Plants, Chickens and Birds.

Well, he’s kissing my ass. But I don’t care. At all. Something switched inside of me, I swear there was an audible click, the moment he screamed “You’re worthless and bring nothing to this family.”

I very calmly reminded him he said that. He brushed the air with his hand and said, “we were fighting” so in his mind, that’s OK that he spewed that crap at me.

Yeah. We might have been. But no. Even in a fight, disagreement, discussion, doesn’t matter, I could never say the things that come out of his mouth.

I just need to understand that I caused him to say those things. (Insert major eye roll)

I did find myself looking around and really thinking about packing and leaving for a bit.

My main thoughts ran along the lines of, go.

Go to Kentucky. Get the house sold. Come back, find something here and near the kids.

Or a van and live that van life. You know, dreams.

I have three kids. 22, 21 and 17. 22 has already moved out. 21 has graduated a tech school and is moving along towards his own independence.

17 is a senior and still needs me close. She just got an internship at the community college so she will do a half day at the high school and the other half at the college.

She doesn’t drive. 🤦🏻‍♀️. Not for lack of trying to get her to do so, but she just doesn’t.

So it’s on one of us to get her, take her to the college and then pick her back up from there.

Interestingly enough? He seemed to change his mind about the demand of me leaving once she got the internship last week and he realized my worthless ass that doesn’t contribute to the family will be needed to taxi her around and teach her to drive at the same time.

But I did think about it.

I knew I would take my parrots. I checked the amazons cage and how it could come apart and fit in my car. My other little bird would fit in the car fine.

I thought about if I could even sleep in that house.

But I thought about what I would need to take.

My computer. My birds.

Can I fit one of my cats in the car too?

Then I looked around my office.

My plants.

Oh my God would I miss my daughter and sons. But my plants!!

I weirdly recognized at that moment that I would miss my freaking fern more than my husband.

My heart actually broke thinking of leaving this new obsession of mine behind. They would die 😢

My chickens? I couldn’t take them.

No. So my kids, my plants, my birds and my cats, my chickens, my creek and my life here will not let me walk out that door in a permanent move three states away.

He can go.

I simply don’t care anymore.

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The hatbox.

There’s a lot going on. My husband is thinking about what he wants, for me to move out or not. He says, “I’m thinking about it. I’ll let you know.”

This is absolutely hilarious to me. He has no say about that at all and can shove it up his ass. I’m done. Im so done.

Along with that I’ve cold turkied the head med. So yeah. This is fun.

And along with that, I’m in a weird head space with my fathers suicide. 4 months out now from that and the only way I can describe it is… a weird headspace.

I cannot for the life of me tell you why, but I literally just came in from the chicken coop, grabbed a flashlight and went into the attic. It’s so haunted up there. But that’s another story.

I went right for my grandmothers hatbox. Growing up, I loved the hatbox. Inside held pictures, letters, all the little moments of life my grandmother kept. Her and I would sit on her bed every time I visited and go through the hatbox. I knew when she passed in 2011 that I was coming back home with that hatbox full of her life.

I brought it home and put it away. I opened it once, and the smell hit me. Her perfume, the age of the letters and photos, her. Her smell was all around me. There’s a set of pearls i there that are heavy with her perfume, letters, notes, the fabric of the inside of the hatbox… all smelled of home. Of her.

I shut the box quick and kept her in there. I didn’t open it again, I didn’t want to lose anything of her, so I kept the box shut tight until I was ready.

I brought it down tonight and sat with it. Going through the contents again as though she was sitting next to me.

There were two letters in there I had never seen. From my father.

———-

The early fall of ’94, my husband and I went to Florida to see my Mom and sister.

It was an OK visit, awkward, but a visit. When we left, we had to go through Venice.

At the time, my Dad lived in Venice. While we were down there, I tried to call him over and over. Left message after message. It was a spur of the moment trip anyway, nothing planned, but I couldn’t be all the way down there and not try to visit.

He never answered.

But as we went through his town, we stopped. I knocked. I banged on the door. His car was there, but he seemed to not be.

I wrote a note on a napkin and hung it on his door. Basically telling him I was coming through and wanted to see him and that we would go get lunch and stop back by on our way through.

We drove to a nearby beach known for shark teeth. You can literally put your hand down in the sand and tiny gravel and pull up teeth. So we went, found some teeth, ate some lunch and went back.

The note was gone. Everything in me told me he was there, but still no answer.

November 1st of that same year, not long after we got home from Florida, he asked me to marry him.

I had the newspaper out and immediately looked for an apartment for us. I found one, we both liked it and by the time thanksgiving rolled around that year, we were out on our own and planning a wedding for the following year.

I never heard from my dad. I kept in constant touch with my grandparents, his parents, and they too said they were not hearing from him.

My grandmother helped plan the wedding and my grandfather gave me away.

He was nervous to walk me down the isle and hand me over. He was nervous and yet funny and comforting. I miss him everyday.

I could tell they were sad and disappointed that their son, my father, was not there. But we don’t talk about it.

