We Couldn't Afford To Divorce, Or Even Live Apart

Writer Jane Alexander explains how she coped trapped in a miserable marriage, with seemingly no way out…

- Jane Alexander

As I sat in bed, I had tears washing down my face. I rarely drink and rarely cry, but that evening I’d downed two bottles of wine and the alcohol opened floodgates. Silent tears swiftly turned into loud sobs. my husband, Adrian, appeared at the door. ‘what’s the matter?’ he said. I was crying so hard I could barely speak, but I managed to blurt out a few words. ‘I can’t go on like this. I just can’t live like this any more.’

It was a conversation I’d been dreading, one I’d been waiting months to have. I can’t remember when I realised my marriage was over. It wasn’t a bolt-from-the-blue, rather a slow dawning that we were living separate lives. At some point in our late thirties, we’d veered off in different directions – we were both writers, but I concentrated on health and wellbeing, while his specialist subject was beer. Now we’d hit our fifties, the split was so wide we’d need binoculars to see one another.

Empty relationship

Our relationship wasn’t toxic or abusive. We didn’t yell or bitch or fight. It was just empty. We waltzed around one another, passing the occasional word when we happened to be in the same room.

Adrian lost himself in work, spending most of his time in his study. When he did clock off, he’d vanish to the pub. I numbed myself with yoga and hardcore exercise. We didn’t even eat together – he liked meat, I was vegetarian.

At some point, he started sleeping in the spare room. Our only point of contact was our son James, then 15. I’ve never minded being alone, yet I felt lonely.