Getting naked, and losing myself

When I used to blog on Myspace, I liked the feature that allowed one to share to what they were listening while writing. So, as I start this writing I am listening to…

“…Let’s inspire, let’s inflame, create awe from our pain
Find a love that’s as deep as it’s holy
Let’s inspire, let’s inflame, create gods from our pain
Find a love that’s as sweet as it’s holy
Let’s inspire, let’s inflame, create dreams from our pain
Find a love that’s as plain as it’s holy
Let’s inspire, let’s inflame, create songs from our shame
Find a love that won’t fade, love is holy…”

Lyric excerpt from James – from song “Walk Like You” on  La Petite Mort album

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In a week of tears of unknown origin, extra-terrestrial caring sent, the “downloading” of book stuff, SYNCHRONICITY like woah!, Sinbad, Mandela, McKenna, and Moore blowing my mind, mental messages being sent, and responded to, and, as Lauren put it, me being a creep, and literally KNOWING a call was coming, the day before it came, how could my thoughts not go to even deeper depths.

From the first moment I truly understood that I was in an abusive marriage, which did NOT occur the first, nor second, nor even third time he hit me, I knew that when one day that would no longer be a part of my reality, the path on which I would then be walking, would be one that I had to create for myself, and on which I would travel, alone. With the awareness that support would be paramount for me to ever heal, get whole, I still knew that some journeys are meant to be solo. And that no friend, family member, expert, professional, lover or beloved, could prescribe for me, even in the least, the precise cure for my dis-ease.

In the past several years I’ve read more books than I can remember on various “self-help” topics. Books about recovery, overcoming betrayal and trauma, and about saving one’s marriage, one’s self. About discovering yourself by going inward, by going outward, and sideways. (I might have made up that last one) I’ve read a lot of fucking books, looking for answers. Or to figure out what my questions were. I went to counseling for myself, and couples counseling, with counselors who used modalities of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, hypnotherapy, psychoanalysis, and others I’m sure I’m forgetting.

I can honestly say that the DV was my most deeply held secret. I will readily discuss having been molested by my stepfather, and have done for years. My brief stint as a coke addict, yep, I’ll talk about that too. But the DV, nope, nope, and nope some more. Maybe it was the response I got from the first counselor to whom I made a quick reference about the DV, “aren’t you ready to be done with him?” so matter of fact, so easy, for her, like, duh Michelle, what the fuck is wrong with you?, that pushed the secret further down. Or the second one, in a couple’s session, upon hearing he’d “hit” me, who said, “well, that’s got to stop” and then bounced the fuck on. Perhaps it was having discussed it with his mom, who pretended to care so much, and be so concerned for me, who then turned on me.

I remember having moments where I ached to talk to someone, to tell a friend, the real, and whole truth. To tell the co-worker who asked me about the cuts, scabs, and bruises that I couldn’t quite hide, when he asked me if (he) had done something to me. Or to tell my one friend, the day I asked him to get coffee, and shop for books, and pray/meditate with me, because I thought I could possibly, maybe, tell him, but then I didn’t. Every single doctor, and chiropractor, physical therapist, massage therapist, and body work healer, who treated me for my back injuries. Oh how I wanted to tell them, so they didn’t look at me like some medical mystery. Every single person who took care of me while I was in too much pain, and on too many pain killers, to take care of myself. I wanted to tell them all.

Since even before coming forward about my situation, I started to follow on social media, various groups, and individuals, with expertise or experience in DV. Soooo much of what I see reinforce a few things I just don’t vibe with, for better or worse. Much of the dialogue, to me, reinforces in some ways a victim mentality, or a survivor mentality (surviving vs LIVING, in my eyes). There is also a lot of ANGER, and negativity. A lot of living in one’s story, for what is years after it is ended. I dig that this sounds very judgey, and I don’t mean it in that way. It is simply that I am aiming for a higher place than angry, negative, victim/survivor. I’m not certain that the anger/negative thing is helpful for anyone, in the long run…

I will preface what I am going to say next with I DON’T HAVE YOUR ANSWERS. I DO NOT HAVE YOUR ANSWERS!! But I will say, here is what I believe was the start of me finding MY answers.