Christmas came and I called my Nana to wish them a merry Christmas.

My father answered the phone.

I stumbled a bit and wondered if it wasn’t him and they had company over? So I mumbled out, “Is Opal available?”

My father said, “No. sorry. No one here by that name you have the wrong number.” Click.

I stared at the phone in my hand and tried to get my mouth to close.

I told my husband, “My father just answered their phone. What the hell is going on?!”

I called back. My grandmother answered and played along that I must’ve called the wrong number. But I could tell in her voice she was lying.

I hung up so confused.

The next day she called me back. “Chrissy. Your dad is here. Can you hear me?”

She was whispering.

I told her I could. She went on, “He doesn’t want you to know he’s here. It’s bad honey. Something happened to him in Florida and we got him home two days before Christmas. His ribs are broken and he looks like he weighs 80lbs.”

She went on to tell me she did not know what happened. She told me they had to bring him off the plane in a wheelchair.

About three days after the phone call, I got a letter in the mail with a picture of the three of them the day he got home. I did not recognize my father at all.

She said she had someone take the picture because she wanted it documented how he looked.

I still have that picture.

Two weeks later, they flew my husband I down to Florida and we rented a uhaul and packed his apartment up and drove everything to Kentucky.

My dad had to face me at this point.

But nothing was said. I asked no questions. He said nothing to me about anything.

When we packed up his buffet, the top drawer held all the letters I had ever written him. There was also my wedding invitation in there and the note I wrote on the napkin.

Also many letters written that year that were not even opened by him. I’m guessing he was feeling some shame.

So we moved his stuff into storage and went about life like nothing ever happened. He lived there for two years and then got a pretty good job in Virginia and moved out of his parents house again, but this time he was 52 years old.

He moved to a town in Virginia that was the literal halfway point of my drive to Kentucky. So I often stopped there and sometimes stayed.

My grandfather passed and then a decade later, my grandmother. My father moved into their house. His childhood home.

And that’s where he took his life.

So with the hatbox contents all around me on the floor tonight, I saw a letter from him to his parents.

It’s a suicide letter. I flipped the envelope over and could see the post mark was May of ’95. It’s so detailed. It’s soooo detailed, except for how. All the way down to what he wanted to wear for his funeral and the love he had for them and me and how sorry he was.

May? We were all suspicious that whatever happened to him in December was a suicide attempt.

May?

I went through more things in the hatbox and came across another letter.

This one was short. Another suicide letter. It said to reference all that he wanted from the May letter.

I flipped it over again and saw this one was dated 12/20/95. Four days after we got married.

This letter stated over and over how sad he was to miss our wedding. How much he loved me, how much he loved them. How sorry he was. His thoughts and how dark they were and how lost he felt.

What did he do? What did he do to break his ribs?

I was kind of sad I didn’t have a letter, I’m in a suicide grief group and many have those last words to sort of lean on a little.

The letter I did have and find was instructions and passwords written in 2019.

I came in from the chicken coop, kicked off my chickenshit shoes, grabbed a flashlight and went into the haunted attic, went right to the hatbox and brought it down.

And found two suicide letters inside.

Maybe now was the time I would be ready to read them.

I need to just digest this and read them again. But not now. But I know they’re there now.

26 years later… but there.

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He’s kicking ME out? Ok.

How odd that this is the place I go when shit is hitting the fan.

Not a friend, not a family member, just this space to get it out.

We got into a fight this weekend. He’s nasty when we fight. He goes for the jugular. I am not innocent, I do retaliate with some jugular shots of my own.

I justify my words back to him because he threw them at me first.

This is dumb. Immature. I know.

He has kicked me out of the house. He wants me to go. Literally said, “You’re worthless, no one in this house wants you here, you bring nothing to this family. Go to Kentucky. Just go. Get the fuck out of my house.”

All of this at the top of his lungs. Screaming, yelling, saying over and over how worthless and useless I am to our family. Then he stormed away, as always, with the last words of “Imagine what it would be like if I had a partner that supported me.”

We both knew I couldn’t just “get the fuck out of his house” when he told me to though. There was a winter storm coming and literally the track of the storm is my trip. It tracked right along the highway I take. It actually started in Kentucky and made its way to the east coast. I told him I could leave Tuesday.

So I got off the phone with him around noon today with him basically telling me to go and to pack.

I started the conversation out that night with a needed trip to KY. Its been planned for the past few weeks but something keeps coming up and I can’t go.

I need to meet with lawyer and check on the house. I need to go when there’s a weather break though, I don’t think I can get to the house if there’s snow.

He and I have not been good. He comes home, goes right to his studio/office. If he’s not there, he’s in the bathroom for an extremely long time. I go to bed by myself every single night.

There was a tweet from an account I follow…

This was a week ago I sent that.

So I referenced it and told him when I go, I might like to go for a week or two. Really get as much settled there as I can, and maybe just take some time.

He rolled his eyes and said, “Whatever.”

I kinda smiled a little and said ,”zero out of nine.” 🤷🏻‍♀️.

