47 on Tinder - PART ONE - Chapter 12

PART ONE - The FUCKENING - DIVORCE STOMACH and AWESOME JANE

47 on Tinder

By Sharron Matthews

This is a work of fiction.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

PART ONE - The FUCKENING

Frank came home from one of his longer band tours and brought me an Amos Lee record as a gift.

I put it on Frank’s old school record player and when I’VE SEEN IT ALL BEFORE started to play, Frank offered me his hand for a dance.

Frank knew how much I loved dancing and while he was never as fond of it as me, for that moment he pretended to be.

We danced for a while and I love that he pretended.

God, I’d missed him.

I listened to that song on repeat for days.

DIVORCE STOMACH and AWESOME JANE

The Fuckening continues as the “I just might be okay” day seems to get farther and farther away.

All day long, I pour over all the emails to and from Frank, written by people I don’t know who talk about me like we’ve met.

All these people I’ve never met…and Frank…wrote some awful things about me, talked about some pretty lurid shit with each other, all while I was trying to stop my marriage from dying.

And I keep reading them over and over.

I’m sad.

I’m angry.

I’m frustrated.

I’m heartbroken.

I’m scared.

This state is definitely lower than the bathroom floor but I’ve fallen into a hermit routine that makes it a bit easier to be alive.

HERMIT ROUTINE

Every morning, I make myself drink a smoothie with good stuff in it, then I eat chips and dip like it’s a food group…because it’s the ONLY thing I want to eat.

Once a day, I send my people a text to let them know I’m breathing, then I answer only the emails I have to.

Twice a day, I leave the tiny apartment.

The first time I go out, I take the elevator down to the front desk to pick up the scripts the production company couriers to me, or go to the corner store.

The scripts are still in their envelopes, stacked neatly on the IKEA table.

I’ve given myself a hard deadline to start doing prep and until then, they can wait.

I pick up the chips and dip when I pick up the scripts because, work smarter, not harder.

Then I spend the daylight hours reading Franks emails, writing and staring out the window.

Somewhere around dinner time, I make myself drink another smoothie.

The second time I leave the apartment, the sun’s going down, and I walk and walk till I’m so tired I shouldn’t be able to stay awake anymore.

I also drink a bit of booze from time to time…but just a bit. Just enough. And only TWICE have I added it to my dinner smoothie. Celebrate your wins.

After all that, I go lie in my bed, a bed that’s recently been dressed in very expensive, butter soft sheets and a plush duvet I bought online and had delivered overnight, at a huge extra cost that was worth every penny.

Rinse, Repeat.

Still, I can barely sleep

Molly was right, I might as well be comfortable as I stare at the ceiling for hours.

And I DID throw every piece of my old marriage bedding down the garbage chute, along with Frank’s favourite grey cashmere hat that he left behind and asked me to find for him. I videotaped it and sent it to her and Dan.

My only regret was that I didn’t burn the hat first.

I got four thumbs up and a fire emoji in response.

The last day of the colon poop test went off with no further shit storms, and I sent it in to the lab, which is good, because besides the clicking throat cancer, I’m pretty sure I now have stomach cancer.

Every morning since IT happened, my stomach HURTS terribly, waking me up from the few hours of sleep I’ve managed to steal, which feels cruel and personal.

This morning, after my stomach alarm clock went off, I googled the words:

stomach hurts cheated on cheater husband asshole cheated on me poops a lot

Then, after WebMD scared the literal shit out of me, I scrolled around to some DIVORCED LADY REDDIT PAGES, of which there are many, god help us all.

The interweb told me that I probably have DIVORCE STOMACH, which, apparently, is an actual thing

DIVORCE STOMACH.

This morning, I decided to be proactive and schedule an appointment with Dr. Oliphant to have a talk about DIVORCE STOMACH.

I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.

God, I hope Frank’s already been to visit her for some dread ailment…maybe his fucking arm mole…so I don’t have to be the one to tell her what happened.

The saving grace this past week has been writing.

Everyday, I’ve recorded almost every single thought that crosses my mind. Sometimes it makes sense. Sometimes it doesn’t.

There’s a part of me that believes wholeheartedly that if I write for one hundred days, I’ll be okay.

