Naked Finger

23/04/24

Today I finally removed my wedding ring.

Part of my resistance to date has been what it represents, the hugeness of the statement.

I wasn’t ready before, but I am now.

No matter what happens as I go forward, the marriage that ring pertains to is over, so it has no business being on my finger.

My other reason for putting it off is that I knew it was going to cause a fair degree of physical pain. My knuckles seem to have enlarged since the ring was put on there and I knew it wasn’t going to come off without a fight.

Refusal to allow any aspect of the marriage to gain ‘shrine’ status was a major driver towards ring removal.

You know that thing, where people don’t touch someone’s bedroom after they die, until it’s stayed so long that way, it now can’t be dismantled, it’s become a shrine.

I’m not saying that’s wrong, just saying it’s not right for me.

I can’t/don’t want to leave my physical surroundings as they were when he was here. All of it needs to be changed and made different, and that includes the wedding ring.

I decided to act today because EH is due to take me to the hairdresser in a couple of days. I’ve decided this will be the last time I ask him to do it. I’m not going to make that known to him, but inside me, I’m intentionally cutting some more cords.

For me, taking off the wedding ring is a big, symbolic part of that deliberate step towards detachment from him and the marriage.

Already, when I look at my naked finger, it reminds me that I’m letting go of an extremely unhealthy relationship, and that by doing so, I open up doors to a better future life.

In terms of ring removal, I wasn’t prepared to take the hacksaw route.

I’m reminded, as I write that, what a total dick EH was for telling me that he’d cut his off that way. He commonly lies easily enough about all sorts of other things. He could have said he’d managed to prise the ring off, but chose to be brutal instead. Nasty.

Coming back to the point, I wasn’t prepared to take a blade to the ring, so I got my hand as cold as I could bear (to get as much shrinkage as possible), then used liberal quantities of baby oil, and a whole lot of determination.

My poor knuckle is red raw, but the ring is off.

My finger looks weird. It’s got this skinny bit at the bottom where the ring’s been – like a nipped in waist.

It keeps itching too.

I find myself unconsciously rubbing the space, as I’ve habitually rubbed the ring for two decades. I hope that ingrained habit will wear off over time.

I did cry a little as I hid both my wedding and engagement rings away in a little jewellery box. I’ll decide later what to do with the them. For now they can skulk in their box, in a shadowy corner of an otherwise unused drawer.

The tears were less about the marriage, and more about me.

It’s a bit difficult for me to nail down, but my grief has moved away from feeling I’m losing everything, to being grief for me. Sorrow for the person I allowed myself to become.

It wasn’t out of control weeping, just a few tears followed by a little self-shake.

Bigger than the sorrow though, I’ve been feeling an interesting sense of gaining something. Like my spine’s straightened up a little, and I’m standing taller.

I did the right thing.

On a less mature note: I’m not planning to make a point of it, but I do hope EH notices the missing wedding ring when he gives me this last lift to the hairdresser.

While the most important person in all this is myself, and how my actions make me feel, I can’t help but hope it stings him, just a little, to see me letting go.

JP