I’m a bit more settled today. My sister has arrived by mom side and is giving me updates.
She is sedated but responding with hand squeezes. She said they told her the part of the heart the pumps the blood out is at 35% and her pressure is too low.
Seems like she had a heart attack of some sort along with the stroke.
I have no idea.
So I have made the choice, well, not actually, but am leaning towards going down.
It’s not an easy trip to make. I could fly, which I haven’t done since 2000. I hear the airports are a bit different now.
Or I could rent a car and drive. It’s a two day trip down. I am not looking forward to such a drive.
I could bus or Amtrak it down and I’ve already opted myself out of either of those.
I do believe I will fly. If I go.
I’ve been in contact with my step dad about this whole thing, and he’s actually somewhat of a halfway mark of some sort. I could stay with him instead of a hotel.
He mentioned he had never been to Florida. His wife mentioned it. They kept dropping hints and I think they want to go.
He just may want to go. My mother is his high school sweetheart and she was his second wife. He may be feeling a certain way.
I told my husband “I think R and M want to actually go. I wouldn’t mind it at all, I kinda don’t want to be down there alone.”
I would not be staying at mom’s one bedroom house with my sister, thats a no.
He said to me, “Don’t ask them to do that.”
I said, “I’m not, they are dropping hints and seems like they want to.”
That man said to me, “Don’t be a child. Grow up, do this on your own.”
I had no words. I just looked at him. It reminded me of the night we found out about my Dad. He told me that night, “If you can’t get yourself together and get this done (going by myself and facing the cleanup) then we are going to have a real problem.”
I still don’t know what the problem would’ve been, but yeah. He does love to put me down.
He could’ve never done what I had to do then.
Anyway, I do think I’m leaning towards going. Probably flying.
Oh, the beaches in her area are stunning. Sanibel Island. Cape Coral. Venice. Naples…
I wouldn’t mind seeing her and sitting on a beach for a minute.
I have watched a show about a polygamy family since 2010. I follow most of the wives and a few of their kids. One of the kids made the choice last week to leave this life, and I guess because I follow the show and the family, it’s ALL over my feed.
No matter where I sign in, there it is. What the did.
It’s sad. I have been avoiding much of my social media for a couple weeks, it’s just too much.
There’s so much guilt. And anger. Guilt and anger and questions and anger and nightmares and life just forever changed.
My sister called me this morning and told me our mom has had another stroke. The first was a decade ago and did a lot of damage. She lost speech and memory.
That first one was bad. This one seems to also be pretty bad.
She’s in the hospital, feeding tube, and response is low.
So here comes more guilt.
I’m not sure if I’m going down to Florida.
I have no idea what to do. We have had no relationship what so ever since 1984.
I’ve seen her twice since 1984.
I went through some serious therapy that surrounded her. I thought I had reached a peace concerning her.
But can I do it? Not go down and see her?
It doesn’t sound good for her.
Who would I be comforting by going? Her? Me? My sister?
Who would it benefit? Do I set her mind at ease and let her go in peace? Both her daughters there?
I don’t know. If I don’t go, will there be even more guilt on my shoulders?
I find myself grasping and holding on to the bad. It’s easy to do, there wasn’t much good. I left when I was 14.
Holding the bad feels like justifying not going.
I’m so confused. I feel selfish if I don’t go. But when I tell you my first 14 years of life with her were horrendous, I’m telling the truth. It was horrible and I left and I never looked back.
But can I live with myself if she passes and I haven’t held her hand.
Strange fact about me, I read tarot cards and palms for people. I make no money, I have never charged. I just do it. I have been doing readings for about 25+ years.
I never pull cards for myself, but I did yesterday and even the cards are telling me chill out and stop overthinking and get my crap together.
There’s just something.
Something causing such a stir in the air.
My anxiety is through the roof and I’m not even finding any relief when I’m asleep.
Panic attacks are coming out of nowhere and I have no idea how to even begin to stop them.