He threw his hands out and started yelling that I live to be unhappy and strive to live in conflict.

Then he said that he feels I only live to have him make me happy.

That he would never ask me to make him happy.

None of that is true, I said,”No, I don’t expect you to make me happy, but as my husband and our marriage, I think there should be some respect with each other.”

He called me a liar and mocked the way I said respect, in a way that I didn’t even say. But that’s fine.

I can see he has completely and as always, flipped into defense mode as hard as he can. But there’s no need for that, I’m not sure why it’s always instant with him to throw up defense.

To me? He’s doing exactly what he did during the affair. The retreat, the phone usage, the defense, the bathroom, the office/studio.

So if he’s not? Then reassure me. That’s not me demanding he make me happy, that’s me needing reassurance that he’s not cheating again and maybe realize since he didn’t ever take a minute to try to work on our marriage, that maybe that’s an expected response from me. The fear, the not knowing.

As I write this… I can see. I can see. I can see.

I can’t when we are in the middle of it all. I can’t when he tells me I have to get out. I can’t when he calls me worthless and useless.

…Breathe…

….

It’s abusive. But he says I am the one that is. I still struggle with that one. He and I truly have different definitions of the word Abuse.

He feeds the hurt child in me. He feeds her, it’s like he knows she’s hungry, so he feeds her all the things she’s always been fed. She knows nothing else.

Just like a few weeks ago when he brushed his hand through the air when I told him he broke me. “You were broken when I met you.”

Like it’s ok. It’s fine.

I think I just want him to chose me, in the end.

Maybe I pick a fight, though I didn’t think bringing up that tweet to him was picking a fight, I thought it more to be a discussion that could be had.

I’m so stupid.

So he wants me to go. Told me this afternoon he wants peace and he will think about it some more and let me know. He says that, but then says I should leave.

Then he says it’s up to me. He won’t type it in a text, he knows what he’s doing. So I called him. He was safe verbally telling me, can’t prove what a dickhead he is. His web of lies he likes to tell everyone won’t fly if there’s proof.

I know . I see it. Because if it can be proven he asked me to go, then he looks bad. But if he pushes me out the door with his nastiness, then it’s my choice.

Holy shit, Im working through this… I see, I see.

But I don’t know what to do. Do I go? Do I need to go? If I go, can he change locks on me here and claim abandoned?

If it’s peace he wants so bad, (and by peace, he means I can’t talk about the affair, ever, even though that’s rare now and far between)

If it’s leaving he wants, then why doesn’t he leave?

He can go. HE CAN GO.

For the love of God, he can goooo.

I hate that he feeds the little one, with words like “useless. Worthless. Stupid. Unintelligent. Pathetic. Psychotic. Mental. Nothing. Crazy. Fucked in the head.”

He also screams over and over and over anything I try to say, “I don’t care!!” And “shut the fuck up Chris!!! No one wants to hear you fucking talk!!”

I know I should listen. I should just go.

But my whole life is here. My kids! My animals, my home, my land, my plants! (I have a thing for plants)

Do I just go and try to breathe and think? I cannot heal living in the same space as him.

Can I even stay in that house?!! Can I be there when the sun goes down and I’m supposed to sleep?

There’s one spot that I couldn’t get. It’s in the floorboards.

His room too… there’s still blood everywhere even though most of the carpet was pulled… it soaked through to the plywood.

My grandparents room is there… but that’s right next to the living room where he did it.

I mean… if it’s haunted, it’s my dad so what’s my problem. I’m a mess and talking to myself at this point.

This whole, “I need peace” is the exact words he used when he walked out the door that year 5 days before Christmas.

It’s like it’s right there in front of me and I’m talking myself out of the obvious.

He also said the same thing when he walked out the door that spring and moved out and stayed with a friend.

He left us twice during the affair because he needed peace.

I don’t know how much more I can take. He says I’m useless.

Am I? I don’t know. It’s been a hard few months. Dealing with the new head med, the suicide, the affair trigger times, the fact that my shoulder is beyond fucked and I can’t get my insurance to help. So I have let some housework go… I use the shoulder as much as it can take and then I stop.

I’m a mess.

Is this fucking trauma bond? What is that anyway? What the hell is wrong with me. His shit should be in the goddamn driveway on fire and he can find his fucking peace in the ashes.

He hasn’t done anything since he left her bed to help this marriage, nothing, so why am I even surprised.

I don’t think I should go. I think I will get screwed if I do.

He should go.

…..

Fuck him.

I need coffee.

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A little weirdness about me.

Among other things, I read palms. I’ve been reading palms for… let me math… 34 years.

I won’t spend a ton of time defending it, so I’ll just keep it basic and say what led me to doing it.

Spiritually, I was confused as to what I believed in. There were things I experienced growing up that I just didn’t understand. Especially in my teens.

I had always noticed that I could feel energy of those around me. Here’s some of the weird… as if reading lines on someone’s hand isn’t weird enough, but if I touched someone, I would get pictures in my head.

I would find that they would stick with me for a while. Their energy literally would be swirling around mine for days after the initial touch.

