Home since March 11th.
Came home to no one.
Went into my bedroom and found other woman's clothes in my bed with rumpled covers and her hairbrush on my sink, and other signs of her being here. I knew she was here, knew they had been together here. My things were in boxes pushed against the wall in the bedroom, and all my bathroom stuff boxed too.
Was privileged to sit and contemplate all of this reality for two hours with some xanax and approximately half of a large bottle of Jagermeister, and my cat. He had no helpful comments.
I let myself feel it. All the anger and resentment. All the disappointment. All the self-pity. All the hurt. All the bitterness, sour in my mouth. And it started. The crazy reactions to each emotion. But rage was the one I focused on. Rage demands action. Rage does not feel sorry for itself. Rage temporarily defuses utter despair. Rage maintained is intoxicating, like speed and alcohol. Rage gives you the energy to do SOMETHING! dammit, even if it's wrong. Empowering rage followed by the need to spit the vile at someone, to scratch them, to make them bleed. Bleeding, blood, yes, yes, that's what I needed. Someone must bleed for this. It could be him. It could have been me. I didn't care much who made the sacrifice I felt that 20 years of history called a marriage required.
He came home after I had sat in that room and confronted the reality of my one life ending and unable to see the next one beginning except in a detached, intellectual way. But I believe that I should FEEL the next life being born. Or maybe these were the birth pains of my new life, with it's sped-up time of gravid contemplation. I kept thinking - why couldn't I see this coming? Why had I been so blind? Is this real? Am I dreaming? This can't be right- I gave him all of me in perfect love and perfect trust. Ok, not-so-perfect, I always knew he was holding back. Why was that? Why did he waste SO MUCH TIME lying to me and the kids about who he was and how he really felt about us? I could have saved us so much trouble, so much betrayal if I had been braver in 1994 before we came to Texas. Why did he put THAT stuff in a box? I would not be taking that with me. Where am I going? Where will I live? I don't want to be here, but I'm having trouble letting go. I must become detached. I must close myself to myself. To conceal is to reveal. Am I just another divorce statistic? Why can't I make him happy? Why would he never share? Why did he say he doesn't trust me with himself? He used to. My honor has been besmirched. Any woman would be rightfully angry. Any woman might burn the motherfucking house down. Or shoot him. Or break a few things. I am not just any woman. Am I? Why isn't he trying to be with me? Does she fuck him that well? Better than me? I will do anything! Nothing was ever out-of-bounds. Is that it? She sounds like me. We have a lot in common. Why is that? Why doesn't he get someone totally different? I want someone totally different. I understand that better. She's not better than me. She couldn't be. I am noble, sexy, strong, unique, a warrior queen maintaining the peace. I am a leader of people, people want to be with me, all the time. Total strangers are attracted to me and I can see it in their eyes, that longing to be warmed by my strength and compassion and intimate understanding of their own inner minds. It happens all the time. I can't begin to respect or accept all of them but I try to find some redeeming quality in all of them. I am not a megalomaniac. I do know myself and to know a thing completely is to control it. Is to harness its powers for myself, even the deepest parts of myself that can be used for great good and terrible destruction. Why do I want to destroy things? Why do I keep thinking that if I destroy myself it would be the best course of action, the grand gesture....
and on and on... originally written in march 2008 and now it's safe to look at because of the distance of time...it's March 18 2018 now. and on the ten year anniversary of this humiliating moment... I still feel...humiliated. Even though i shot the gun over his head and then drove off ostensibly to cry my drunkeness and anger off, they all thought i was gonna kill myself and showed up to escort me back home. to my not-home. ten years later and I still feel like i would have been better off in some ways to off myself in some way. But then again, maybe not. I'm following the fateline as it comes. For now, I'll remain passive, but not for much longer, no not much longer now. I am gonna take charge of my life back. I hope.
Came home to no one.
Went into my bedroom and found other woman's clothes in my bed with rumpled covers and her hairbrush on my sink, and other signs of her being here. I knew she was here, knew they had been together here. My things were in boxes pushed against the wall in the bedroom, and all my bathroom stuff boxed too.
Was privileged to sit and contemplate all of this reality for two hours with some xanax and approximately half of a large bottle of Jagermeister, and my cat. He had no helpful comments.
I let myself feel it. All the anger and resentment. All the disappointment. All the self-pity. All the hurt. All the bitterness, sour in my mouth. And it started. The crazy reactions to each emotion. But rage was the one I focused on. Rage demands action. Rage does not feel sorry for itself. Rage temporarily defuses utter despair. Rage maintained is intoxicating, like speed and alcohol. Rage gives you the energy to do SOMETHING! dammit, even if it's wrong. Empowering rage followed by the need to spit the vile at someone, to scratch them, to make them bleed. Bleeding, blood, yes, yes, that's what I needed. Someone must bleed for this. It could be him. It could have been me. I didn't care much who made the sacrifice I felt that 20 years of history called a marriage required.
He came home after I had sat in that room and confronted the reality of my one life ending and unable to see the next one beginning except in a detached, intellectual way. But I believe that I should FEEL the next life being born. Or maybe these were the birth pains of my new life, with it's sped-up time of gravid contemplation. I kept thinking - why couldn't I see this coming? Why had I been so blind? Is this real? Am I dreaming? This can't be right- I gave him all of me in perfect love and perfect trust. Ok, not-so-perfect, I always knew he was holding back. Why was that? Why did he waste SO MUCH TIME lying to me and the kids about who he was and how he really felt about us? I could have saved us so much trouble, so much betrayal if I had been braver in 1994 before we came to Texas. Why did he put THAT stuff in a box? I would not be taking that with me. Where am I going? Where will I live? I don't want to be here, but I'm having trouble letting go. I must become detached. I must close myself to myself. To conceal is to reveal. Am I just another divorce statistic? Why can't I make him happy? Why would he never share? Why did he say he doesn't trust me with himself? He used to. My honor has been besmirched. Any woman would be rightfully angry. Any woman might burn the motherfucking house down. Or shoot him. Or break a few things. I am not just any woman. Am I? Why isn't he trying to be with me? Does she fuck him that well? Better than me? I will do anything! Nothing was ever out-of-bounds. Is that it? She sounds like me. We have a lot in common. Why is that? Why doesn't he get someone totally different? I want someone totally different. I understand that better. She's not better than me. She couldn't be. I am noble, sexy, strong, unique, a warrior queen maintaining the peace. I am a leader of people, people want to be with me, all the time. Total strangers are attracted to me and I can see it in their eyes, that longing to be warmed by my strength and compassion and intimate understanding of their own inner minds. It happens all the time. I can't begin to respect or accept all of them but I try to find some redeeming quality in all of them. I am not a megalomaniac. I do know myself and to know a thing completely is to control it. Is to harness its powers for myself, even the deepest parts of myself that can be used for great good and terrible destruction. Why do I want to destroy things? Why do I keep thinking that if I destroy myself it would be the best course of action, the grand gesture....
and on and on... originally written in march 2008 and now it's safe to look at because of the distance of time...it's March 18 2018 now. and on the ten year anniversary of this humiliating moment... I still feel...humiliated. Even though i shot the gun over his head and then drove off ostensibly to cry my drunkeness and anger off, they all thought i was gonna kill myself and showed up to escort me back home. to my not-home. ten years later and I still feel like i would have been better off in some ways to off myself in some way. But then again, maybe not. I'm following the fateline as it comes. For now, I'll remain passive, but not for much longer, no not much longer now. I am gonna take charge of my life back. I hope.
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