-wife has been critical of everything I do—uninterested in hearing me talk about my projects, judgmental about my creative choices, unwilling to discuss my work with others, and clearly not proud of what I do. Yet, at the same time, she’s been quick to complain when my work doesn’t produce steady income, often launching into rants about how she’s the one keeping the family afloat and how she can’t rely on me financially.
I told her that if she actually supported me wholeheartedly, my income would likely be far more consistent. Genuine support fuels success; constant criticism drains it. But she said she was completely unwilling to change. She told me she would never support my work—that she found it “sick and disgusting.” When I asked if she had any better ideas for what I should be doing with my life, she admitted she didn’t, other than to tell me to stop writing because I was “no good at it.”
I tried to bring things back to something constructive. I asked her to answer a few simple questions—if she could name some good things about our marriage, or tell me what she actually liked about me. But by that point, the wall was already up.
My ex-wife struggled hard today, and I can’t say I was gentle. At one point, I told her I thought she was being unreasonable and letting her emotions run the show. I said that a person with real maturity should be able to control their mind and direct it wherever they want, regardless of how they feel. I challenged her to test me the next time I was upset—to ask me if I could still see another point of view and respond rationally.
When she’s emotional, she has an especially hard time seeing another perspective or validating mine. I told her I believe it’s a real strength to be able to hold a reasonable, rational discussion at any time, no matter the emotional climate. That, of course, didn’t go over well. She kept going, insisting I was the problem, that I was completely wrong, and that I was the one who needed to change.
Eventually, I said I’d had enough of the conversation and went to work on editing my book instead. Later, I picked the kids up from school. I made sure not to bring up anything about the fight, even though my ex-wife was convinced I’d involve them somehow. Instead, I asked them about their day. My son proudly told me they got a full recess at lunch, and my daughter said she was feeling much better after being home yesterday. That was a relief.
In the evening, I went to my new Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, hoping someone would show up to share and help me gain perspective. For the first time since I started it a week ago, no one came. I sat there alone for forty-five minutes, surrounded by the $200 worth of AA literature I’d just purchased, half of which I’d never read before. I opened The Language of the Heart, the collected Grapevine writings of Bill W., and felt inspired by his reflections on humility, faith, and honesty. I also read some of the deleted stories from the first edition of the Big Book. After reading them, I understood why they were cut—they didn’t fit the spiritual clarity of the newer versions.
Before long, one of the longtime members—someone who’s supported me for years and has been sober my entire life—arrived early for the next meeting. We talked for twenty minutes. He told me he’d kept up a daily sex life until he was sixty, and I laughed, saying that was exactly what I wanted. He encouraged me to make the best of things with my ex-wife, but also to accept it if she couldn’t or wouldn’t change.
Afterward, I called my sponsor. He echoed similar advice: to practice the Third Step—turning my will and my life over to the care of a Higher Power, trusting that things will unfold as they should.
By the time I got home, I felt grounded. If my ex-wife truly wants a divorce, I can handle that. Part of me even began to feel a spark of excitement thinking about the possibility of meeting someone new—someone who might actually align with me. I thought of women I know who might be interested or who might have friends who would be. I started to feel certain that I will end up with a woman who supports my work, loves kids, enjoys sex most days, and is emotionally and physically healthy.
If my ex-wife can’t fulfill those things, that’s okay. If we have to divorce for each of us to find what we need, I can accept that too. I would prefer she does the work to change, but I know it’s not my job to control anyone. It’s my responsibility to be honest about what I want and need.
Later that night, I washed a pile of dishes, thinking how strange it felt to be cleaning a kitchen I might not live in much longer. But then I reminded myself: you take care of where you are today. Even if the future is uncertain, you do the next right thing, right where you stand.
Earlier in the day, my ex-wife told me she wanted me to move out. I told her flatly that I wasn’t going anywhere until I had a girlfriend with a place I could move into—and since I don’t have one, that’s not happening anytime soon. I said I’d stay in my house until I had somewhere else to go. I wasn’t sure if she was serious about wanting me out, but it didn’t matter much. That’s the energy I’ve been living in lately—a sense of tension just below the surface, like at any moment I could be told I don’t belong here anymore.
After dinner, I washed all the dishes and helped get the kids ready for bed. Then I went over to talk with my mom. One of the things I’ve always loved about her is how good she is at helping me feel better when I’m down. She’s one of the few people who can really meet me where I am emotionally.
She told me a story I’d heard before but had never really thought about from her perspective—a painful, confusing episode from the early days of her marriage to my dad. My mom laughed about it now, but hearing the story this time, I really felt what that must have been like for her. It gave me a deeper appreciation for the kind of pain and confusion that can come with love—and how complicated relationships really are.
I went back home wanting to make things right with my ex-wife, or at least to honor whatever she truly wanted—whether that meant staying together or divorcing peacefully. I started the conversation gently, telling her that it’s important to me to have a woman who enjoys sex with me most days and who supports my work. I told her I appreciate how healthy she is, how well she takes care of the kids, and what a good life we’ve built together.
But soon she turned hostile again. She brought up money and her worries about our finances, a recurring source of tension between us over the years. I listened for about ten minutes before realizing I’d had enough. I needed to draw a boundary. I stood up, told her that was enough, and walked away.
I took a shower and then read The Unknown Reality by Jane Roberts—one of the Seth books, with notes by Robert Butts. Reading it helped me unwind and reconnect with a sense of perspective. By the time I went to bed, I felt calm again, grounded in the knowing that whatever happens with my ex-wife—whether we reconcile or part ways—I’ll be all right.
Dying
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