This led me to not touch people very often. Though I love hugs, sometimes I just can’t.

So this also led me to reading every book I could get my hands on at the local library in the 80’s. At that time there wasn’t much to read, now, it’s sure different.

I was very intrigued by the books on fortune telling. I broke the spine and dog eared a book on palm reading from reading it so much.

I was in a diner restaurant one night. I had a friend across from me and she was letting me practice. A woman sitting close came up to me and said, “I see you reading her palm, would you read mine?”

I did. At that time, I didn’t know to ask her if I could touch her, she just sat and I reached for her hands.

Now I ask. I ask for them, I ask for me. There have been many in front of me that I just don’t want to touch at all, so I won’t. I can’t have their energy tied with mine for a few days after the reading, because… no. I just don’t.

So she sat across from me, I reached for her hands and I was hit immediately with images. I looked over her lines and gave her a reading. I was super nervous to ask, but I sort of squeaked out, “You have lost someone recently. Female.” Not only did I get the images, but the heartbroken mark was in her palm too.

She teared up and nodded. It was her mom. Two weeks prior.

So that was the start for me. I have never charged a penny, ever, but I’ve read probably thousands of palms since that long ago night in the diner.

I did not read my husbands when I met him. I had no desire to do so.

He watched me read others, but never asked and I did not offer. My kids know I read them and have spent their lives yelling at me about reading theirs, but I absolutely will not.

Anyway, we were 23 and 24 when we moved out together. Our first apartment. It was after dinner one night and I was in the kitchen. I could see into the living room that he had fallen asleep on the couch. His hand was hanging over the side.

I actually remember this like it was yesterday. The need came out of nowhere and I just walked over, picked his hand up and read what I could see in the angle I had the hand.

I was going for a specific line. We were to be married in a year. I had read my own by that point, but what did his say?

So there I am, 23 years old, kneeling on the floor by my fiancé at the time checking out those lines on the side.

I poked him awake. I shook him. He blinked awake and looked at me confused why I was angrily poking him and shaking his hand at him.

“You’re going to cheat on me.” The affair line was there. I had it wrong though, I thought it was at the 15 year mark.

He laughed at me and shook his head at my crazy ass and let me know lines on the hands don’t mean shit. He hugged me, he laughed some more, he told me that was crazy and we got married a year later.

That is the only time in our 31 years together I’ve ever looked at his palm. He has sat next to me and watched me read palm after palm after palm all these years, still thinks I’m crazy but is sometimes intrigued by what I can see in someone’s hand.

I do not get images from him. I did in the very beginning, but for whatever reason, it doesn’t happen. Energy, yes. Most all of us can read energy around us even if we don’t know what it is.

So last night…. last night, I just reached over and snatched up his hand. That first reading so long ago had been a joke between us for a long time, well, until about 5 years ago when he did exactly what his hand said he would.

So I snatched up his hands and went right for those lines. It felt strange holding his hands and looking at something so personal, even though it’s my husband and it’s our life.

He has two lines now. Both indicating a relationship. A marriage. Love.

The first has the children lines. Clearly, us. It’s a deep, long line. The second is about 35 years after the first.

It’s marriage line for sure, or a relationship that acts like a marriage.

I said, “You’re going to get married again.”

He pulled his hands back and laughed. Much like before. How silly I am.

He said, “Then it will be with you. We can renew our vows and have the marriage we were supposed to have.”

But I do not think so. I do not live my life by the lines on my hands, but I do not have the second marriage line.

And I felt weirdly OK looking at his. I think it feels alright to me because that would be the natural progression of life. If we go our separate ways that would be the natural thing for him.

For the line to show up, there is love. A new love.

We all deserve love.

Maybe we do renew. Maybe it is me. Maybe not.

Maybe it’s just lines in a hand.

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The need to write…

Is strong tonight. Not even sure what I want to write about.

I just caught up on all the blogs I follow. It’s been a while since I’ve been here.

This fluoxetine zombie life is strange. I can actually see that depression has settled in for the winter, but I don’t seem to care.

I’ve crawled away from the world and binge watching Netflix and HBO max. I needed to see what was up with Carrie and all her sex in the city, but that went fast, so I settled on ann other one and hard binged the entire series of True Blood. Not bad being back with Sookie and my favorite character ever, Lafayette. Eric is still hot and Bill still got on my nerves.

Also binged Yellowstone. Lord, I didn’t know I liked cowboys that much.

If not binging mind numbing series, I’m reading whenever I’m not watching something.

So I can see what I’m doing. I know there’s a lot I should be doing, but I am just not.

I’m heading to Kentucky this week.

I’m looking forward to the long drive. When my wheels land me on 81, it becomes almost welcoming to my soul. I know by the end of the day I’ll be in the mountains and I feel at home there.

It’s slow. People move slow. People talk slow. Cars drive slow. People shop in the stores slow. The clouds that tangle around the mountains move slow.

I have to meet with lawyer and check on the house. A big secret part of my soul wants to check on the house and how I will feel about it. Can I stay there?

Can I sleep there?