First, and most obviously, I had to put physical distance between he and I. I don’t know that I would have survived, literally/figuratively, had I not done. The physical distance started as a few blocks, then a few miles, and then a few hundred. Steps taken over years. Some moments I regret having taken so many years, but then I think about how happy I am with many aspects of my life as it is now, and if I learned anything from The Butterfly Effect, it’s that the slightest change in what was (or is currently, in another reality…) can have a dire effect on what is to come.

During the course of the physical distancing, and equally slowly, I had to CHOOSE, to get naked, in front of myself. To take off every shred, of everything, that obscured from my own view, the truth of just how frighteningly not OK, I was. I had to hold a mirror to myself, and look at myself from every single angle, and not break my gaze, no matter how ugly I found that at which I was looking. I had to become intimately acquainted with the woman I’d become after all that had gone on, and decide if she was with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life.

Was she the person I wanted my daughters to possibly model themselves after, in any way? What parts of that me were the true me? What parts were the me I became as a result of what had gone on? Could I still see glimpses of the chick who used to wear the “I Love Me” shirt, and meant it? Was she the person who someday in the future, I would want to stand naked in front of another, as? Would the he, in front of whom I would someday wish to be naked, be the kind of man I REALLY want to stand naked in front of, as the me I was seeing? The answer to all of the questions was, absofuckinglutely, NOT.

So, after the naked thing… which is actually still a work in progress in some ways, came the “what path to healed and whole is MY path?” The first part of my path was to break my silence, in whatever way I needed to, in any given moment. At first it was with tears, and anger, and the desire to shout it from the rooftop, because I’d held the secrets for so long, it was like an eruption of emotion. Having lived in, and surrounded by, such negative emotions for so many years, I worked to shift out of that place as quickly as possible. Angry/depressed chick isn’t the naked chick I want to be.- (It goes without saying, except I’m saying it anyway, that I DO NOT advocate breaking silence, if to do so puts you in danger!!! Safety first!!!)

So then, and still now, the next step has been, what people, places, things, do I vibe with, that will help me to facilitate my healing? Not “who has my answers/cure” but, looking inside me now, for what I do know I think/feel/believe, who I am/want to be, what energy do I invite into my space? To figure this out, I had to get lost… in myself. I’m still in this phase, truth be told. Doing some soul mining, to again borrow words that fit. A friend recently said to me, “maybe you’re supposed to be becoming an even more awesome version of yourself” and, like everything else this friend says, I let those words wash over me, wrap around me, get deep inside of me, and realized they are definitely truth for me. It stands to reason then, that only that which support, and those who support, the impending even more awesome, thing, are allowed in my bubble.

What is most important to me to say about this is, whatever works for YOU, is what YOU should seek. Church and religion? Vaya con Dios. Spirituality, and yoga? Namaste! Rituals and magick? Blessed be. Blasting music and singing at the top of your lungs? Rock the fuck on! Counseling and 12 steps? I have nothing clever for this one. Make crosses from your lovers, throw roses in the rain? (Lyrics. Sorry. That’s just what happens in Michelle world. Lyrics/music, and glitter are a relative constant.)  A combination of a bunch of stuff that aids you in sincerely working through all of the yuck? Sure! This is YOUR story, so you get to choose. Take some time to get lost in yourself, to figure it out.

I will not pretend that any of what I’ve written above is easy, when one is in the throes of things. My God I KNOW its not easy. Now I’m crying tears of known origin, thinking how lucky I am that I have always been, for the most part, self-supporting, and that I didn’t have small children to worry about, and that I am not one of those whose abusers physically stalked them upon leaving. All I can keep saying is, HOLD ON, because there will be a day when the weight is lifted, if you can just love yourself the tiniest bit for a moment in time long enough, to take a first step, or hell, crawl in a generally forward motion, toward your healing path.

