I trace every misfortune of mine back to the divorce. I begin to claim that my failures don’t belong to me, and I consider the fact that no one can see that to be my biggest oppressor. I hate the story people tell each other about adult girls with divorced dads. I hate the shape my life takes in their minds, the condescending attitude that since my greatest pain is a commonplace one, it must also be plain and manageable. I list the ways this divorce is different from all others. I begin to lose track of the reasons why as the list grows. In dreams, I yell at people then slink away from them, mortified. In my waking hours, my blood throws a tantrum inside my own body every minute of every day.
Needull in a haystack 
Thanks for stopping by my blog and subscribing. I have just read this story – in part it mirrors my life as my parents also split after 30 years of marriage. I was an only child and 30 years old at the time they split up (that was in 1983). My father was born in Germany and moved to Toronto, Ontario, Canada where he met my mom in 1950. They married in 1953. I was born in 1956. My father had the audacity to sit on the floor opening Christmas gifts on Christmas morning 1983 and say, in a by-the-way-manner, “I’m tired of being in this family so I’m going to leave and return to Germany” … what? My mother said “Linda, get all the presents your father has opened and we’ll take them back tomorrow when the stores open and get our money back.” Bravo for my mom but not bravo for my father. My mother sought the advice of an attorney who told her to file for divorce and she agreed and her attorney did not secure the assets properly and the following week my father took all the money out of their joint accounts and even got an annuity fund opened by forging her signature, saying there was financial hardship. He left her high and dry. My mom passed away in January 2010. He had no living relatives, either do I and the Social Security Death Index is out of date, but as far as I know he is alive – he will turn 92 this year. I have no respect for him, and, as a result of his actions, as well as the actions of my grandfather (another piece of work who routinely accused my grandmother of running around – no, she did not do this) I have remained single. At least you took a chance but then you knew Mark before. I am going to subscribe to your blog as well.