The Things I’d Say

I often think about what I’d do if I were to see you walking down one of our shared roads, while I wait for the bus to therapy or while I’m on my way to work. 

Some days I’m certain I would scream and cry and maybe even spit in your face. I would beg you to explain to me how you could do this and go on living with yourself, without me. I would ask you if you actually loved me or if you used me solely as an escape. 

Other days I’m certain I would shake my head and walk away, without so much as a word to you.

Today I’m certain I would hug you very tightly and tell you that I think you’re pathetic but that I understand and forgive you anyway. I would cry and admit that at least that I’m trying to forgive you. The honourable way. The way that lets us all be free. However the fuck that works.

I would want you to know that you did this in the most. backwards. way. The opposite of what would have been thoughtful and respectful and dignified. I would tell you how much I miss you, every fucking day. How much I don’t want you to come back while also yearning for you to. How full my days are now that I don’t wait on you, but how much fuller I think we’d both be if we had each other. How much care I take of myself even though you aren’t around to police me. How much I wish you were.

I would thank you for encouraging me to get sober and for telling me you’d love me anyway even if I started drinking again. For being gentle. For being honest. For being patient. I would tell you that I am, in fact, sober and that I did quit smoking and that I’m working out. That I would never let you take my new life away from me because it is mine and only mine.

I would then tell you that you humiliated me. You made me feel like this time would be different, that this time we got it right. That the years we spent with the wrong people were for one purpose, because we found each other at the end of them. This is both of our faults; you for asking for me back after I left, and me for believing you meant what you said. I see the red flags now that we’ve been separated for so long. You weren’t who I thought you were. I wasn’t either. You turned out worse, I turned out better. I’d tell you that saying that made my skin crawl. I’d apologize for being cruel.

I would tell you that I scold myself daily for being the stereotype of ‘the other woman’. That I still find myself seeing you in every stranger, every truck, every guest that walks in to the restaurant. I see her and the kids, too, in everyone else.

I would tell you that I’m not attracted to anyone that has expressed interest in me, no matter how sweet, kind, or wonderful they are. I would tell you that I don’t think I can have sex with anybody for a very, very long time and that it infuriates me. I blame you for this. 

I would tell you that letting you go is supposed to be freeing but I fucking suck at it. I’m not going to give up trying, though. Clearly this is what you wanted and it is what I’m supposed to do. I would tell you how many people comment on how well I’m doing and how great I look, as if I’m in remission from some terrible disease. I resist the urge to bite their heads off with each word. I would smile comparing you to cancer and then feel guilty for it. I would also admit that I don’t feel as sexy or as confident as I did when you were around and this new insecurity makes me bitter and fragile. I would also express my disdain that my self esteem is wrapped up in someone else. I would yell that I never thought I was that kind of person. 

I would want you to know that I am fiercely protective of my sobriety, my heart, my home and my sanity since you left. My life is my own and I refuse to give it up to anyone or anything. Not even you. I would tell you that I’m fucking angry at you for not sticking around to see the person I’m becoming. That you’d rather stay numb and asleep and repeat the same mistake instead of blossoming into the wonderful person I know you are. 

I would tell you that I still defend you even though you never once protected or sheltered me from the fallout of the affair. That of course I didn’t need protection but I only wanted you to be beside me through the mess. I would tell you I don’t understand what you’re going through day-to-day, how bad it must be, or how you are managing to justify what’s happened between you, her and I.

I would ask you if you actually wanted (and tried) to leave or if that’s just something you told me to soften the blow of your departure.

I would ask you if your new life is better or worse than the one that had me in it.

I would tell you that I love you, even though it hurts and even though I don’t get to anymore.

Advertisements

S.O.B.

Obsess. Scream. Pull my hair out. Wail like the shitty little puke that sat at table 45 did today when his waffles didn’t get put in front of him as soon as he sat down. That’s what the past few days have been like. Context is important but I’ll spare the play-by-play for now. The short version is that NB subliminally (no, I’m not crazy, he really did) reached out to me, because of course he fucking did. So I then wrote him a calm and collected message to tell him I thought it was unfair/cruel and that he had until mid-August to speak actual words to me before I blocked/deleted his number and changed my own. I guess She got ahold of his phone and somehow my address, and we had a lovely impromptu chat outside of my house. I didn’t try to correct her or fight her or compete against her or plead with her. I listened, apologized sincerely and answered any question she had honestly.  She had plenty to say, obviously, most of which I anticipated and took as dignified as the Other Woman can in this situation. Apparently I am delusional and manipulative, and with my wily witchy ways, wooed him into my web. Like that alliteration or what?  So, basically, I’m a sorceress with a magic vagina who eats people’s partners for funsies. Yep. There’s the short version. 

Here’s how I’m not handling things. I’m still sober. That’s all I’ve got. I think a lot. I spend much of my time on the couch staring off into space. That’s it. Tonight I was thinking about feelings and how we describe them (or choose not to). I have a lot of opinions on what’s gone down lately, but I have a hard time expressing myself honestly. Sometimes we say things because we think we’re supposed to. They fit. They make people more comfortable. They sound better out loud to us, to them.

I say, ‘I’m working on acceptance. I want to get to the place where I can forgive him’. I’m really saying, ‘how could he do this to me? How could he not protect me? I was the only one on his side’.

I laugh at work and a friend says, ‘I haven’t heard that in a long time, you must be doing better!’ I say, “Yeah! Today’s an okay day actually”. I’m really saying, ‘the absurdity of what just happened to my heart makes me burst into laughter because there is nothing left to do’.

I say, ‘I guess it could always be worse, right?’ I’m really saying, ‘what is happening is far worse than anything I’ve ever imagined’.

These small conversations make me laugh and cry and rage. How do you handle the fact that the person that you held in such high esteem betrayed your confidence, privacy, and love without saying a word? You don’t. I don’t know how. Is it even possible?

I sit in my house, I go to work, I run errands, I watch TV and am learning to ignore the questions cycling through my head throughout the day. I try not to look over my shoulder at work and at home (I’ve been told I won’t be left alone unless I leave my job, and Vancouver).

I ask myself a hundred more times, ‘how could he do this to me?’
I say, ‘guess he wasn’t who I thought he was, that pile of garbage’.
I’m really saying ‘he owed me more than this.’
Ask another hundred times, ‘how could he fucking do this to me?’.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Betrayal, what a bitch. I’m an idiot, a naive little girl.

P.S. Rot in hell, you piece of shit.