The crazy thing about this is that my IC keeps telling me that I got unrealistic viewpoints of what a relationship is; hang on, maybe I did. Maybe the way my mom acted towards her screwed up BFs and my father gave me the unrealistic expectation that a man can act like a complete and utter asshole and that those are the types of men that *I* should be with? Men who cheated on their spouses, men who were peddle-pushers, men who weren’t doing well for themselves and just weren’t going anywhere in life, “bad boys” for life; and in some ways, this is how my WH was and still acts: he’s lazy, unmotivated, has no real ambition, low self-esteem, and FOO issues. And with him, I feel immeasurably depressed because I always wanted to have someone different than the persons my mom seems to gravitate towards: the same type of disappointing man, the guy who will break your heart in the end. They all have the exact same characteristic: they break your heart in the end.
She always dumped the ones that seemed “nice” enough, I suppose. One was a teacher that had taught one of my older brothers, but I think she said he was “too boring” and then went right out and started “dating” a married man. She told my older brother once (or, was it me?) that she deserved to do what she was doing because of what Dad did to her. And there’s the kicker right there, isn’t it? I “deserved” to do what I did because of what WH did to me; I was entitled to a perverse version of Lex Talionis (“the law of retaliation”).
God, I hate my parents.
So, okay, my IC knows her stuff.
And this just brings up a situation when I was first in college and a guy that I knew back in high school wanting to date me because I was all grown up and I certainly wasn’t my older brother’s little sister anymore; I was a woman. He was really nice, and I’ll never forget something that he said to me: “I will never allow my woman or my child to walk around in rags; I’ll be the one in rags, and they’ll be the ones in riches.” That always stuck with me, what he said, and I wasn’t interested in him even though he’d always held a torch for me, but he was one of those “boring” types: you know the ones, stable, reliable, dependable; he didn’t go to college, but I know he became a car sales man and I believe is a manager of his own dealership now; his girlfriend is beautiful and they seem happy.
I won’t say that “should’ve” been me, but I’m now trying to figure out if my mother’s phrasing of always liking the “bad boys” (something she told me about her first boyfriend, who got her knocked up in high school and ended up getting locked up – robbery, I think) colored how *I* view relationships and what is and is not acceptable; constantly giving chances when there shouldn’t be ANYMORE to give (my mother was/is NOTORIOUS for having going back and forth, on-and-off again relationships with her “friends” (males who are immature – even for their ages – unreliable, irresponsible assholes, people that she has to sleep with to really get anything out of; God, is my mother whoring herself out?), constantly going back and forth with the same assholes over and over and over again, almost ramming her head into the proverbial wall expecting these men to “change” and not be assholes.
Did I get with one of the “assholes”, in a sense? Am I doing the exact thing that I told myself I didn’t want to be: my mother? The men that did get the courage to approach me were ones that I deemed “undesirable”: some of them were known assholes and got ditched like a bad habit; others were people who I deemed “boring” and were firmly placed in the “friend zone”; some of them have been friends for years, but started off as people that wanted me, but of whom I just had no feelings for except as friends or siblings.
So, you know, at first this was going to be a diatribe of “but I wasn’t LOOKING for external validation!” But, if I really dig into my FOO issues, and really LOOK at what the hell my IC told me last, it is a piece of a fucked up puzzle. No, I didn’t want my relationship to end (or maybe I did?); No, I didn’t want to cheat on WH (or maybe I did?); but all this came into play in March 2013.
I remember that day because it was maybe a few weeks after WH told me the “rest” of his A(I don’t fucking know because he still doesn’t talk about the A itself unless prompted; I can give him reasons for why I need him to until I’m blue in the face, but he just won’t do it and it makes me depressed that we’re never going to get ANYWHERE), and this overwhelming feeling of rage, anguish and despair came over me and I had doubled over at my desk at work, crying my eyes out, wanting the pain to stop, and the thought popped up: “Contact your ex.” I had been toying with the idea for weeks. On the surface, it was “Oh, I just want to know what happened for him and me to break up.” Now, I have to ask myself: “Why? Why was that so important?”
It wasn’t. There was no reason, no logic behind it; nothing. Why open that can of worms? We’d broken up; he married the girl that he cheated on me with; move the fuck on with life, Erica. But I remembered the old relationship, and how it just seemed like the those STUPID romantic movie scenes seemed to happen between us: People constantly complimenting the two of us as so cute, you guys look so good together; how random music players would just so happen to be in our vicinity and they’d play STUPID romantic music and pause right next to us and smile and laugh and joke with us about, yes, you guessed it: how “cute” we were and how good we looked together; how our sex life was. So, in looking back, I wanted “THAT” back; whatever the fuck that was.