And this blog, this one I DO hope gets read, by those who might need it. Because maybe it will be easier to reach out to a stranger who has been there, than a friend, or a counselor? Maybe its more safe to have an anonymous third party, blog writing chick, to contact, in case he’s standing too close? If nothing else, I am REALLY good at doing research, and finding resources. I remember too, how Sisyphean a task it felt, to try and find resources for help, at times I’d thought to find them. So I’m here for that. No matter where you may live, I’ll help you find what you need. I’ll listen if you need someone to talk to. I’ll do anything in my power to help you. I’ll even do stuff that isn’t within my power, if I can figure out how.  I get it. You aren’t alone. You are loved. And you are worthy of being loved.

Message me here, or on Instagram RandomMuse14.

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And as I finish writing this I am listening to…

“…This bed is on fire, with passionate love, the neighbors complain about the noise from above….”

Lyric excerpt from James – from the song “Laid”

This is not a “Smear Campaign”

Just got a text from my husband telling me he is going to give me a chance to stop “smearing him in public” by taking his name off my blog, otherwise he will be having his attorney send me “additional things.”

THIS is part of the problem and why domestic violence is still so prevalent. Not only do those who commit acts of violence wish to control by abusing, they then want to control by demanding silence. I will not be silenced.

His name has been temporarily removed from this blog, until I get 100% verification of what my research has shown, which is that the courts will uphold a person’s right to publish an account of their own life without action being taken against them, if what they are publishing is truthful, and of legitimate public interest. The general rule of thumb is as follows:

“Public disclosure of private facts is an aspect of the right of privacy that is actionable in some (but not all) states.  While the prerequisites vary somewhat from jurisdiction to jurisdiction, a plaintiff typically must prove:

(1) publicity was given to matters concerning the plaintiff’s private life;

(2) the matters made public would be highly offensive to a reasonable person of ordinary sensibilities; and
(3) the matters publicized were not newsworthy, i.e., not of legitimate public interest.

A long time ago he and I decided that we would become voices for recovery from addiction, because 10 years ago porn addiction was even less spoken about than it is now. In the years since then I have told him all along that with or without him I will be a voice that will shed light on this addiction in the hopes of helping others, and for my own healing. And that I would also speak out about Domestic Violence and healing from the affects of it.

Since you told me you’d be checking back in 4 hours to ensure I’d removed your name, I will say to you, I will not stop speaking out. This is MY story. You chose the role you would have in it, not me. I kept this secret for years in the hopes that you would choose to recover, and that we could together use what we had learned to help others who are where we were. Since you have now disavowed that there are any issues except because of me being older than you, and have moved on to your groupie, I have to do what I must do for my own healing, and to help others where I can. Our secrets keep us sick. Domestic violence isn’t OK.

It Wasn’t Just Cheating

Monday morning I got a text from my mom saying that C (my husband) had contacted her asking for my address, so he can serve me with divorce papers. He sent the same text to my daughters. Last Wednesday he asked me for my address, and I told him that I won’t give it to him until I speak to my attorney. Thursday he told me never mind, he doesn’t need it. But Monday he felt it acceptable to send to my mom and children what was very likely the only text he has sent to them in years, that wasn’t initiated by some sort of event, or encouraged by me because of said event. He declined coming to New Jersey with me to visit my daughters in the past, and was reluctant to see them when they came to Michigan, because of how guilty he felt for all that he’d done (that they knew about.) He was regularly invited to get togethers with my family, but always declined, for the same reason. There were times after he did see the girls that he’d comment on, or like their Facebook posts, and a couple of years ago he actually made pics of us and him, his FB profile pic, but other than that, nothing. But when he needed something from them, texting suddenly wasn’t a problem.

