I'm about to post a barn-burner, but let me try to be something vaguely resembling my normal self first and respond to @Thinker and @AlexEN.
Don't know the law in Their States, but there is a concept in many states, including Coastal State, that is at the heart of this distinction -- "separation" need not be physical. Often physical separation is impossible for financial reasons or -- awful as it sounds -- because abusive partners more-or-less imprison the erstwhile Walkaways (flee-aways is probably more accurate) (more common in rural areas where there's no support infrastructure, for example, for battered wives or anyplace to go in any event).
"Separation" generally begins when you say it begins. When you stop "holding yourselves out" (note the plural!) as a married couple. In other words, when you no longer enact Married-dom in the eyes of the knowing public. When you no longer have sex (and people "out there" know it). When you have sex with someone else. When you stop wearing a wedding ring. Etc. etc. etc. Like so much else there's a lot of wiggle room for interpretation, but the courts generally take the position that, IF you're not "acting" married, you're separated. When the filing comes there will be a place on the form for date-of-separation -- that's purely a legal formality for purposes of assigning back payment of support.
The tweak there is if you are doing ANYTHING (again, as a couple!) to forestall D. Counseling, Retro, church-league softball (joint GAL) -- any time you start any of that, the separation clock re-sets because it is taken as a presumption that differences are not necessarily irreconcilable.
So I started sleeping in the guestroom on Feb 13. But we went to a MC through March 5. Then we stopped. So the separation started March 6, despite the fact that we slept only 12 feet (vertically/horizontally) apart.
So that's that.
----------------------------- Okay, now to be completely irrational and off the reservation.
What with the physical separation starting day-after-tomorrow, I finally hied myself to an attorney. This guy runs a collaborative law practice, which WAW and I had decided was preferable to litigation. As it happens it isn't, but not for the obvious reason -- the stakes are just too low in our D (shush! the court only cares about the kids and the money!) and the issue of spousal support is the only bone of contention for mediation/collaboration to pay off. We'd spend more time and money on mediators than we would simply agreeing to a support figure, getting one lawyer to draw up the papers and presenting it to a judge -- who will be more than happy to accept it as given and bang his gavel. But he's a Mojo Family Law guy out here and educated me.
So I get in the Urban Assault Vehicle (cleverly camouflaged as a Honda minivan) and text WAW: Done! Very interesting consultation - learned a lot. OK c u.
WAW phones instantly -- "Can you talk?" she asks guardedly.
Sure, just getting on the road here.
"So." [You know the one I mean. That "so."] "So it was interesting?"
Yes, I got a lot out of it. I feel much more comfortable talking about all this now. And then I basically described the upshot -- what I posted above about "litigation" (such as it would be) being more cost-effective; the difference between collaboration, mediation, and litigation; the low-probability that a court would order SP to see a vocational counselor (often done, especially in Coastal State, for SAHMs by the way).
"And?" [Here it comes. The money talk.]
And I'm not sure this is something we should talk about.
But WAW assures me it's no biggie, just curious, and so I lay it on her [and mind you, Mojo Lawyer would not be "my" lawyer in this situation if in fact we went to collaboration -- just "a" lawyer -- and he wasn't giving me legal advice, just expert info].
Sez I: You promise you're not going to attack me? ("Of course") You understand there was no advocacy, just information? ("Get on with it!") Okay. In his experience [40 years] he's never seen a court compel a lower-earning spouse who does what I do to get different work because we provide a societal benefit despite our low wages. So it would be lifetime support at roughly [Big, But Not Donald Trump Big, number], defined as until death or second marriage.
Ah-ooga! Ah-ooga! Go to DEFCON 2! Incoming FLASH priority message traffic! Surge the boomers! Scramble the bombers to their fail-safe points! "Well boys," said Major Kong, "I reckon this it -- nooklar combat toe-to-toe with the Russkies!"
And we're off to the races. She offers me the house. No, really. The whole house. Clean. Or one of her other houses, and the rental income that goes with them. Or the cash equivalent. She says, and I sh*t you not, "I will give you anything! Anything! I can't be connected to you for life!"
And I tell her that I'm not going to discuss this (a) on the mobile phone and (b) with her in this condition and, by the way, I am not under any circumstances even going to listen to any so-called "offers" made with her being completely out of her mind like this, because I'm not going to take advantage of her like that -- these aren't real offers or even unreal offers, they're the random words of pure panic (and near-insanity, if you ask me).
Which she interprets as follows: "I reject your offer and demand support for life."
So she switches gears to the panoply of names she called me back on Thread #2 or #3. "Oh, I had an 'enlightening' consultation," she sneers, in that sneery sneer voice people use when they're making fun of you and sneering. "I knew it! I knew you would.... etc. etc."