I won’t be on this trip, because my daughter will be with me, but I find myself looking towards the spring. As I move towards possibly selling the house, I find myself wanting to just be there for a bit. By myself. Maybe to say goodbye to the only home that was a constant. The only home that held good memories and the only home that always had an open door for me.

I’m in a support group. There are people in the group that came home to find their loved ones had ‘unalived’ themselves.

Yes. I said that. Much like the world of infidelity, there all kinds of terminology people use for suicide. Un-alive. Successfully completed. It’s strange to me, because in my head I’m not using these calm sounding words and phrases.

But many of these people have found their person. They stay in the home. I keep telling myself I’m being silly by hesitating.

So we will see how this visit goes. Because I actually want to go back and stay for a while.

It’s all I can do to not pack up my parrot and a cat (or two) and just go.

The only reason I haven’t is my daughter.

I saw a quote that really got to me.

I had seen this many times before, but it’s really screaming at me now.

I cannot heal here. In this house, with this man that broke me and seems to have no interest in healing himself.

I feel I have done all the work for myself. I have much more to do, but there’s been nothing from his end.

I need to get away and breathe.

Last week, in the height of a trigger that always happens at this time of year, I just looked at him and said, “you broke me.”

Triggers hit different in this numb head-med world. There’s a calm to them. They hurt, but my body no longer reacts with a pounding heart and shakes and anxiety. They are there, but the physical reactions are not happening which actually makes it easier to think through.

He looked at me and brushed the air in front of him. He rolled his eyes as he did it. “Oh, you were broke when I met you.”

Yes, I was. But I didn’t live in that shattered world. I lived. I laughed. I had babies and raised them. I cooked, I cleaned, I stood by him, I stood by my kids. I would sometimes look back and wonder at that broken girl as I looked at the family I was raising. I looked back sometimes to make sure I never repeated anything I was raised in.

I didn’t live there. I grew, I lived.

When he rocked that foundation, I did find myself back there. Shattered and broken again, but as an adult and not sure how to pull myself back up.

I will never understand the brushing away of what his actions caused. Like it was fine that he also swung a hammer at me, because others did it before him. So what’s the big deal that he did too?

He and I are not the same. I could never.

I cannot heal here. It’s now more than just about him and I.

It’s really only about me now. Selfish as that sounds.

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I often think…

…What if he had chosen her?

Sometimes I find myself daydreaming.

I know many that I follow are in that boat. Their partner left for the other person. The side piece. The homewrecker.

But that is not my story. Mine is, I stayed. He “picked me” and I stayed.

But did he pick me? I do not think so. I believe he chose her. I know he chose her.

He literally ended it with me. Through a text, because our son was in the room. We had talked all day the day before and we were coming to the conclusion we would be splitting.

According to him, there was no one else in his life though. Swore up and down. But our marriage was ending. We woke up that Sunday morning and he sent me the text.

I left that day and took the kids to a skating party. Close to closing time, he showed up. It was weird that he was there, but he stood by the rink and watched me skate. (80’s girl here.. I can skate and I’m proud of it)

When we all left he grabbed me in the parking lot and wrapped me in a huge hug.

I spent that month falling in love with him. Believing him. Thinking he went through something, but came out on the other side knowing he wanted me, wanted his family.

He would send me texts all day. He would be waiting on the porch for me when I got home from work. We went out constantly and man… man I fell in love all over. We had not given our relationship that much attention since the beginning of it.

The end of that month, I found out the truth. There was someone else. He did cheat on me.

I asked a thousand times, “When did it end with you two?” He would answer, “I don’t know”

I would ask in our first counselors office. He would say, “I don’t know.”

Finally, around September that year, months after finding out the truth, he finally said, “I went to her house to make sure it was over.”

So that made me ask more. “When?” I don’t know. “What were you driving?” “I don’t know. “How did it end? What did you say? What did she say?” “I don’t know.”

It made me crazy. Inside my spinning head, it made me insane. Counselor at the time straight up told him, “she has the right to ask questions and the biggest ones to her may be when/how did it start and when/how did it end.”

But he wouldn’t answer the ending. I started to think maybe it didn’t end.

But one day that October, we were taking our son north for his birthday. We had to pass her road. It hit me right out of left field.

He went to her that day in April. When he let me know in a text that it was over for him and he was done. He was ‘there’, we were separated. I left with the kids, he ran right to her.

It hit me that he went to her house the day he found me at the rink and wrapped me all up on his arms. He went to her that day.

Later, out of earshot from the kids, I asked him if it was that day. He first said he didn’t know. But I could see that it shook him a little that I did know.

From that day to today, he has not told me what happened that day he went to her. The story is different every time. She even told me about that day. How he just showed up to her house.

But her story doesn’t match any of his and I don’t know what the big deal is to tell me the truth. From either of them.

Why do I need to know still? Because I think I do know.

He went to her and told her he was done with me. That it was her he was choosing to be with.

I think she told him to get the fuck out of her life.

I don’t think he handled the rejection well.

