Another word on being hurt are we still having spaghetti for dinner

I didn’t feel that way about CF. I didn’t believe in soul mates or the love of your life. I was much more practical. I took to heart the idea that with 8 billion people on this planet that chances were very good that there wasn’t only one person out there for me. I’ve always said my relationship with him felt comfortable, easy. I believed marriage was about commitment, not butterflies and excitement. He was never Mr. Romantic. He never attempted to sweep me off my feet. So when DDay #2 happened I wasn’t thinking, “Oh my God, how will I ever live without him? He’s my sun and my moon and my stars!”

I was thinking, “How are we going to sell this house and get anything close to what we paid for it?” I was thinking, “I just renewed my license plates for three years; I just switched phone companies and have a two year contact.” I was shaking my head in disbelief and saying, “I can’t believe we just paid $57,000 to put a pool in and he pulls this shit!” I was asking myself, “What the hell happens next?


What’s going to happen to the kids? Are we going to be able to stay here so Rock Star can graduate?”

While I didn’t lose the love of my life I did lose my lifestyle. I no longer had the money I had before. I could no longer buy my son the newest video gaming system just because, or drop a couple hundred dollars on clothes for my daughter. I couldn’t buy her the expensive make-up she liked. She would no longer be receiving a car on her 16th birthday. I suddenly had to budget. There would be no more big bonus check each January. We wouldn’t be flying back to Utah regularly anymore. I had to figure out how to get insurance because he would no longer be covering me. Breaks from school no longer meant going out and seeing the sights, because that cost money and I no longer had it to spend as I liked. Eventually it meant losing my home, leaving behind my long sought after pool, losing almost everything I had ever owned, and moving out of the state. It meant going back to work and not getting paid very much for my efforts. It meant no longer seeing much of my kids and being forced to lean on others to get things done for them.

I lost my identity when we moved. PTA had played a huge part in my life back in Utah. I was a gymnast’s mom. I was a hockey mom. I had many friends and even more acquaintances. I went to lunch and I played Bunko and I spent hours talking to my friends. I spent even more hours driving my kids to and from practices, meets, and games. I did my best to learn to love living where I did. I was slowly getting involved, gaining traction. I was learning to see all the good things about living where we did. And then he trashed it all. Whoosh! Like a puff of smoke it all evaporated.

I guess some could argue that that is indeed hurt. I prefer to call it mourning. I mourn the lifestyle I used to have. I miss not worrying about money. I miss not being able to do whatever, whenever. I miss my damn pool! I mourn the life I had before I moved. I miss my friends. I miss lunch dates and talking while my son is at hockey practice and chatting in the parking lot at the gym. But I don’t miss him. I don’t feel that I’ve lost some great love.

I mourn and I am righteously angry at everything my kids have been denied thanks to their father’s choices. I am not sure I will ever get over what happened to my daughter. Her life in high school began fantastically, and it devolved into her feeling like she was no one. She should have been excited about her senior year and if we had stayed there she would have. I know this. I have no doubt that she would have remained the belle of the ball. She would have had great friends, she would have been active in school sports, and my house would have been filled with teenagers coming over, shooting the breeze with me, and spending the night. She would have received a much better education as well. She was happy there and I don’t think she’s ever truly been happy here.

Picasso is a little trickier because he didn’t embrace life in Virginia like she did. It took him a bit longer but eventually he had a solid group of friends. He had friends in the neighborhood that were over almost every day. But he likes his room here. He loves living with his Nana who makes sure he always has dinner, and bakes brownies sometimes, and washes and folds his laundry. On the other hand, now that he’s out of middle school it seems he is once again friendless. His friends are all boys he once knew in Virginia and they use their headsets to communicate with each other as they play Xbox together. Back in Virginia he was coming into his own. He was going to join marching band and his sister’s popularity would have helped him ease into high school.

Some have suggested that perhaps the anger covers up the hurt. Maybe. All I know is I feel a tremendous sadness, a huge loss, when I think about everything my kids have been through and all that they have given up and lost. I don’t think to myself, “Losing him feels like losing an arm, a leg, an actual piece of me.” Instead I think, “How in the hell could he do this to his kids?” Maybe I do actually hurt for them. I know how it was supposed to be and this was never it.

Quite honestly, I wasn’t thinking about sex or relationships at all when DDay #2 came around. I was much more focused on how the hell we were going to sell the house we had lived in for only a year, how we were going to pay off the pool we had just put in, what we would do with all the brand new furniture we had just bought, how the hell I was going to find a job and be able to support my kids and myself. Him running off to fuck his cousin didn’t bother me nearly as much as having my house foreclosed on did.

I was content to be by myself. I had spent the majority of my marriage by myself. At least when he left I was supposed to be on my own. Yes, the list of his shitty antics never stopped. Yes, the thought that he was with someone and I was alone was infuriating. Overall, though, I think it was so much nicer not having to put up with his constant crying and pretend PTSD. After our first holiday season back without their dad both kids said it had been the best Christmas in a long time because he wasn’t there to ruin it. I cooked chicken when I wanted. I put mushrooms in my spaghetti sauce. I didn’t have to wash his clothes or put them away anymore. I no longer watched or listened to ESPN or the History Channel.

I guess that’s why I maintain he didn’t hurt me. Like I said, I was shell shocked when I found out about her the first time. I was sad when I thought he didn’t love me anymore (let’s face it- he didn’t; he simply wasn’t ready to go), mainly because I didn’t want to lose my life as I knew it and I didn’t want to be seen as a failure. I was furious when I found out they had been carrying on all summer and he had been playing me for a fool. Throughout “wreckonciliation” there were times I was hurt by his family. Oh, definitely when I saw Tammy Faye tell Harley she was “soooooooo pretty” even after she knew about CF and her. I seriously lost my shit when that happened. Finally, when I found out the truth on August 10th everything just died. Through all of it though I never once thought, “I can’t go on if I don’t have him,” and to me, that is what I think of when I think of someone being hurt by betrayal. It’s that sense that you just can’t go on without that person.

I suppose that if you look at “hurt” as doing damage to someone then yes, he hurt me. He definitely damaged my life. He took pretty much everything from me and that was a definite loss.I think he was doing his damnedest to destroy me. If you look at hurt the way I’m describing it though, as being heartbroken, well then no, he didn’t hurt me.