My dreams are bad, I’ve woken up either choking back a scream or letting it out so many times in the past month or so that I’m dreading bedtime.
Everything is just off.
I think I need to just talk.
It could be fear. Fear with a mix of increasing anger.
Because I can’t seem to ignore that while I’m going through the weirdest energies I’ve ever felt, I’m also planning out where I want flowers beds to go in at the KY house…
With the thoughts of those flower beds comes a feeling of peace.
I’m also googling how to hike in bear country.
I’ve begun searching parking points on my AllTrails app in bear country.
I’ve priced bear spray and wonder if it works.
I’ve searched vets and dentists and jobs and lakes and crime reports and kayak permits. My search history looks strange.
There’s something brewing. I just can’t think straight.
I don’t even feel the desire to seek him out and try to talk. Not at all, I’ve realized the wall would listen more than he ever would.
I find my mind wandering at times, thinking all the way back to our first dates. 33 years ago.
There’s always been some red flags. There were some things said and done even early on that I’m surprised I didn’t see.
Maybe it just boils down to I didn’t know any different in my life. I didn’t know there could be better.
My son went out with him last night and the air around them is thick today. I don’t know if they talked and I won’t ask.
I have plans.
Im trying to figure it out.
But I feel like I’m purging my house. My things. I’m eyeing up my trunk to see what can fit. What I would need.
But making that choice is so so so hard. That choice, that step, that decision. As not all can go with me. My bird and dog, yes. But my chickens, my cats, my kids. 😢 no.
It’s so hard. God I wish he would just leave. So much easier.
We had a fight in early November that is still with me. Then another around the same magnitude in December. Then another on Monday night.
These are bad. They are too frequent now.
November fight led to me discovering the term trauma bond.
Interesting. No excuse, I’m not going to grab on to the term and excuse me staying and say stupid shit like “well, I can’t leave. I’m in a trauma bond. Duh.”
No, it’s just nice to have a little light on why I feel stuck and why I can’t seem to work my way out of this.
I put some things in place for my head and promised myself if things that happened in that fight ever happened again, I would walk away.
But then it did happen again in December. Two days before Christmas. So I put more plans in place.
But through January I noticed I wasn’t doing the things. I thought about it, pondered if you will, and realized that I knew if I did the things, that I was really looking at the door for the first time. Really looking.
Scary. Unknown. Just terrifying really.
Then Monday night happened.
It was worse than November and December combined.
My daughter had her boyfriend here. My husband, who likes the world to see him in a certain light, acted and screamed and yelled the most vile things ever well within ear shot of a stranger.
Our son was also in the same room. It escalated to a point that our son got up off the couch and our daughter came down and they got between us. Our son shoved him down the stairs with a threat and he turned and held me. Our daughter followed her dad down the stairs and stayed there for a bit.
It was bad. Probably the worst it’s ever been.
Tuesday I mentally couldn’t function as a human. So I read a book and took a little walk in the woods.
Wednesday I got myself together and took a stray kitty that adopted us to the vet.
I started functioning as a human again. I realized the words screamed in that fight were not bouncing around my skull as they have in the past.
I have realized, even though it’s been a short time since the fight, that I don’t want to grovel and try to get it fixed. I realized that I don’t give two shits and this whole situation is beyond toxic.
To me. To our kids.
Even to my daughter’s boyfriend. 🙄
He will usually put me through a two plus week of silent treatment after these fights.
I pushed him on the Christmas one to stop it and at least act normal for our oldest who was coming home and to just try to be normal for Christmas Day. He did.
I realized in the November fight that he knows I’ll start following him around and crying and begging him to talk to me and let’s get it figured out.
I realized he likes the chase. I grovel, he won’t have to apologize for anything and we continue on as of nothing ever happened.
This time, I welcome the silent treatment. I fucking welcome it.
I don’t want to hear his voice, I don’t want to be near him, I hate when he walks through the same room I’m in.
