Tolerating a bad marriage for your kids’ sake is the same as bombing for peace or fucking for virginity. Impossible. Contradictory. I don’t get it, what could be so bad about a civilised divorce that has not already happened ten times worse in a bad marriage?
There comes a day when, although we forever remain children in the eyes of our parents, but through some destined role reversal, we become parents to our own parents. At first it sounds bizarre to both sides. Both to parents, who always see us as young, and to children who always hold their parents responsible for everything.
We have started to use the word Friend so casually, and I have a feeling we do not even understand it properly. We misuse it. We use it when flattering, calculating, kissing up to someone, bribing. We have started to downgrade it, stroke people’s egos with it, rub their low self-esteem the wrong way, stretch their shaky confidence to bursting point. And the word, baffled, still unaware of having been transformed from a cure into a weapon, screams silently and calls for old times.
I am a child of divorced parents. And an only child. Unfortunately. It was a sad marriage of two happy people. It was a family with a limp before it even started to walk. That family of mine was resuscitated by defibrillators from the state of coma and clinical death several times. Then, even more ill than before, it would continue to exist riddled with all sorts of malignant tumours. It suffered from distrust, vanity, poor communication, fear, stupidity, other people’s advice, personal insecurities and big expectations.
