Can We Put a Rush on That Bitch Slap?

And here I am. At the cusp of insanity. The threshold of obsession was crossed eons ago, it seems. My detective work has produced morsels of information that brings quite the cornucopia of emotions; From envy to sadness.  Self-loathing to blood-rage. I wish I could stop myself. I officially hate her. My hatred now stems from her ignorance. Her inability to tell time. To question logic. To have even the slightest modicum of intuition. She makes it difficult to feel sorrow.

She seems so sure of the truth. She has lapped up every word he has told her and regarded each syllable as truth. It is sadly hilarious. And I find myself now fully realizing the term “train wreck” for what it is. Such a disgusting mash-up but so mesmerizing that it is impossible to look away. The billows of smoke and the constant rumble of steel grinding.  What if I were to miss the final explosion? I cannot possibly stop now.

When did I cross the threshold of sorrow for her to unadulterated hatred? I imagine it was somewhere between her willingness to believe that the affair ended a year ago and the phone call that Mr. X made to me a week ago. Somewhere in that vicinity is where my sympathy for her landed between shit and syphilis. She is not very bright. It is embarrassing to know what I know and read about what she thinks she knows.

Although my stalker status isn’t winning myself any self-esteem points either. Yet I can’t look away. I need to know what kind of bullshit X is feeding her now.

Speaking of Mr. X, this wolf (who I cannot seem to stop Heart from loving – even from her rock), has been so careful in his methods of controlling my behavior. Just when I thought that I might out myself to her, Mr. X made another appearance to me. “Checking in.” Telling me how difficult this is for him. How he’s only trying to do the “right thing.” Really? Because it’s been a cake-walk for me. Ass.

You know who needs the bitch slap? Me.

*This post has been another product of sitting in the drafts folder nearing its’ expiration date, hence the rushed ending and probably choppy tone. Hitting send after downing my third glass of wine in a two hour span. Good times.

Left for Dead: Extreme Lessons in Tough Love

I have been trying to figure out why I am having such a hard time with this. With letting it go and at least making the attempt to move on. Today, while driving home from church (insert irony here), I think I laid my finger on it. My epiphany is this:

Since Heart is no longer capable of beating on her own, anger has taken over. Betrayal. Now I am the one betrayed. Such an old tale. There is zero shock factor, and here I thought my presence in the world was unique somehow. Now I learn that I am simply another woman scorned.

When Mr. X came clean to his wife about the affair, he lied to lessen the blow. In doing so, he has made 16 months of my life seem cheap and unimportant. An admirable accomplishment, since we were already bottom-feeders by allowing an affair to occur. He has made the most revealing and intense moments of my life seem like a waste of time. And for what? To prolong the inevitable demise of his marriage? I say inevitable because stacking lies upon the truth does as much damage as the original lie, so it seems to me that he has more to hide. Eventually, she will see.

I went back to the beginning today. I wanted to leave Heart for Mr. X in a place that felt protected. I wanted to feel safe leaving her somewhere familiar, so that she might die in peace. This secret place holds the most beautiful memories. It is where Heart decided to leave the protection of the fortress that I had carefully built around her. Where she callously knocked down all of the brick and mortar, bent the steel bars and even built a damn bridge to allow Mr. X an all-access pass. The fool never listened to a word I had to say in protest. I’ll bet she’s sorry now, all dying in the dirt alone.

It was overcast today, but warm for this time of year. It was haunting to sit on the same rock where I confessed my secrets to a man who claimed to only want to hear my voice. That he was fascinated by me, and curious to know all he could. He listened so intently to every word, and never once made me regret spilling my soul to him.

Until now, of course.

Now that the end has come, like every other mistress in history I’m sure, I find myself questioning. What was I thinking? How did he fool me so effortlessly? I’m no open book. I’m damned near impossible to reach. What did Heart connect with inside of this man that made her unabashedly bare my soul without thinking? I was fully aware of his circumstance. I knew he was married. Hell, at the beginning, I was married too. The difference between us was that I couldn’t continue to betray my spouse, and my marriage should have ended long ago. Mr. X had a higher tolerance than me, I suppose. He also had no intention of ending his marriage. I knew that, too. But I didn’t care. It was just so wonderful to spill my soul into someone who I shared such a deep connection with.