He’s been gone Tuesday and Wednesday night. It’s been nice.
Yesterday afternoon I was on the couch with our son and we both had our faces in our phones. Husband comes in and sits down to eat something before he leaves.
He had to make his own food. I’m sure it tasted like shit.
Anyway, he says to our son, “Something wrong with you?”
I don’t look up.
Son says, “What do you mean?”
He replies, “You’re not acting like yourself.”
I look up at him with a complete quizzed look on my face.
Are you kidding me? It’s like he has no idea the insanity he just caused two nights before! Does he not think his actions, and my actions, can cause a ripple effect through everyone? They are affected! This bullshit between us is definitely causing them to eventually need to face their own traumas and probably counseling.
This sucks so bad!!
Son didn’t say anything.
He leaves for the night. Later my son comes into the kitchen and says, “I think I’m going to talk to Dad. This is bullshit and he’s acting like a dick.”
I just looked at him. I don’t know what to say because I feel horrible and guilty and protective and all the things.
I said, “I don’t want to involve you.”
He, for the first time since all of this hit our house, spills his guts.
He’s sorry. He said we were all against you during that time. Thinking that if you kept fighting with dad you would drive him away. That you were pushing him to another woman. He said they all felt like if they got mad at what their dad was doing that they feared he would leave.
That they knew I wasn’t going anywhere and was an easy target.
He said “I should’ve stood by you.”
He told me not leave now. He asked me not to go and to stay. He said his Dad should go.
He said, “Dad broke you. He broke the machine that runs this family and instead of trying to fix it, he is breaking it more. How are you supposed to keep going with no oil in the machine? He doesn’t even try to replace the oil.”
He’s a mechanic, so I guess that’s where that came from. But it made me cry.
My husband created his own narrative during the affair. I had to be the villain. He created it with anyone who would listen and that included our children.
He’s doing it now, to me too, and I truly believe he’s doing all he can to make me make the choice to divorce so it doesn’t look bad on him.
I don’t care what he looks like to anyone. I don’t care at all.
For the first time in 8 years, I felt like I could breathe. I didn’t say anything to my son as he talked, I just nodded and told him it was OK. I told him how sorry I was for everything.
It was an eye opening talk and I stressed hard there are no sides. I don’t want him doing that.
It’s so weird when they become adults.
I was doing dishes yesterday and I had to stop for a minute and breathe.
It hit me that I’ve never had a relationship in my life that I didn’t have to heal from.
From my parents, to my foster family, to my husband.
I fear it’s passed on to my kids. I hate that all while I’m trying to break the circle, I’ve passed the circle on and now they will have to break their own.
My husband will never know how loved he could’ve been if he had been safe to love.
When I walked in to get into line, Meghan was standing there handing out a playbill to those coming in.
Meghan. Her daughter also in play. She threw her arms around me in a huge girly goopy hug. I one arm hugged her back.
Yeah, she only got one arm.
Later, as I sat next to my sister, she mentioned she knew I knew Megan. Megan’s husband is a lifelong friend of ours. He was in our wedding.
I’ve known him as long as I have known my husband, so about 34 years.
So my sister says to me “I love Meghan so much.” I felt my face physically change and the smile I tried to conjure up physically hurt and I must have looked like I was having stomach pains or something.
Meghan and her husband, Sean, knew of the affair the whole time. He moved out twice during the affair, once at Christmas, the second time at Easter and he moved into Sean and Meghan’s in-law apartment.
When he moved in with them, I did not know about the affair at that time.
But they knew.
Three years later, my husband is in a wedding and Sean and Meghan are also there.
I talked with Meghan a bit that night and straight up asked if Toni the Side-Ho was visiting at their house while the husband was staying there.
She said no. She also said that they were just very happy to provide him a “place to to work things out and be safe.”
What? I didn’t think about her words till later, but ‘safe’? What the fuck was he telling them to justify sticking his dick in places it didn’t belong?