My first entry was seven day ago, and it went like this…

YOU ARE A PIECE OF SHIT, FRANK. I hate your stinking cowardly fuck guts.

I wrote those two lines out about four thousand times, no copy and pasting.

It was highly therapeutic.

This morning, I drank my smoothie and wrote a letter to Florida.

It flowed out of me like I was transcribing something that already existed.

I’ve read it back about a hundred times and I have to say, it’s some of the best, most effective writing I’ve ever done for myself in…well, to be honest…in this life, alongside the FUCK GUTS entry from seven days ago.

The intent behind the letter to Florida was this:

How can I make the both of them feel like dirty toilet water?

And the rest is history.

I want to send it so bad, but I don’t know if can bring myself to, because I’m afraid of how Frank will respond.

He’s like a wild boar when cornered, and I SO don’t need that right now…and I still have to let him know, that I know how long he’s lied to me before I send anything.

After I reread the letter for the hundred and first time, I close my computer and look at a note I’ve left for myself on the fridge.

It’s time to accept the FACT that I have to start working in a few days. Open the scripts. This is the day. BE BRAVE.

Today’s date is scrawled across the top.

I’m terrified, but this IS the day I need to start wrapping my mind around the future, cracking the scripts, and planning how I’m going to navigate this out in the real world.

Luckily, I’m not doing it alone, I know I need professional help.

Last week, my divorced friend Shauna sent me a text with nothing but a name, email address and the words…

This therapist saved my life.

I wrote her therapist an email four minutes later.

Am I scared to go to therapy? Yes.

Do I need to get my shit together so I can function? Yes.

So, this afternoon, I found myself on the slightly worn, sorrow-filled, soft brown leather couch of Jane the Therapist.

Jane is about fiftyish, with a welcoming smile, edgy fashion sense and eyes that miss nothing.

I’d done a lot of thinking during the week of my hermit routine and I opened by telling Jane that I needed her to help me through three specific things.

She smiled and poised her iPen over her iPad screen.

JANE the Therapist: Okay, shoot.

ME: So, as I told you over the phone, my husband cheated on me with a life coach from Florida and may have been having another affair too and I’m a mess and I can’t sleep but I have this great job and shit I need to accomplish…uh…

When I hesitate, Jane nods encouragingly and I fill her in on all the details, after I’m done, I lay out my three specific things.

ME: …okay…now I need you to help me find the strength to get my house, help me get me to a separation agreement as quickly possible AND help me KILL this TV shoot I have coming up next week. Not just MAKE it through the season…I want to have my best season ever, in spite of what happened. Can you do this?

She considers all I’ve said.

JANE the Therapist: I believe I can help you through this, but if we do this together…and I’m going to be brutally honest, this is going to be a difficult journey, Charlie…you have to promise me that when we get you through these things, you will commit to the work of figuring out why you stayed in this relationship and how we can make sure you don’t do it again.

We stare at each other for a very long second.

ME: Done.

JANE the Therapist: Okay, first you need to get some allies in your work place. Pick a few trusted people to know what’s going on, that you can just be relaxed with…that you don’t have to pretend with. You don’t have to tell them anything more than you want to…but you should be able to “unmask” in front of them. People you can breathe and be quiet with. Secondly, we have to speed Frank towards this separation before he stops feeling guilty. THAT is how we’ll get you this house. As soon he stops feeling guilty…and he WILL stop feeling guilty…he’ll move QUICKLY to righteous anger and justification, and it’ll be harder to get the house without a real fight. I’ve been a couples counsellor and mediator for over twenty years, I know of what I speak. Now, speeding up this process will be hard…hard on you and hard in practice…but I think we can work you through this. I just need you to know it will be hard, so you’re not too surprised by it. It will take more than one appointment every week and a lot of grace. Do you still want to do this?

ME: You’re fucking right I do.

JANE the Therapist: Well, let’s get fucking started.

THAT was the moment Jane the therapist became AWESOME JANE.

Written by Sharron Matthews

Toronto, Ontario

July 15th, 2025

Wanna make sure you hear the rest? Click this SUBSCRIBE button!

Wanna share this with someone? Click this SHARE button!

And here is I’VE SEEN IT ALL BEFORE by Amos Lee!