I guess it is important to interject that my daughters really love(d) him. When he was good to us, he was really good to us. He was there for my oldest daughter at a particularly difficult time in her life, and she in fact lived with us for  some time. And he flew my youngest daughter to AZ to visit us, as a surprise for our birthday, because she and I share the same birthday. Their father having had his own addiction issues, for my girls to now have a father figure who was loving, and caring, and for us to have our family, was really a big deal. They were all “stepbuddies.” It KILLS me to write about these happy times, and the good things, because it was those things that kept me holding on for so long. There was a point in time, after his first affair came out, that they were both very angry at him, but since I kept forgiving him, and encouraged the relationship between them,  they forgave him too.

But back to Monday, I called him and reiterated that I’d give him my address after speaking to the attorney. I also told him what a dick move it was to text my family when he needed something, after not having bothered to be in contact with them in the past, and when they know he’s a cheating douche again. (Which is really more of a still than an again.) He said he’s willing to hear anything they have to say to him, as long as he got my address, and that he loves my girls, the end. I told him that I had to, for my own well being, tell my full-truth about what had happened, especially to my girls, and he had his network of enablers, band, groupie bimbo, and that he, in refusing to get well, chose addiction, rage, and bullshit over my girls and I, again, and that he might love them, but, he sure as fuck didn’t make sure to keep in touch with them in any real way most of the time, so doing it now was bullshit.

In the interim, one of the girls sent him a text saying she didn’t want to be in the middle, and offering kind words to him. And then he sent me a text telling me that his stepbuddies love him, no matter what happens, and they know that he loves them. And I lost it. After making his friends and family hate me with his lies, after me covering for him to my girls and most of the rest of the world because I wanted to believe that he’d get his shit together and we’d be the family I always wanted and for a while thought we were, he used the kindness from one of my kids as a taunt to hurt me. Because that’s what a sick, manipulative fuck he is.

It didn’t happen anywhere near the way I planned for it to happen, nor was I quite ready for it to come out, but come out it did. For the first time I spoke to people who know me about having been physically abused by my husband. I spoke to the only 2 people whose opinion of me really matters to me. The details of all of it aren’t important for the purposes of what I’m writing here, but for my own healing, the words have finally been said.

He knows they know, so I thought he’d have some shame and actually fuck the fuck off where they are concerned. But today, in true narcissist/sociopath/don’t know what he is but definitely fucked up, form, he “loved” the pictures of my grandson, posted by my oldest daughter of his 6 month photo shoot. The man who was too busy recording with his band and playing shows, and then fucking his groupie, to come meet baby boy, in spite of having said he’d be coming here to see us, a lot, 2 days after my kids found out he beat me up, thought the appropriate thing to do was “love” those pictures. “I can’t even…”

There is the tiniest sense of relief in having done this, but unfortunately it didn’t make me feel dead inside where he is concerned. It didn’t make me stop missing the memory of what we had for a while, and it didn’t stop me mourning what I’d so long held out hope for. But the words had to come out. I have to not let him keep hurting me, and absolutely fuck him for trying to use my kids against me.


This is all so black and white and clinical and un-poetic, and uninspired, and I hate how it reads, but maybe its the topic, or the utter exhaustion I’m feeling.


My ultimate intention for this blog is to be a place of healing for me, and encouragement for others, as well as to shed light on the reality of sex addiction, and domestic violence. I fully recognize and acknowledge that in order to be those things, at some point my posts can no longer be about him, what he did or is doing, or anything but me. But I’m still bleeding, and kind of profusely. Hopefully this mess scabs over soon, and healing can begin.

 

 

 

 

 

Don’t Follow In My Footsteps

(Originally published as a “page” but meant to be my 1st blog post.)

To my daughters when someday they read this, to other women in relationships with sex addicts or abusers, don’t follow in my footsteps. Be wiser than I have been. Don’t let your love for another be more important than your love for yourself. I told myself over and over I wouldn’t walk away from a cancer patient who chose to not get treatment, so it stood to reason I wouldn’t walk away from someone with the disease of addiction. In a way it still makes sense to me, but, in the case of addiction, the disease kills more than just the one who has it.