So, all that being said, I have zero trust in them. Especially her.
Am I wrong?
I can’t stand Sean anymore either, but I can somewhat wrap my head around the ‘Bro Code’ BS, and I can somewhat understand it from that point of view.
But Meghan? The wife? No.
So no matter how good of a mom she is, how good of a theater mom she is, or how good of a friend she is to my sisters, it’s a no from me.
At this point, both of my foster sisters have mentioned Meghan to me and both times my face tells more than what my words say.
They have questioned me, and I may unload on them, I may not.
I don’t care where I am in my marriage, where I’m living, who I’m with, I’ll always just simply hate the people I called friends while they stood by and watched my husband cheat on me and destroy his family.
I wrote a blog yesterday going on and on about hardwood floors.
So here’s this one, going on about furniture.
My grandmother kept an incredibly clean home. Everything immaculate and perfect.
Her furniture was beyond beautiful. A dark cherry oak dining table, China cabinet, 6 chairs, a leaf for the table, a wardrobe, ornate headboard, curved footboard and dresser. A tea cart and small side table.
And a buffet. The buffet is the star of the story.
They all matched and have the same maker stamp on all pieces. I cant find anything on its age, but it’s old.
When I was in my early 20’s, she took me into the dining room and told me if anything were to happen, all paper work needed was in the buffet.
It has two drawers and two side doors with plenty of storage.
Above this buffet was a sears painted portrait of me when I was 3. I don’t remember it not being there, and I knew from stories that it was a Christmas gift to my grandparents from my parents.
She said, “Chrissy, I’m going to show you where the papers are stored, you’re never to show anyone this. Ever.”
I just looked at her. I looked at the buffet. “Okay Nana.”
She released a secret drawer on the buffet.
Pulled it open and showed me where the wills were, some coins, cemetery plots already purchased and directions for banks and stocks.
Even in my 20’s I was beyond excited. There’s a secret drawer!! I must not ever tell anyone.
As years went by, I always side eyed the buffet when I was visiting. If I was in the house alone on the visits, I would always take a peek into the hidden space of the drawer. I just couldn’t help it.
When both of my grandparents passed, my dad moved in and the house he was raised in became his.
On a visit to him, not long after my grandmother passed, he wanted to show me where all of his documents would be if he were to pass. He walked to the buffet and told me, “Chrissy, I’m going to show you where the papers are stored, you can’t show anyone.”
I became aware of my facial expression and kept it under control. He doesn’t know I already know and I’m going to give it to him that he’s the first to show me.
He proudly released the drawer and looked to see my reaction.
I gave him what he needed and we went through some of the paperwork and items in there.
Then we went through one of the side doors and found an old Polaroid camera.
He took it out and we wandered into the living room chatting about cameras.
He sat that Polaroid on the coffee table as we talked and don’t you know that thing fired off by itself and a picture rolled out of the front?
We both stared at it, looked at each other, wide eyed and a little freaked out.
He looked at the camera and looked at me and said, “Well that things got haints!!”
It was such a southern thing to say and I burst into giggles and could not stop laughing.
The picture never developed into anything. I have the camera now and the haints memory attached to it had me putting it away in the attic.
It was a good memory, though weird, and now I have an urge to get the camera out of the attic.
Maybe I’m starting to loosen up on the anger. Anyway…
Fast forward to getting the call about his death.
I got the call on a Friday night. By Saturday around 8pm, I arrived in town. I went straight to the hotel and checked in. My sister was to arrive around the same time.
We put off going to the house for as long as we could. I really had no idea what we were going to walk in to.
It took us a while to get into the house. I had a key but the door and lock was damaged from the police busting in.
It was me. 3 years of kickboxing classes helped us get in the door. I damaged the door more than the police did.
The only reason I needed to absolutely go that day was to get his paperwork needed for the funeral home.
My sister has no relationship at all with my grandparents or dad. None.
Thats its own story, but in a nutshell, my parents divorced when she was 2 or 3. She had no relationship at all with any of them from that point on.