Her story to me:

Sounds like he kept trying to maybe get her to change her mind?

So here’s where I often go. In my head.

I go back to that day in my head. A lot. She accepts he has chosen her.

She wants him too. This married man with three kids and a crazy ass wife.

He leaves me for her. I learn to stand without him. I learn who I am without him. I watch as their relationship absolutely doesn’t make it and it makes me smile.

I watch myself over the past 5 years becoming healthy. Maybe even confident. I don’t live the past five years constantly questioning and depressed and living with no answers from him.

I won’t be blamed for the affair any longer, like I made him make the choices he did.

I learn to stand on my own.

I see the work I’ve done. The counseling, the self reflection, but yet I cannot walk away.

I see that he has done nothing. No remorse, no counseling, nothing but thinking I should be grateful he chose me.

But he didn’t and more often than not, I wish she had chosen him too.

It would’ve been done for me. The choice would be made then.

He will never admit it, but she dumped him. I just know it.

She’s stronger than I am, I guess.

Posted in adultery, affair, cheating husband, DDay, discovery day, extramarital affair, gaslighting, healing after the affair, homewrecker, infidelity, mistress, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Life.

My dad would always send me a birthday card. It was always well thought, sweet, and I could always tell he took his time picking the perfect card. I’ve saved every single one he’s ever sent.

Sometimes he would include a little bit of money and tell me to “spend it only on yourself!”

But the cards began to make me mad. Because that’s all I got, really. Just a birthday card.

I didn’t want a once-a-year card dad. I needed more effort, more desire for him to want to be in my life.

It was always me. Always. Me, driving a million miles to him. Me, sending cards, letters, pictures, texts, emails… taking care of him when he was sick, shopping for him, leaving my three young kids at the drop of a hat to go when I was needed.

It was always me. He expected it from me.

They divorced when I was 8. From about 14 on? It’s always been me reaching out, trying, putting myself and my kids into his life.

So when that one card would appear in the mail, over the years I started to get angry at them.

My birthday is this Sunday.

I would’ve already had my card by now.

I’m so fucking mad at myself for being angry all those years.

I would give anything to have another card that pisses me off.

___________________

Dealing with his choice puts me in a familiar roller coaster pattern. Some days I’m so angry at him. Some days I understand. Some days I have trouble standing with the weight of guilt on my shoulders.

Some days I picture the last minutes of his life over and over and over.

He was a sensitive, emotional man. I know he was crying. I know he was shaking. I know he struggled loading the magazine, there was evidence of that.

Guilt. I should’ve been there. What if I had called him that morning? Would it have made a difference?

______________________

I’m heading to Kentucky next week. My daughter has asked to go. I know all three of my kids are dealing with this in their own way. I have told them what happened, but nothing else. I have just said, “self inflicted”

I have told them I will answer anything they want to know (to a point) when they are ready to ask and know.

21 has been to the house and we had a long talk later. He asked all the questions he wanted to and I answered as I could and didn’t elaborate or add any other details.

22 does not want to not know anything at all yet.

My daughter has been quiet. She was there the day the death certificates arrived. I read them and was frankly, shocked at the detail.

She asked if she could see it. She’s 17. I’m not about to hide things from her. I looked at her and said, “It’s insanely detailed, are you sure?” She didn’t hesitate a second when she said “I’m sure” and held out her hand.

I watched her read through. Her eyes widened at one point. She shook her head and I saw a flash of anger in her eyes. I recognized it. She handed it back and just looked at me.

I said, “Do you need to talk?” She shook her head and said “Not right now. But soon maybe.” I hugged her.

So now she wants to go with me. She is actually demanding she go with me.

She very sheepishly asked me the other day “So, what does the house look like?”

I knew what she was asking. I told her, “I will be honest with you. There is one spot that can only be removed if the hardwood is taken up.” I made a circle with my hand with the approximate size. “You don’t have to go with me, I’ll be OK.”

She said, “I know you will be. No. I’m going.”

I’m not sure if I’m fucking up by taking her, or respecting that this may be how she deals with what her grandfather did. I don’t know. She’s almost an adult.

___________________________

Im still not sleeping. Had a talk with my doctor about it and she thought maybe she put me on too high of a dosage and wanted to lower it.

I told her no. I told her it’s the most insane sensation to have no emotions AT ALL, but for right now, I’m actually OK with it. It’s a zombie life and I’m so good with that. For now.

But it would be nice to sleep. A nice 8 hour night? Oh, that would be heaven.

But it’s alright. I have hope it will even out. 3 hours is fine. 😳🥴

It’s 1:02 right now. I’m just writing things out of my head.

Happy thanksgiving 🍽

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The whole thing was wrong.

I chose to ignore her letter.

It’s just wrong. No matter who she is to me, how I feel about her, what happened the last time she reached out is still there.

Though, I get it.

Also, I know that as much as I would do anything for my sons, I know I wouldn’t do that.

Also, I know my boundaries with my kids.

So the weird novelty of receiving that letter has worn off and I can see it a bit clearer now.

Maybe there is no motive on her part at all but to say hello, but I’m just not going to engage.