To anyone who sees this, pornography/sex addiction are serious and growing issues. This isn’t about religious morality or anything like that. This is about the minds of people who are fathers, husbands, wives, mothers, sons, daughters, being damaged, warped and twisted in ways that are not imaginable to most of us. Porn/Sex addiction is so much easier to hide than a substance or gambling or even food addiction. But that doesn’t make it less real or damaging.If those affected by this addiction continue to remain silent because of the shame surrounding the nature of this addiction, nothing will ever change. We are so desensitized to sexualized images, and nudity, and technology has made EVERYTHING available at the click of button, and literally anywhere, at any time, that if we don’t start speaking, this addiction will grow exponentially in future generations.

To C’s friends and family to whom I have reached out at various points over the years in a desperate attempt to have a “united front” of people doing whatever it took to help him, help himself,  who instead chose to enable him, help hide his affairs, get him high and drunk, or just turn a blind eye and hate me, while ultimately there is only 1 person responsible for taking the steps to get into recovery, each of you have done him a great disservice. Should something more horrible than what has already happened to him, happen, or should other women be hurt, (and no addict gets better without help) you are all culpable. It was easier for you to help him stay sick and small than to face your own fears. Maybe if just one of you would have helped me support and encourage him, things wouldn’t have gotten as bad as they did. Maybe he’d be healthy now instead of denying that he’s a sex addict. Maybe our marriage wouldn’t have ended.

And to C, I hope that someday you get the help you need.There were never enough words to express the depth of my love for you. And it is who I still believe you to be, underneath the addiction, I still love. I know you believe some of my actions of the past were taken with the intention of hurting you, but it was never that. The shear, utter desperation to reach you when you got to the point where you stopped trying to get help, led me to do anything I had to, even if it made you hate me. Raising the bottom is a real thing, and there were times I had to put my sanity, safety, and well-being first. Those moments were few and far between. I know to you it doesn’t count when I apologize for the things I did wrong if I don’t list them in detail, but every single day I play scenarios over in my head from our past wondering “if only” I had done this not that, maybe you’d have chosen health, and it rips my heart wide open, over and over again. I loved you in spite of your flaws, and hoped to have the same in return.

Michelle Ann Montgomery

Trust, the refusal to change, and the erosion of partnership

I read an article the other day posted on “The Good Men Project” site  written by a man whose wife left him, because she couldn’t trust him to be the partner she needed. Not because he cheated or hit her, but because he didn’t hear her, and he resented her for how she had changed toward him. The part of it that stuck me the most was this:

“…It was the little things. Often, it is the little things that scratch and claw and chip away at the integrity of a marriage until the union and its participants look nothing like they did when first formed.

She was a youthful, fun, vibrant, happy, joyful young woman.

She grew tired, weary, anxious, frightened, sad and angry.

I begged and pleaded for the girl I knew to come back once I stopped recognizing her. I grew sad and angry when she couldn’t or wouldn’t. I blamed her for not trying.

But I think maybe she wanted to. I think she wanted to feel like her old self again. But she simply couldn’t.

Because she couldn’t trust me.

So she kept her guard up.

Because she didn’t feel safe…”

Full article here: The Good Men Project

After reading that article, I realized just how early on my trust had begun to be eroded. It was long before affairs or DV. It wasn’t even the recurrent viewing of porn, while doing recovery work, that started it. It started with things like not placing value on having health insurance unless I had a job that offered it. We wanted to have a baby, and I wanted to stay home with the baby, and that required health insurance. But he didn’t seem to think that was important, or, something.

It was things like him buying a laptop to feed his addiction, while saying we didn’t have the money for health insurance, and starting a business with someone else, when we’d discussed as one of our goals as a married couple, starting and building a business, and quitting a job, spur of the moment, while not having a new job lined up, without talking to me about it, when we had just moved into a new house with higher rent. Or buying a ticket just for himself to visit his son, when both of us were supposed to go, but he was afraid I’d “make waves” with his son’s mother. It was things like not sending the retainer to the lawyer when his son’s mother was trying to take away his parental rights, and me having to be the one who made sure it was sent out at the last minute, so that didn’t happen. And going to Sedona with his mother instead of telling her no because that was THE place I’d been dying to show him, just he and I, romantic get away to my beloved Sedona. I stopped trusting him. Stopped trusting that “we” were the priority, and that my voice was being heard, and that I could rely on him to be my life partner, because of things like that.