But there she is, right behind me as I moved through the house.
She did ask, “Do you know where to look for his information?”
I said, “I do.”
A strange anxiety washed over me as I said that. I was going to have to open the secret drawer in front of her. Decades of keeping that drawer a secret now had to come out.
I had just been there in March. Dad had again shown me where everything was. I knew what was in the drawer.
I was thinking all this and also not trying to have a complete freak out meltdown over absolutely everything.
So I approached the buffet, looked at her, took a deep breath and released the drawer. She squealed! She had couldn’t believe it and we chatted for a second about how cool it was.
I pulled the paperwork and we went through it at the dining room table.
She kept looking at the buffet. She said something that sounded like she wanted it.
So I immediately laid claim to it. It was already pissing me off that we are even discussing anything like that at this point. Let’s just get him buried first.
She looked at the portrait of me above the buffet. She said, “When I called mom to tell her, she told me to get that portrait of you for her.”
I muttered, “That’s fine.”
Two days later, my husband and son get into town. It’s been two exhausting days of cleaning and I’m emotionally done.
Husband asks me what I want to take back on that trip. He said, “I’m here, son’s here, we can do a uhaul on this trip and take back big items if you want.”
I said, “I definitely want the buffet.” He said OK.
Then I looked at the dining room table and asked, “Do you think this will fit in ours? I wanted to switch ours out anyway. Can it fit?”
He said it would. He and my son arrived with a uhaul and the next thing I know is the entire dining room set -table, 6 chairs, China cabinet, buffet, tea cart, side table- are loaded and on their way to Maryland.
It was actually somewhat sad to see the dining room bare and empty.
But it went east and now sits in my dining room.
What went on with my sister claiming everything is another soul destroying anxiety ridden story.
My grandparents rented that house in the ’30’s. It was fully furnished.
With all that furniture. Dining room and bedroom.
They moved to a town north of them for a few months and had my Dad.
My Dad was about 5 months old when they moved back and bought the house. With all the furniture.
Now it all sits in my house. The dining room and the bedroom set.
It doesn’t show any age or damage. It’s crazy how well she took care of it all. It’s still immaculate and beautiful and the secret drawer is all mine.
Sometimes I go into my dining room now and take out a crystal glass and pour a drink and sit in my grandmothers chair.
Sometimes it’s milk, she would pour me milk as a child in those glasses.
I now sit at the table I sat at growing up. A million dinners and breakfasts, birthdays, thanksgivings, christmases.
There’s a Winchester chime clock on top of the China cabinet that now chimes every 15 minutes in my house.
The wardrobe that belonged to my grandfather now holds some of my clothes and house linens.
I take care of it as she did. I absolutely love every inch of every piece that I have.
But it doesn’t belong here.
It belongs back in that house.
Even the clock the chimes away in the background sounds sad and out of place.
The secret drawer no longer holds the magic it did in that house.
Did my husband make sure it all came east, knowing how much it all meant to me? Did he do it for me or did he do it knowing how I attach myself to things. That I’ll stay where the things are.
I am not a whisky person. It’s a bit much. It burns, it’s strong, it’s just a bit much. But it will always make me think of my Dad.
Just typing out the word, whisky, I can smell it, I can hear the ice, I can see that amber color in one of his many whisky glasses.
I can smell it mixed in with his aftershave and cologne.
His favorite was Makers Mark. What is bourbon? Or whisky? Are they the same? I have no idea.
As a kid, I loved this bottle. It looked like a candle melted over it and there was the comfort of associating it with my Dad.
As an adult, I still find a comfort in just seeing the bottle.
When I was in Kentucky in November, I went and looked in his liquor cabinet for the bottle. I could have sworn I saw it there on my initial search 2 years ago, but I guess I didn’t. It wasn’t there.
I had a moment while I was there. It was around 4am, I couldn’t sleep, so I found myself curled up in the corner of the couch in the living room with a cup of coffee and just sitting there. No phone in my face, just sitting there.