And Smiley's Person can't get a word in edgewise. And he's trying, my friends -- oh how he's trying. Please calm down. Please. I didn't say -- now wait -- hold on -- it's not --
So I have to pull over into a parking lot. And she's going and going and going, and I'm saying "Look I'll call you back" and I'm getting "don't you dare hang up you worthless piece of sh*t! I should have dumped your a** 10 years ago! I knew you'd go for the jugular and try to f*** me in the a**! You either want to hurt me or hang onto me, why else would you want me writing checks to you when I'm 65?"
And finally she slows down and I ask, still -- I promise you, I know you don't want to believe me, but I promise you dear DB'ers -- still trying to validate, to "really 'hear,'" to not be the Wiseguy Smiley's Person I am held to be, I ask, "Can you tell me why this discussion always leads to this? Can you help me understand how you feel when you react like this? And for my own understanding, can you explain why you always seem to assume the worst about me? Do you not understand why these things hurt me so much? I understand that you're scared. That you're worried. That you're sad. You've said all that and I get it. But why does scared + worried + sad = [and here I have to 'fess up that I was a bit of a wiseguy, because I quoted her own words back to her] Smiley's Person is a worthless piece of sh*t whose a** you should have dumped 10 years ago because you knew he'd go for the jugular and f*** you in the a**? Why do you have to make me out to be such a bad person?"
"What do you mean? I never said that."
What? What? What? What? What? What? Is this Crazy Town?
So I try to redirect. Did you hear me say I wanted you writing checks when you're 65? Did you hear me say anything at all about jugulars or a**es? Did you even hear me say anything about the money?
"No."
No. And if I really was that bad, if I really wanted to hurt you, if I really didn't care about you or the quality of your life -- don't you think I would say something? Something on the order of 'F*** you, I'm taking all the money you heartless b*tch?'
"I suppose."
But I didn't say that, did I?
"No."
And I've never said that, have I?
"No."
And have you ever wondered why?
"No."
Well that hurts, too. That hurts almost as much as your assumption that I'm such a bad person. It's like you're not even the slightest bit curious about me. It's like I don't even really exist to you. I'm just this, this, this -- mannequin. "A**hole Smiley's Person." God knows what you tell your friends. You say you want to be friends, you say this, you say that, you say you want to get to know me again -- but every time, every f*cking time this subject comes up, your default position is that I'm a piece of sh*t. I'm not even sure I believe that you ever loved me.
"I can't believe you said that. I can't believe you're throwing that in my face. I don't throw your snooping in your face, poking your nose into my private thoughts."
Yeah, well I never said that was a right thing to do, have I? And I've never denied your feelings or your hurt, have I? But throwing that in my face, after what you called me --
"Once, when I was mad."
-- at least four times, throwing that in my face would be like sprinkling some sand on my face after chunking a brick at me. What's the point, really, when no matter what I do or say -- and let me remind you all I was doing was telling you what someone else said! -- you're going to react by painting me in the worst possible light. F*ck it. If this is as good as it gets, I think I'll be happier you're leaving than you are."
And then I lost her. God bless AT&T and their crappy connectivity.
--------------------------------
Pffffffffffffffw. Man, it was bad. And I don't even care. I'm glad I fought back. I'm glad I said what I said. I'm sort of tired of being noble and sh*t. I want to be an a**hole for a while.
And it's got nothing to do with Friendiness -- if she needs a helping hand, I'll offer one. Because that's how I Roll, dammit. I'll offer compassion even if it costs me emotionally -- especially if it costs me emotionally, because it's easy to be compassionate when it's easy to be compassionate.
And the ironic thing? The definition of "life" is "death or marriage." And the number is big, so to speak, but not live-on-it-in-lieu-of-a-job big, not Hamptons/Outer Banks/Aspen/Malibu big, not George-and-Weezie-movin'-on-up big. And it's certainly not big enough that I would forgo love and marriage for it. Which she would know. Because she knows I like marriage. And the whole thing would have blown over in the first 5 minutes. If she'd just given me a chance to finish my sentence. But instead, she did what WAS does. She went right to the mattresses. She assumed the worst. She redefined me.
And yes -- I know she's stressed and hurting and etc. I'm not denying the essential correctness of the post I wrote above, via @Greek. I'm not.
But her stress and hurt is not a blank check. It's not a license to ignore my reality, my Truth, just because it's inconvenient. Not to my face. If she wants to Make Believe in her mind, more power to her.
But I'm dammed if I'm going to sit idly by while I get disrespected like that. Not when I'm doing what I do for me and the kids. Not when I'm trying to Roll My Way and Walk My Path. And I'm not asking for "fairness" or "justice" or "payback." I'm not talking about Schnarch's "covert contract." I'm talking about simple respect. As a man. As a father. As the father of her children. So -- Just. F*ck. That.
I'll take my godd*m mojo and football and go home.
