You ask the question, knowing which answer you want to hear and knowing that, no matter what, this is going to suck. As he answers, your soul leaves your body to watch it all happen from a safe place in the corner of the room. She does this to give you a moment of numbness. The calm before the storm, so to speak. She watches like it is a bad daytime tv show as he puts his head in his hands and you remove the ring. You know that you have to pack now, so you start pulling the magnets off of the fridge and putting them in a sandwich bag. Because this is all that you can do. Your soul re-enters your body to start you down the path of regaining your life.
First, you are in utter shock. Your mind starts racing back to the hours that brought you here, then the days, the weeks, the months and years. This can't really be happening. What did you do wrong? Was it because you didn't compliment his latest food creation? Because you left the dishes in the sink? You go back over every conversation, every argument, every whispered word and every caress. There are so many things that it could be. He gives his pathetic explanation and you know that it's not the whole story. You need the whole story.
While he continues to drink, you take a shower and get ready for work. How are you going to face today? How, knowing that you moved here in love and had formatted yourself to think as a 'we,' were you now going to switch that all back fast enough to get out with your mind? Get out with your hope? Get out with any sense of dignity? Okay, go to work and tell them that you have to give your two weeks, right? He said that you can't stay there, but fuck him. He fucked you, right? Fuck him! But by the time you have driven the 7 minutes to work, you have lost composure. You walk in and tell these women that you have only started to get to know, that you are leaving. This is the moment that you realize that you are no longer yourself and that most of what you once were is gone. You're not a quitter. Yet here you are, quitting. And being quit.
All you want now is your mom. You're 32 years old and you want your mom so bad. You have been reduced to a quivering child. When you can't get a hold of her, you want HIS mom. His mom, whom you have grown to love as much as your own. His mom who is the only one that could possibly shed some light on this situation. His mom who actually has the best of both of you in her.
You go back to the home that you share with him. He's there, sleeping. How can he sleep? How, when your heart has turned to blown glass, is he snoring? Can he not feel your pain? It's coming off of you in sheets of desperation. Can he not see that he's just changed the future with just a handful of careless words? No, he can't, he's asleep. And drunk.
You still don't believe it. You tell his mother. You need someone else to know, because you can feel yourself slipping away and you need a lifeboat. And she is that.
You have to leave. You need to be out of that space. That space that held the promises that you both shared and fed. That space that has now become oppressive and bogged down with pain and frustration that both of you felt and contributed to. You know now that you need help. you can't do this alone, which is what he seems to expect from you. Your girls will become your lifeline. You have no control over your emotions or the liquids that have suddenly started draining from your eyes and nose. You call your girls and tell them what has happened and by doing so, it all becomes very real. More real than you can handle. You have no control over how consumed you suddenly are, but yet, you can't let them help you because you are acutely aware of their situations in life and don't want to be a bother. A bother, that is what you feel you must have become. Your determination to make things comfortable for him and scrambling to make your own niche in his life, in your life, and this town has made you a bother. Someone of no consequence. A fruit fly.
You become more stubborn than you ever thought was possible, even for you. People are extending their hands, but you can't accept. Because you don't want to disrupt their lives, because that would mean that you are weak, because that would mean that it was over. You are crying so much that you can't speak and your friends are scared. So scared. Because this time, you can't even talk. You just sob, body shaking sobs. And that cigarette habit that you were kicking has flared up to the point that even you find alarming in this state. They ask what you need and all you can say is 'I don't know.' The same answer that he would give you that made you so mad, is now the only thing that you can say. "I don't know."
You pack a bag and load up the cat because you have to leave. You get in the car and start driving, but you can't make it very far because you cant see through your own tears. On the radio, your life is being sung back to you by crappy Emo bands and the latest teenage superstars. Your life is piece of bad music. You turn off the radio. The billboards taunt you. The one with the corona bottle sitting too far away from the lime, with the words 'Separation anxiety' reminds you of how he said that if the world were ending, he would get some corona, grab you and go to the beach to watch it all end. But now you're watching it all end without the comfort of him or even a corona.
The next few days you spend in solitude. Your friends call to check on you. He does not. You cry. You sleep fitfully. You can't eat. You take multiple showers a day because you can't get warm. You can't read to escape and you sure as hell can't get through a movie without falling apart. You're stuck in your head. The loop just keeps replaying and the pendulum is swinging out of control. Anger that will surely cause internal burns. Pain that keeps you from breathing. Gratitude for the people who love you. And the questions that will never be answered.
Then you have to tell your family. Your family who housed him and accepted him with no questions asked. Your family who trusted him to take care of you and never hurt you. Your family who he is metaphorically spitting in the face of. And you hate him with a passion so fierce right now. The humiliation of what you are going through is only a shadow of the pain that you see in their eyes when you tell them. They have questions, but you you have no answers to give. You have nothing. He has left you with nothing but shards of your dreams. And you realize how manipulative he was. Maybe this is a good thing. But it sure doesn't feel like it.
When you do see him, finally after days of no contact, he is nothing of the person that you knew. He says purposely hurtful things and only looks you in the eyes when he is pulling back the dagger to strike again. Those eyes that you fell in love with on the first day that you met, now meet yours with a malice that rivals nothing that you have ever seen. Malice on the edge of indifference.
But you are grateful. Grateful that he is there. Grateful that he is telling you a little bit more of the story. Grateful that he is confirming your greatest fears. Grateful that there are people out there that love you and will help you reverse the pool of defeat and despair that you have become.