I was sitting maybe 3 feet from where he took his life. I was uncomfortable and really in my head.
The day before I had ripped up every inch of carpet and vinyl flooring and got to see the hardwood floors for the first time in my life.
I had heard of those floors. My whole life my grandmother often spoke of them, the upkeep and what it took to keep them waxed and cleaned. There was no poly then. The upkeep of them resulted in her choosing to carpet over them sometime in the 60’s.
I had never seen them.
But now here they were. They are gorgeous. With every inch of carpet I ripped up, every nail and staple I pulled out, with every plank of vinyl I pulled off, I just fell more in love with the look.
I love hardwood floors and these are 1920’s old floors that are just insanely beautiful.
To me at least.
It was quiet that morning, as I sat in that house that I had called home my whole life. I could see a path worn into the floors. Coming from the kitchen, through the dining room, through the living room and into the hallway to the bedrooms and bathroom.
I know my Dad took his first steps on those floors. I could see my grandmother and my grandfather walking the path. I can hear them talking, laughing. I can feel what the house used to be.
Home.
I realized that morning I had not grieved my Dad. At all.
I know grief isn’t linear, I know there’s a roller coaster ride and it’s not something that you really have to ride from A to Z. It’s not something you ‘get over’. It’s just something you learn to live with.
I haven’t accepted the loss of him yet. I haven’t accepted how he chose to leave this life.
I’m still so angry with the how I lost him.
In the months after his death, I numbed it with Prozac. Doc started me on a higher dose right off the bat and maybe that was not a good thing, but looking back now I’m happy those months I was on it was mind numbing.
I felt nothing and that was needed, I think.
I did take myself off around 6 months and that was also needed.
The flood of emotions came along with detoxing off and most of those emotions were anger.
So much anger. I’m still mad. It’s easier to be mad I think.
So that brings me back to his favorite brand of whisky.
My new brother sent me a box of gifts for Christmas. One of the gifts was Makers Mark and two whisky glasses.
I was stunned. I don’t drink it, never spoke to him about it, we don’t even talk about our parents.
He knows I lost my dad and how, but that’s it. I find he and I only talk about ourselves. I’m interested in his life, growing up and to the present and same seems to go for him. We both seem to be mad at our mothers a little, somewhat interested in our bio dad, but more interested in who we are.
So that being said, unwrapping the whisky was a shock.
I immediately knew I would be taking it back to Kentucky when I go.
Maybe it’s time I let go of some of the anger and remember my Dad. Maybe honor him and his memory.
Maybe.
Maybe I pour a drink and give a little toast to him.
Im not fully there yet, but I’m also feeling like I’m not as angry as I was.
With the acknowledgment of fading anger, I am also sensing the fear of the house is also fading.
So let’s see where this goes. I think another trip to KY is close.
So me, the dog, my bird and a bottle of Makers Mark are heading home. Soon.
Maybe I just tuck this bottle into his liquor cabinet and find a comfort in that alone.
It’s been 2 years since he took his life. A year and half or so of pure anger at him.
I’m exhausted.
Those gorgeous floors though. 🥰
You can see the worn path going in front of the coffee table, through my dog, making a left into the hallway.
I have no idea why seeing that brings the comfort that it does, but it does. It reminds me that this is my house, my home, my history. Maybe I can begin to see that what he didin this house just becomes part of its history and I should not fear that.
He left that morning to pick up a basketball hoop thing for our daughter for Christmas.
He left early. I was still in PJ’s when he got back. He went to take a shower and I started cooking. I was thinking I’ll make everyone a light breakfast, some eggs, bacon maybe some hashbrowns.
He walked past me from the bathroom to our room and I mumbled something about food almost done.
Minutes later, he walked by me with a laundry basket of his things. I looked and thought he was taking it down to do laundry.
My mind saw pillows on top and his travel bag and I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing. It didn’t make sense.