I felt safe with him. Comforted by his understanding and desire to know more. Always wanting more…

But the betrayal that has now occurred has set fire to the memory. His lies to cover up his true feelings and actions have not only caused Heart’s untimely demise, but has ensured that the rest of me that lives will never again be deceived.  There is no soul that I will allow close enough to inflict damage. And that should be simple, since Heart has been left for dead on the surface of a rock that knows everything.

Simple. If only.

Needless Update: Still Broken

It has been six weeks since Heart was ripped out of my chest and knocked to the ground and left for dead. Six weeks of pure Hell. If I am not trying to keep myself from jumping off a bridge, I am trying to see just how much pain I can take. My last post did not do what I had anticipated. Though many read it, none responded. Nobody chastised me. Nobody called me a whore, a homewrecker, a wanton slut. I am past the point of needing that now, although disparaging comments are still welcomed. I have challenged myself to loftier goals.

While Heart lies bleeding out (there are no visiting hours, and I have no prognosis, leaving no way to know her progress), I have done some detective work on her behalf. What I have found is discouraging, which in turn could become positive towards moving on for me. And now would be the time, while Heart isn’t around to interrupt my escape. But who am I kidding? I’m not going anywhere.

Mr. X, shall we call him? Not very original, but neither is the scenario. He, on the other hand, is quite the conundrum. While he told his wife about the affair, he only told half-truths (don’t worry about how I know this, I told you I’m a detective). So he lied about the truth. The truth that HE decided to tell on his own. Why? Why not just tell it all and deal with the repercussions? Why lie about anything at this point? It makes no sense. He is setting himself up for failure and I can’t begin to understand why.

But maybe I shouldn’t care at all. There has been some communication between us, and most of the time I have felt like a mediator for Mr. X and his wife. Explaining to him why she might feel the way she does, or giving him insights to her reactions. That’s insane. He has called on occasion, stopped by a couple of times, and sought me out in other ways. Each time his claim has been that he wants to hear my voice. That he needs to know how I am doing. What is that? Is it not enough to say goodbye to me once? Must he do it over and over again?

I am in a constant state of anticipation, although I can’t figure out what it is that I’m waiting for. Something to change, I guess. The other shoe to drop. She believes that our relationship lasted for much less time than it did. She believes that it was only physical. She is a fool. But, again, so am I.

I function daily as a parent, as a worker bee, as a friend, as a responsible adult. But ask me about my day and it is Mr. X who consumes me. Even when he has not physically been a part of it. My day to day life is still carried on with him in mind.

Everything else stands at the ready. For when I can finally crawl out of my own way. There is progress on the horizon just begging to be touched. And all I can do is wait it out. I shall spend the rest of my life waiting, it seems. Forever locked in The Other Woman status.

There are times when I feel very much like showing my hand. Confronting him, or her, and going all Glenn Close circa 1987, minus the stovetop. I’m not a complete psycho…

But I wouldn’t. And it’s not because I lack the intestinal fortitude. It’s because I cannot run the risk of jeopardizing my future with Mr. X. I am ever-mindful of how my actions now will serve me later. Christ, that’s even worse than dead bunnies. Could I be any more self-serving?

So there’s my update. I had to post something. My writing is suffering because my thoughts run too swiftly in and out of my head. By the time I put pen to paper, I’ve lost the poetry. Writing is the one thing that lessens the tension inside of my soul, and it has been nearly impossible to compose anything lately. So I forced this one.

 

An Open Letter to my Former Lovers Wife.

I am ready for the consequences of this post. This is the only way to serve my Penance.

