Richard and I were in completely different classes, both financially and socially. He came from old family money and had done pretty well himself, long before we ever met and got married. I was a struggling designer raised by a humble middle class family. From day one, he looked at me with contempt. Like I was after something he had worked hard for. He was determined to keep it out of my reach. Money was always a sensitive subject between us.
I got married under the false notion that life would be easier for me once I was his wife. My struggles would be over and I would finally have some breathing room financially. I had been living in Staten Island with several roommates in a dismal apartment building and desperately needed a ticket out of that life.
“You’re so lucky, Bianca,” he would tell me in an effort to remind me how much my life had changed since meeting him. In a way it was true. I could barely scrape by in first New York apartment, a $450 a month rodent infested duplex in Queens. Just a few years later, life looked very different in our $6,500 apartment in Tribeca.
But even though I was surrounded by nice things in a luxurious life, I never felt like any of it belonged to me. I was just a passive passenger on an empty journey with the wrong person. I knew from day one that everything was all on loan, and I’d have to give it all back eventually.
For months I struggled with the decision to leave him. I was terrified of life on my own. What would people say about my divorce? Could I afford to live on my own? None of these things mattered enough to stay.
I made a promise to myself to survive no matter what.