Which is new for me. In the past, I would fear I would disappoint and put myself in situations that made me feel like a welcome mat.

So that’s new.

In other news, saw my doctor yesterday. All tests came back clear and that’s a weight off the shoulders.

I also went over the past few weeks by on Prozac. Told her to call in the script for the next 90 days and went over the side effects I’m having.

Which is lack of sleep and zero appetite.

Both are annoying, but I also don’t seem to care. 😆

I was so against a head med. I just really thought you needed to go through it, because it will always be there if you don’t.

Im ok with that for now. I can wait.

I think for me it was my dad that tipped the decision for me.

I couldn’t close my eyes and not see.

Something happened in the house that I think is too graphic to even type out, and even two months later, I just kept re-living it. I would get it pushed away and bam, right back it would come. It wouldn’t stop.

If I could get my eyes closed and actually fell asleep, I would dream and the dreams were nightmares.

I was having full blown anxiety attacks in the middle of the night. I couldn’t handle thoughts of him at all without breaking down. But the thoughts wouldn’t stop, I was getting no break.

It was killing me, I think. I don’t think we are meant to have anxiety at those levels without some kind of physical damage. I don’t know.. Maybe I’m justifying to myself why I chose to go ahead with them.

But I am. It is what it is.

I’ve moved ahead with opening the estate and am waiting at this point to see if my sister will contest the will. Which makes no sense, but that’s where I am now.

The will leaves absolutely everything to me and puts me in charge.

There’s nothing to fight over. I have promised her that all will be split even, and that’s a promise I will hold. I hope she doesn’t contest because it will drag it on.

But she’s being kind of weird.

So we will see.

My step dad tells me that death can bring out weirdness in people. He’s got 3 siblings and his fathers death has caused a rift in all of them. He warns me it brings out greed.

I guess I don’t understand because it’s not anything I could do. But here we go…

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The past just knocked…

I had to go look, but I thought I wrote of my high school sweetheart, S, before… and yes, I had.

Memory lane

I went back and read it, and yep. Same.

When I think of him, or just high school years in general, I immediately flash to his parents.

I think I only think of high school years every once in a while, because my daughter is a senior this year. We often talk about how different our school years are, and how similar they are.

So. Yeah. Nothing has changed, I still think of his parents. I even thought I saw his Mom at the local Home Depot this past weekend. It wasn’t her, but seeing this woman that looked so similar had my heart pounding. So she has been on my mind here and there for a few months now.

I can stalk her FB page, and I have. I find myself looking about once a year. I just want to make sure her and her husband are still on this earth.

I never stalk the ex boyfriend though.

But I do check on his current wife. I want to make sure they are happy and secure and living life to the fullest with each other.

Here’s why.

Deep breath…

They came back into my life about 16 years ago. I ran into them in town. What I didn’t mention in that last blog entry is that I think S’s Mom was trying to pull some puppet strings in the background.

What I didn’t know that day I ran into them was that S was splitting from his wife. We exchanged numbers that day and about 2 months after that, she called me and invited me over for lunch.

I grabbed that offer for lunch like a dog going for a bone. To see her again? Yes. I didn’t even think of the consequences. I didn’t think beyond anything other than pure delight that the woman I saw as the best mother on the planet had not forgotten me and wanted to see me.

I went. The house was the same, it smelled the same, she was the same, her husband was the same. Maybe a little more silver, but the same.

They had videos from trips they took me on. Albums and albums of pictures from when he and I were together. It felt like walking into the past, into a home where I was wanted, remembered.

Not a good idea. I should’ve never done it.

Because she invited me again. This time? S was there. It became so apparent what this was.

I did not even hug him. We did talk, a lot, but I kept a physical distance from him. We chatted about his life, mine, my kids, his kid.

I let myself go back into time for a night. We talked of things that still make us laugh to this day. I think we both enjoyed that walk down memory lane.

But I couldn’t look into those eyes of his and not remember how many memories there were.

And how much he hurt me.

As an adult, I was sitting there with this gorgeous, green eyed, heavily tattooed biker that held all my teenaged memories.

But he hurt me. Bad. He could never be alone. The split with his wife had him grasping for the past, I guess. I knew sitting there, that this was a set up. This was a set up. From him, from his parents.

That his parents had a hand in this broke my heart. I’m married now. Three kids. Why am I sitting here in this house?

I shouldn’t be there. After a time, I left.

It felt horrible. It was like the little girl in me was giddy happy that they wanted me. But no.

Nope. I had to make it up to my husband. I told him, we fought. We cried.

But he also had a high school sweetheart. He WORKED with her brother and father. SHE ran the office. He had the same situation with her and her family that I did with S and his family.

So I think he understood. Or maybe he didn’t.

Did I make a mistake going to see them? Yes.

Do I regret it? No.

Was it wrong? Probably.

Do I care now? No.

So I had to pick my daughter up from school today. I checked the mail on the way.

I flipped through the mail and imagine my surprise to see a letter from S’s mom.

Ms. V.