He will never be completely honest with you. I will. At first, I didn’t think of you at all; not as his wife. The fact that the actions I was taking with your husband had been done with some other woman and mine at one point in time did not phase me at all. I gave almost no thought to the fact that you were innocent in all of this. You didn’t do anything to deserve a cheating husband, or a callous homewrecker. I thought not of you at all, even though years ago, I was in your exact position. I was ridiculously happy in my marriage; lost in a bubble that felt iron-clad. Until the day I realized that my bubble was only water after all, and it burst. Another woman had made my husband weak, and he faltered. And from that moment on, nothing was the same.
I never would have thought that I would wreak that kind of torment upon another soul. Another woman. Another mother. I am sorry to you that I fell in love with him. I am sorry that he could not stop himself. I couldn’t stop. By the time my sense of morality kicked in it was too late for me. After that, you were simply competition to me. I had gone from not thinking of you much at all, to kind of hating you. Even though you didn’t know that I existed, or that most of my mornings were spent with your husband and stolen time, or that I could feel his love for me when he looked into my eyes, it was I who hated you.
I am sure that has changed now. Now I have all the reason in the world to love you, and it is you who I am sure harbors hatred. I don’t know how much you know. I don’t know what you have asked of him, and what his answers have been. But I do know that you do not know it all. And you should. If you ever want to be happy – whether with him or somebody else – you need to know the whole truth. I know this from experience. I also know that hearing anything from me will only make your blood boil, but that he will never tell you what you desire to know as a woman. It is vicious.
I am vicious. I tried to share your husband. In truth, I could have shared him with you without your knowledge for longer than I did (over a year), but his guilt finally got the best of him. For that, I am grateful. That seems a strange thing to say, grateful, but I say it with the satisfaction of knowing that he is not totally without morality. This is a selfish sort of gratitude; one that justifies that the married man I fell in love with is not without values, meaning something good on my behalf. I’m completely twisted.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since I found out that he told you about us. I have felt anger towards him (because I wasn’t warned beforehand that he was going to tell you), anger at you for not figuring it out for yourself, jealousy because you have the option to forgive or not – whereas I was not given that luxury, and pity for the disgusting emotions that you are feeling. I know those all too well. The anger at him, and of course at me, but at the same time needing his touch now more than ever, and yet cringing at the thought of his skin touching yours after he has touched me. The knowledge that you are sure that he hasn’t told you everything. He hasn’t, I promise you. The onset of panic when you think of leaving him. What will you do without him? How will your future be? How can you protect the children? Can you forgive him enough to stay? Even though you know – and you better know – that things will never be the same. You will never fully trust him again.
Yes, he is sorry. Yes, he loves you. Yes, he should have never let it get this far. But the bell cannot be unrung. He carried on an affair for over a year without your knowledge. Will he do it again? He will tell you no. But he told you that he would honor you once upon a time, too. I can’t tell you if he would or not, but I can tell you that you will never feel secure with him in the same way. That doesn’t mean that you can’t be together, but that you must modify your marriage. You must become stronger. You must hold yourself to a higher standard. You must, if you decide to stay with him, take control of the reins. Do not allow your guard to lower. Love him, honor him, eventually put trust back into him, but never allow yourself to be blind again.
And here I am, giving you advice (as if you even want that from me) on how to continue a marriage with the man that I love. But why do I even allow myself to love him anymore? He has chosen you. Perhaps even just the knowledge of that will help you to forgive him.
I do not want your forgiveness. I am not asking for you to understand. I went into this affair knowing that he was married. Knowing that he was harming you, even if you weren’t aware. I didn’t care. His words and his actions swept me up and pulled me in. Even when his words would tell me that he was going to leave, his actions always betrayed him. I am sure that he will blame it on me. I tempted him. I didn’t let him go. True. True. But he always had a choice. And until he came to you with his confession, his choice was to return to me.
I only write this for selfish reasons. My guilt. My sorrow at what I have done to you. My wish that I could speak to you in person, but knowing that I am too much of a coward to come forth. But I hope that you contact me. I hope that you can find peace somehow. I hope that your future is still bright somehow. With or without him.
I am sorry for the pain that your husband and I made you feel. The anguish of deceit, the sorrow of innocence lost. This sin is mine to bear, and I am positive that He will serve me justice on your behalf, not only in this life, but for eternity.