Then he walked out the door with it.
I knew. I knew then.
He came back in for more.
This time I grabbed things, another pillow, his coffee cup, a shirt.
I tried to block him, I was screaming.
My mind could not wrap around the thought of him leaving. How could he? It’s 5 days before Christmas!! What is happening?
He asked our oldest son to help him. I was blocking him and yelling no no no!!
The fact that he asked our son to help him get out the door? Well that’s dad of the year award I guess.
My knees gave out and I went down pretty hard on my wrist. I had had surgery a few days before this and felt some of those glue stitch things pop as I hit the ground.
Didn’t matter though, as I found it in me to get back up and scramble out the door after him.
It was so cold. It was around 15° that day. I was still in PJ’s and bare feet.
I grabbed a pillow he had gotten back from me. In my mind, he won’t go anywhere if I have his pillow. But he did.
Did he laugh at me? Did he see me in his side mirror chasing his van, barefoot, gripping his pillow and screaming?
I think he laughed at me.
He drove out of sight.
I just went down. I just laid down like a pathetic pile of dumb on the driveway. I laid my head on his pillow and just stayed there.
I couldn’t feel the cold, though I’m sure that gravel was frozen. I just laid there. My son came out and said words, but those words were hollow, echoing from far away and I didn’t know what he was saying to me. I still don’t.
I felt him shake my shoulder and his words felt closer. “Mom, get up.” He said my daughter’s name and told me she needed me.
Those words came through and I got up. I got into the house and looked at my three kids looking at me. The youngest was bawling, the middle one was also crying and the oldest looked so concerned and worried.
Oh god, it’s so hard to be here in today and remember those faces from that day.
I had to switch to anger and switch fast. Anger was going to give me some strength and I knew they needed me.
I don’t know how I made it through those days. But I did.
I’m sitting here taking a survey on infidelity, it came across my TikTok, and that day is still strong in the memories.
I see the spot where I fell and hurt my wrist. If I walk into the kitchen and look out the window, I can see where I just laid down and couldn’t move.
I think of that day often. It’s definitely a bit stronger this time of year.
It was traumatic and something I don’t know how to process through. I wish we could’ve done it when I was going through emdr.
I finished the survey, hit send, now I’m just sitting here, remembering.
I am thinking it really may be the most traumatic part of the whole affair was him leaving five days before Christmas.
He was gone for two weeks.
The second week he was gone, I packed up the kids and I went to Florida. They still talk about that trip to this day. I think that was the best thing I could’ve ever done, getting them out of there.
We brought the new year in sitting on a beach in Daytona, Florida.
To this day he will not talk about those two weeks. I do know, from her, that he took her out with our friends on New Year’s Eve. She made sure I knew she met our friends.
I’m guessing he told her I left and that we were separated. I guess in her world him being gone a week at that time meant our marriage was over.
I guess what she didn’t know was that what he was telling me was the complete opposite of what he was telling her.
To this day, all these years later, I find myself still wanting to know about those two weeks. I still want to know, was he laughing at me as he drove away that day? What did he buy her for Christmas?
He will not answer a single thing about those two weeks. He won’t answer a single thing about the entire 9 months of him cheating on me with her.
It’s no wonder I still have issues all these years later.
Not that I’ve asked him questions for years, I no longer do. I know it’s pointless.
I didn’t check a single thing. He has done none of them.
He still does all of these things.

Writing this blog and social media groups definitely helped. Especially Twitter.
I think the survey brought up some of the emotions of that day that he walked out.
That being said, I would never literally fall and break again the way I did that day.
I don’t think a single emotion would even cross my face if I watched him walk out with his laundry baskets again.
I would open the door for him on his way out. I wouldn’t even slam it behind him.
I would just close it, flip the lock over like a normal day and go make myself a cup of coffee.
He will never understand that all it would’ve taken was for him to be honest and open, mabye even a little vulnerable.
Walking the Journey 