I went to the house and found a note. Can you count the "I's?"
Skan,
I am sitting here welling tears for the hurt I have given you again. I have been nauseated all day and have had stress burns in my arms. That is where I carry the stress, I guess.
It has been as bad as DDay. Like that day, I knew I could not lie to you about my transgression. Like that day, I knew I was wrong and you were devastated. I know you realize down deep that I had done something wrong. Covering it up would have led to more hurt.
I was childish to not destroy the porn. I was childish and selfish to bring it back into the house. I was criminally stupid and malicious to hide it in the box with the other porn (playboys). When I was repacking the closet and found that box, I should have dumped it and the porn. I did not. I lied as I had promised myself I would not.
It was also stupid of me not to search better through the stacks by the bed when I removed the porn stories. Finding that ‘pullout’ added extra pain. It made me more of a liar. The letter from high school was probably just piling on.
I think I have found all of your messages. All are on the mark.
I hope you are safe. I understand why you do not feel safe in a house with someone who has proven to be a selfish, spoiled liar. I am sorry. That is not being a victim, it is remorse.
I have not laughed at you. I have never laughed at your pain. I have been very concerned. I have tried to help when it was bad. I was not laughing when you had lyme’s. I have not laughed at your pain this last year. I was holding you and crying when you were, literally, beating yourself up at various times. I do care. (note, my PTSD sometimes causes me to hit myself under stress)
I have an appointment with IC Wednesday. I called him as soon as I got to the office. I am continuing to see him and talk to him. I am going to talk about my addict behaviors, my lies, and my need for ‘stuff’ that have hurt you again.
Please be well. I am praying for both of us.
This letter was evidently written Tuesday night after he got home. My response, left on top of his box of pornography in the middle of the garage :
WH,
Do you really expect that I think that you cried? You don’t cry for me, for us. Situations that would have a fully-committed man blubbering with snot running down his nose leave you with a vaguely concerned look on your face. I have only seen you truly cry once, in bed, and it was all about you. About how I really didn’t know you. And whose fault is that?
I have knocked, kicked, scratched, beaten on the door, asking to be let in. You have never unlocked the door. You step out onto the porch and firmly lock that door behind you. I’m not welcome there. You have never let me in. You pretend that the house behind you doesn’t exist. Even when we’re standing on the porch.
I have news for you. This is worse than DDay. Because I bought into your lies this year. I made the decision to trust you, to love you. I saw a better tomorrow. You let me believe in all of that. You actively encouraged me and set me up for this fall. You did it knowingly, maliciously, and with great intent. You took all of the scars in my Psyche, all of the scars on my heart and on my soul, and you ripped them wide open again, leaving me to hemorrhage all over the floor. I don’t know if there’s enough healthy tissue for healing this time.
You spent the last year grin-fucking me. Telling me whatever you learned that I needed to hear, to make me fall in love with you again. To make me feel safe. You watched me go thru hell, bleeding at every step, crazy out of my mind with grief, and you held back a secret, admitting that “I knew it would hurt you, I didn’t think you would find out.” You used me. For your own, twisted gratification. MC held me today while I cried. I wept in his arms and I felt safe. You held me in your arms and I felt safe, until a day ago. The sad thing is, that I do think that you care, that you love me. I just don’t think that you know what love is. I don’t know what passes for love inside of you, but it isn’t normal.
WH, I would light a match to anything inside of this house, anything that I own, if it meant that you would be whole. I would torch the house. I would give up anything that I own, tear it apart with my bare hands, if it meant that you would be whole and healthy and loved and safe. I have let you into my mind, my soul, and I have held nothing back from you. All for you, for us. That’s what love is. I laid everything that was mine to give on an alter for you. And you shat upon it. These material possessions are worth more to you than I am. You have no idea of how that makes me feel, as you have no idea truly of what love really is.
So here’s your stuff. Enjoy it. Hold it tight to your body. Caress it. Lay on top of it and breath it all in. It’s all yours. Your true lover, the true love of your life. What hold it has on you, I don’t know. I do know that it’s supremely unhealthy, but that’s your choice to make. Enjoy your mistress.
And here’s a really simple tip on how to stop lying. Just Stop. Just. Stop.
I am setting a time limit. I am coming home on Friday afternoon at the latest. Earlier, if you purge our property of your mistresses. But on Friday afternoon, I will come home and if that material is not out of the house, then you will be. If you cannot bear to be parted from your goddesses, then I suggest that you go on Craig’s List and look for a room to rent in TownThatHeWorksIn. That will put you in walking/bus/riding distance for work when your DUI suspension takes place. I have worked out the budget and we can afford $1000 for you to get a room. I checked Craigs List and that is reasonable for up there. But truly, I don’t give a rats ass where you go you’re an adult and can make that decision. I offer the suggestion up only as something that you will need to think about, transportation wise, in less than a month’s time.
So, I'm sitting in my hotel room, choking down some food, and then I'm getting ready for a birthday party being thrown down by the harbor at 5:30 for a friend's 50th birthday. I will have my makeup on, look stunning, and will be chatty, welcoming, and kind to everyone I see. It might look like I'm wearing some nice Hawaiian flip flops, but I assure you that they are pointy-toed bitch boots of the finest Corinthian leather. And if he has the balls to show up before his IC appt., I will be gay, and vague, and surrounded by our friends. Drinking Tonic from a wine glass.
