I didn’t know getting a divorce could be so uncomplicated. On TV, and in real life, divorces often come with courtroom drama, petty arguments and deep animosity.
All I did was type “divorce services” into Google and up popped a website offering multiple divorce packages and add-ons. I spent more time comparing cellphone plans than I did filing for divorce. Within two minutes, I picked the $299 basic package. We had no children or assets to split, and no one hated anyone’s guts, so no add-ons were needed.
It took me 15 minutes to fill out the form. Then I messaged my spouse: “Hey, how’s it going? I’m filing for divorce now. I found this online service where we just fill out some forms and sign a few documents. They’ll go to court for us. I already completed everything. Could you double-check your info?”
We had already talked about divorcing, of course. That part wasn’t easy at all. But in British Columbia, you must be separated for at least one year before you can file, so this had been a long time coming.
Maybe I should have started this story with a joke: An autistic nonbinary person and a depressed girl walk into a bar. Except there’s no punchline. Only a spoiler: It didn’t work out.
My ex had been labeled “the weird kid” growing up in Vancouver and told they wouldn’t amount to much. I was raised in the remote Chinese province of Xinjiang in a home so abusive that as a child I once tried to end my life. I made my way to Canada for university, but being an immigrant here with no family was also traumatizing. A mutual friend brought us together. I would later learn the phrase “trauma bonding,” but not until after the breakup.
On our first date, we bonded over quantum physics. I couldn’t believe two people from opposite sides of the world could have so much in common. As a severely depressed person, I was drawn to their optimism. They made me laugh when I felt most broken.
I still remember the moment I fell in love. We were walking along the Vancouver Seawall when I began having cramps, and they had me lie down on a bench with my head on their lap while they stroked my hair. I told them I loved them on the train home. Of course, they said it back.
Four months later, we adopted two cats and moved into a run-down apartment. We were in our early 20s, broke, naïve and convinced we had found our happily ever after.
I said, “You are the nicest person I’ve ever met.”
“I need to be,” they said. “That way, I can keep you. I want to be good for you.”
After five months together, I wrote in my journal: “I don’t think I’ll ever find anyone else who loves me this much. Who calls me their dream. Who thinks I’m the best thing they’ve ever had. I am so lucky. What else can I ask for?”
We were so happy for most of that year until our attachment styles began to clash. Mine was avoidant. Theirs was anxious. That, too, I learned in therapy after we broke up. That’s when the fighting started. The yelling. The crying. The depression that once again made me consider ending my life. The fear they carried that I might go through with it.
I said, “Leave me. Please. I don’t deserve you.”
“No, I won’t,” they said. “I won’t give up on you.”
“I’m broken,” I said. “You can’t fix me.”
“No, you’re not. I’ll help you.”
They tried to convince me I was worthy of love. I did everything I could to push that love away. And that lasted for eight years, because even though I couldn’t handle a healthy and loving relationship, I was comfortable in a chaotic and emotionally draining one. When things hit their lowest, we made a desperate move: “Let’s get married.”
I think we both knew the wedding was a bad idea. They barely helped plan it, which was completely out of character. Any other time, they would have done anything to support me. I had the urge to call the whole thing off but dismissed it as wedding jitters.
We had a small ceremony with only their family and some of my friends by the Vancouver Seawall. We wanted to commemorate the place where we first said, “I love you.”
I was so nervous that I didn’t sleep the night before and didn’t eat the entire day. But when I walked down the aisle and saw their face, I remembered why I fell in love. They always looked at me like I was the only person in the world.
For that one day, I think we both believed we could go back to the beginning, to the moment we fell in love, and start all over again. But that didn’t happen. Why would it? We were still the same unhealed people, carrying the same wounds. A piece of paper couldn’t change that.
Life stayed the same, full of fights, tears and harsh words.
Less than a year later, I finally found the courage to end it. I had to be the one. They were too scared for my safety to even suggest breaking up. And I couldn’t stand to watch their life wither under the weight of my mental illness.
Ending it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I didn’t do it well. There were messy breakup talks, back-and-forth decisions. I feared divorce meant failure. That it would invalidate eight years of memories. But I knew I had to let them go. I didn’t believe I deserved love or happiness, but I was damn sure they did.
After the breakup, they told me that for most of our relationship, they lived in fear of losing me. Even when I hurt them, they stayed silent, because they were terrified that if they said something, I would leave. I left anyway.
Many people spend their lives searching for their soul mate and never find them. I found mine and let them go. I know it’s cliché, but it’s true: You can’t love someone else until you learn to love yourself. I had nothing to give. I was barely surviving.
When we broke the news to our family and friends, no one could believe it. None had any idea we were unhappy together. We might not have known how to fix our relationship, but we sure did a fantastic job pretending we had a perfect one.
We stayed in touch after the separation, talking on the phone as if we were still best friends. I once said, “Do you know what would be a great name for a band? Young and Divorced.” I was only 31, and they were 28.
“I’m going to be divorced before I even turn 30,” they said with a forced chuckle. “The plastic wrap in our kitchen lasted longer than us.”
They were being their usual self, using humor to cope. Maybe I was doing the same.
Then the calls stopped. Texts left unread. They started a new relationship and removed me from their social media. They finally had time to explore life without the weight of worrying about me. And I started getting better, too.
I went to therapy, where I learned who I was and why I acted the way I did. I began to heal, to love myself. It was easier to do that without feeling like a burden to someone who cared about me.
In eight years, we had gone from acquaintances to friends to spouses to exes to friends to acquaintances. Life came full circle.
I wish I could undo the pain I caused them. I did apologize, and they forgave me. I still don’t believe I deserve forgiveness, but that’s something I’m working on, too.
There was a time when we couldn’t imagine life without each other. And now, we’re both happier apart. Funny, isn’t it? It took losing the person who loved me most to finally start loving myself.
For their 22nd birthday, I had bought them a cheesy gift, naming a star after them. On the card I wrote, “Stars may die, but my love for you is everlasting.”
Maybe that sounds like a lie now, but I do still love them. Just differently. And I always will.
When I messaged them about the divorce filing, they replied immediately, offering to split the cost. We met at a coffee shop days later and signed the papers. That was it. The end of our story.
Maybe it did work out for us in the end. Let me tell you the story again: An autistic nonbinary person and a depressed girl walked into a bar. They lived happily ever after, just not with each other.
Olivia Huiyang Wang is a writer in Vancouver, Canada.
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