I stared at the name and could not even imagine what was in the letter.

I immediately thought her husband had passed. Or S had passed. I just couldn’t imagine.

I waited until I got to the school parking lot to open it.

Everyone is alive. She said she was thinking of me and had to reach out. She mentioned a trip to Yellowstone they took me on when I was 15.

She mentioned a highway, Beartooth Highway that I had to look up because she knows I would love it.

I did look it up, oh my God that’s beautiful.

How would she remember or know that about me?

She went on about her travels and how she is enjoying retirement.

She asked me about my life and left her number for me to text or call to touch base with her.

It makes me wonder. This woman, who I looked at as a mother, who took me under her wing with no hesitation, what does she want?

My life has been a roller coaster of insanity the last few months, did she get some weird universe vibe?

…Or is her son breaking apart from current wife?

Do I text her? Do I tell my husband?

I’m not sure what I want to do.

I can’t imagine my mother writing anything like that to me. It’s like no matter how old I am, I guess I’m still seeking the mother figure. I loved you like my own – still do.

That hits right in the feels. 😖

If I could guarantee the green eyed biker wouldn’t come walking around the corner, I would love to see her. Tell her what I couldn’t tell her as kid, how much I emulate her now, how much she meant to me.

But in that emulation, I look at my own sons and know I would do anything for them too. How far would I go for them? At what expense?

But if she cared about me, just me, just me not with her son, she wouldn’t rock the boat I’m sailing now. Which is my life, my kids, my marriage.

So I’m sensing an ulterior motive here.

But I’m so curious… and it does feel good that she reached out.

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Life moves on.

My last post was a mess.

Sorry.

I won’t even go back and read it, but I think I talked about the prescribed Prozac.

I started them. I think I’m on day 11 with them.

I think they work. For the last week, no crying. No anxiety attacks.

The crying thing may be longer than a week. I just realized yesterday that I haven’t cried in a while.

I’m also not sleeping. At all. Seems to be a common side effect, but one I’m OK with at this time. 

Also, no ruminating. Thoughts come, but they don’t take over. It’s weird, and I know I’m in the beginning stages of this medication, but it seems to be working.

I welcome this break. That’s what it feels like, a break.

I’m accepting that what my dad did and the aftermath of it all was just a bit of a trauma and I was not handling it well. The nightmares have somewhat stopped, probably because I’m not sleeping, and when thoughts of him come around, I’m handling it a bit better.

I had a very rocky, difficult relationship with my father. It’s the guilt I seem to be struggling with.

I texted him Thursday before he did what he did on the following Saturday.

I know he got it. But I got busy and didn’t follow up. I kept telling myself I needed to call him and make sure he got the text, but it would be while I was driving, or out in the chicken coop… I just seemed to be busy when I thought I needed to call him instead.

I wonder constantly if I had, would he still have made that choice?

When I saw him in March, I noticed he was struggling with the phone. He didn’t seem to be grasping the new phone he had.

I don’t know. Silly thing to feel guilty about. But there it is.

Life with the husband is the same. But I just don’t seem to care. I also have this weird sense that he’s aware I have some options with that Kentucky house. He seems to be trying a bit more here and there.

But I also have this empty, numb feeling inside of me that it’s just too late now.

He and I got into a fight on day 2 of Prozac. He has always pushed that get on some kind of head meds.

Day 1-5 were horrible. Really bad headache, no sleeping, I felt ‘muddled’ and weird.

I asked him, “you have always pushed for me to be on something, I know what goes on in my head and how I feel inside, but what was I portraying on the outside to you for you to suggest I go on something?”

I really felt like this was a good question. I was genuinely curious. I was very calm when I asked. I was also feeling physically horrible on day 2 and was already thinking hell no, I’m not doing this.

Instead of talking to me and having some kind of adult conversation, he threw insults at me, compared me to my mother, called me abusive, (he can never give me examples of this ‘abuse’ though. Ever. I’ve asked.)

It was the mother comment that shook me. I realized, he does things like that to shut down a conversation.

I was 23. He was 24. We went down to Florida to see my mother. My mom was a drunk. It was the first time he met her and she was drunkenly telling a story about having her boat motor stolen.

She repeated the story several times.

Over the years, when he and I would fight, he would throw in a dig at me and say something along the lines of “you’re just going to be the trash you are and get your boat motor stolen”

It used to send me right over the edge.

He did it that night. He threw in the boat motor insult.

What the hell? I just looked at him. I realized, in some weird horror, that he would now have yet another one to throw at me with what my father did.

Why does he do that?

I pointed out what he was doing. I asked when he would sink to the lowest point ever and throw my father at me.

He looked shocked. “I wouldn’t!”

But he would.

He went on to say he felt I was attacking him with the question I asked him. I still do not know how that question could be viewed as an attack.

He does not make any sense to me and I believe I just don’t care anymore.

So I’m just waiting now. The estate is opened, and I believe I’m waiting as everything is processed. I’m new to all of it, but am starting to grasp what is ahead.

I will either keep the house… or sell the house.

And there will be some money then.

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