I hated WH in that exact moment; I hated him and everything that he had done, everything that he was, and everything that had happened between us. I feel like that was what the anguish really was; the immeasurable loss of wanting a “magical” relationship (with my WH?); one that I had been deprived of since the very beginning. It was the long list of “since the very beginning” that I was feeling too: from dealing with his ex; from dealing with him working late; from him not protecting me from his friends and their overtly sexual advances (sometimes, right in front of his face); from him prizing our DD way above me and my contribution to – I don’t know, say – her LIFE on this planet; from blaming me and leaving me emotionally drained; from flirting with other women (sometimes in MY face) and telling me they were just “friends”; from using the “I’m a bad guy” excuse for every fucked up thing he’d ever done.
But to be honest, in the exact moment, I should’ve picked up the phone and said to WH: “It’s over. I can’t do this. You’ve done too much; you’re too broken, and now I’m broken too. I don’t want to fix you anymore; I don’t want to be your KISA and I don’t want to be on your pedestal. I don’t want to save you; I’ve done enough. Fuck you. Save yourself.”
Instead, I did something that I told myself I was never going to do: use someone else for my own benefit. To be honest, I have used people before – as a teenager, getting my kicks from getting attention from men WAY older than me. But I suppressed it and buried it because I thought I had forgiven myself and moved on from it. Apparently, not. Here is a confession that I haven’t even told my WH (don’t know if I will, but I’m sure he’ll read this posting to figure out why I’m so depressed and pissed today): I was one of those girls who played the daddy fantasies on sex sites. Yep, that was me. It stings a bit when I hear BSs who have WHs who’ve done that because – and this fucks with me a bit – I can understand the OW in those cases; I “get” why those women who are the OW and engage in those fantasies do it; well, some of them. For some of them, it’s a compulsion and a drug and an addiction, and it fucking hurts like you wouldn’t believe. It doesn’t feel good all the time; sometimes, you get your kick, but then you have to do it over and over and over and over again, and up the ante even more to keep getting that black hole filled. I know that part of it comes from molestation; I don’t know HOW or WHY it comes from there; I don’t know WHY I need/needed that validation from older men; especially people that were as old as my father, who – coincidently was one of my molesters, one of those “bad boys” my mother prefers.
But, back on subject, I used someone – after telling myself I would never do that (funny that I didn’t connect the dots on my teenage issues and my cheating incident with xOM). I contacted my ex under the same pretense: I just want to know what happened that he cheated and left. I will honestly say, I didn’t think he would respond, but he did, and it progressed forward, and what “triggered” me to know that he was “game”: he never once mentioned his wife, and when he did, he only used the first initial of her name. I usually said her full name; I guess, in a way to get back at him (and her, after all, he cheated on me with her. Whatever).
But that was the downward spiral: this fucked up, twisted spiral that really, honestly, I want to get off of. I didn’t KNOW I was this messed up; okay, I had a hint because I tried to see a psychologist years ago for depression and she diagnosed me as a sleepwalker when I’m under duress (which is true, at times. I do sleepwalk periodically when I’m mentally “restless” or “disturbed”); I’d gravitated towards psychology for a few semesters; I’m drawn to really dark, morbid stuff; I engage in escapist fantasy A LOT when I’m stressed (according to one of my older brothers, when I was MUCH younger, and our mother left for the first time, he said I REALLY upped the ante on escapist fantasies, creating elaborate worlds and costumes and stories and characters, building entire universes to disappear into; I think it was around the time of my molestation; that was just a really fucked up year/years).
Looking at everything, I was/am a ticking time bomb. This situation has brought into sharp focus everything that is fucked up and wrong with me; but I don’t know WHY I brought the fantasy into reality. I don’t get HOW my mother’s fucked up choices have really affected me to this degree. It’s too many stray dots that aren’t connecting. I can’t say molestation + mother (and her fucked up KISA issues) + Dad (and his fucked up issues) + fucked up childhood = ticking time bomb for an affair.
This is a long, rambly thing. I don’t mind if you don’t read it because I write NOVELS when I’m on a self-diagnosis roll.
Please don’t take any of this as my excuses; there may be (probably is; definitely, I think) some wayward processes in there. This was more stream of consciousness rather than deeply thought out; my thoughts come to me at a millions miles a second (some I catch onto and ponder for a moment (read: lifetime) and others zip by so fast I can’t catch them at all), but if you managed to wade through it: congrats!