The next few days are a blur. All of the emotions swim around in your soul, weighing you down. You still can't eat. You drink almost nothing but water because that is all that you can keep down. You cry. You cry for the miscarriages; physical, emotional and spiritual. For everything that was born in you that your body could no longer nurture and then violently expelled. He never even heard you.
You go out and spend time with new friends. Friends that you kept at arms length because he used to care too much about what you were doing and with whom, and you didn't want to make him angry. But you realize then that, recently, he never even asked you how your day was, so how would he even know if you were out with other people? How would he know if you were having an affair? How would he know if you even went to work everyday. He wouldn't, he was never there for you in any sense of the word. He was always at work. Or drunk. Or, in the end, with her. But those few days in the demise, you had more fun in that town of dying dreams than you ever had with him. And you are grateful for the people that you met and the surprising love and persistence that they showed you.
You don't know which is worse: having him stay out all night or when he comes home to get clothes for the next day. On some nights when he comes home, he is drunk and sad and sorry for what he is doing to you. On some nights he is angry and mean. When he is sorry, you hold him as he cries. Even though you are broken, you can't bare to see him hurt. You reassure him that this is the right thing to do because that's what he wants to hear. You dry his tears. You cover him with a blanket. And you hate her for hurting him? But the next day will dawn, his alcohol wares off and he is distant once more.
When he is mean, it spurs you on. You pack a lot more after those visits. Or you devise unethical plots. To put bubblegum in his PS3. To scratch some or all of his games and movies. To cut the thread in the seat of his work pants so that when he bends over to pull something out of the oven, he will show the ass that he really is. You won't damage his guitars, because you actually respect them, but he doesn't know that. And you won't act on any of your plans because you still love him.
What happens next is the last thing that you ever imagine of yourself. When he pulls up in front of the apartment with her in the car, all rational thoughts leave you. What is he thinking? How is he so clueless or heartless? Who is this person? You let him in the house against your better judgment. You should just tell him to come back another time. You want to keep your mouth shut and just let this pass. But you don't, because you have endured so much at this point and this is the straw that breaks you. All of the humiliation, anger, and loss start to bubble up inside of you. Your soul, knowing what is coming, wants to save you from this, so she leaves your body and runs to hide once more. The Troll that lies dormant in your stomach starts to stir. He's been so good through this. He made you put down the rusty knife that you wanted to stab into couch cushions in rage, he reminded you that personal injury to this man would only get you into trouble that wouldn't be worth it. But now, he can't sit quietly anymore. He is the Troll of crimes of passion. He has been summonds.
You tell the man that you love that what he is doing now is dangerous for him, professionally. He dismisses you in a way that only the naive in lust can. He's so smarmy about it that before the troll can reach up through your mouth and strangle this pathetic, weak child, you are running. He doesn't even know what is happening until you grab him and spin him around. You want to shake him. You want to hit him. And you may have done both. All sense and sensibility has left you, leaving only the volcanic rage that spurs you on. Not even the troll can tell you what happened, as he was pushed out of the way. When you look back on this moment, you have no idea what happened. You imagine that you must have looked like Medusa with your hair all over the place and evil glowing red eyes. You know that you had your hands on his arms, you know that you wanted to cause pain, you know that as you screamed about that fucking whore in the car, spittle was flying. But that's all that you know. There were no witnesses within you. This is how bad it has gotten and there is no return once you have hit this point.
He sees that you have crossed over to that place where people go with no chance of redemption. That's is why he will come back and pick up his guitar. The only thing that means something to him, he tells you. He won't pick you up out of the mire. He only cares about his guitar. The light is starting to show in your mind. The man that promised you forever, cares more about a piece of wood and cat gut strings, than he does for you. How did you end up here?
You drink that night. You may even drink a lot. Your friends, old and new will talk you off of the ledge, laugh with you, commiserate with you and cry with you. And another day will dawn where you have no sleep and your entire being goes from numb to shattered, bleeding and in pain. This is when people write awful poetry. This is where that comes from. He is where that comes from.
And this sequence will all repeat. Again and again. Not the demonic Goddess of Hate that you were that one night, but the rest of it. The vacillation between competent and not. His wavering between sorry and hateful. And you will think back to all of your passed sins and how they are being paid for now. And for how unfortunate you feel for when this comes back on him and he has no idea that this could have been avoided with just a conversation and some decency.
And just for God's little joke, you are horny too. you feel like a fixed pug wanting to hump every leg, pillow and couch. The need for intimacy is overwhelming. But that need is the least of your concerns at this point.
He will finally make good on one of his promises. The promise to help you leave. He will pay the $30 for a truck and will help you load and unload it. He will not ask any of his friends to help. He says it would 'be too awkward.' Awkward. That is one word for it. But you get it done together and with little drama. Things are looking up. You ask him to stay with you on Monday. Just to be there with you. To lose yourselves in movies and just relax before you move. And to help you close this chapter in your life with a little grace and dignity. Maybe he was right to refuse you this last wish. Dignity no longer lives here. Neither does grace. Instead, he will leave for work 2 hrs early, leave you in this place of memories spoiled for your last night. Alone. You should be used to it. But you're not.
The next day, you will get up and get ready to leave. You throw away the last of the garbage, which is in fact your wedding planner. With this unceremonious task, goes your hope.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bFltYrmxRIg
And then you drive. You drive like it's your job.