I think I probably could have more “easily” dealt with the acting out associated with the addiction, if I trusted him in those ways. But I DID become guarded, and WANTED to not be, but I didn’t feel safe. I didn’t feel like his partner. I didn’t feel like his priority. So in turn I became the person HE couldn’t feel safe with. I stopped hearing HIM. He’d tell me how little things I did hurt his feelings, and I wouldn’t change them, because I didn’t feel safe. I know still today that some of the things he said I did that hurt his feelings were due to DEEP insecurity, and I could never make that all better for him, and I tried to impart that to him in as kind a way as possible. Walking on eggshells because someone has extremely low self esteem, courtesy of their parents, is hard as fuck to deal with. In particular when you see them putting more effort into mending bridges with their parents, which they didn’t break to begin with, than they put into mending the bridges with you, that they did break.

As I have been sitting here writing this I remind myself that if I were having a conversation with anyone, and gave them the full and honest accounting of things that occurred in our marriage, they would likely think I’m crazy for even feeling remorse for having not heard him. Because some of the things that went on were really big, and bad, and ugly, and while in an esoteric sense they are forgivable, in a real life sense, they are “get the fuck away from that person and don’t look back” things.

Considering that he now is claiming to be 100% not an addict, or a man with a history of DV that dates to before me as well, and that all of the problems were because he was married to ME, maybe I’m a little crazy to even be giving a fuck what I did wrong. Maybe since he just didn’t seem to give a fuck that I couldn’t trust him on so many levels, and hence was so guarded and reactionary, I shouldn’t care what I did wrong. But I do. It wouldn’t have made him not an addict because that was always his choice, but at least I wouldn’t have the regret.

To My Husband’s Girlfriend

One would think that phrase would be very hard for me to type. And that the computer screen would be obscured by the tears that should be steadily flowing from my eyes. Maybe because you’re not the first “other woman” in my marriage, the Jerry Sringer-esque nature of the phrase isn’t foreign to me. Maybe because I’m finally sitting down to write again and opening the valve which has to remain firmly in the off position so that I can do things like go to work, and interact with other humans without being a blithering mess, my heart knows that the teeniest fraction of pain will be released in these words, so tears aren’t needed. Or maybe its just that I woke up crying, and cried in the shower, and cried driving home from work, so my tears are on pause.

As these things go, affairs that is, the other woman shouldn’t be the main focus of anger, in my humble opinion. I know my husband, and I know how he pursues what he wants with laser focus, when the object of his desire is a new woman. I’d like to say it’s just because I was that which he pursued, but unfortunately it’s also because I know the lengths to which he’s gone in the past in pursuit of a new flavor, a new high, to satiate his addiction. You’re the new heroine, so, I was prepared to let you off the hook for any culpability in this steaming pile of bullshit. I actually felt sorry for you because, barring a miracle, you will someday be in my shoes, because the addiction started long before I was in the picture. But then you answered his phone when I called. With a fake English accent, laughing in a way that suggested you were mocking whomever was calling, knowing it was me, you answered the phone. 3 times you answered the phone. The 3rd time you’d miraculously lost your accent. Imagine that. And you told me that my husband didn’t want to speak to me, and hung up on me. In that moment, I knew everything about you that I need to know.

As if the lack of not just class, but decency and maturity you’d demonstrated by answering his phone wasn’t enough, you then thought it a good idea to send me a text. A text in which you told me that my husband has spoken in praise of me, and “the time he spent with” me as you so quaintly referred to our 11 year relationship. I’d type word for word what you wrote in the text, but, you know what it says, you wrote it.  I have to say though that the hands down best part of your text was the part that said “I hope we can mutually agree to let the past be the past” etc. You actually thought it would be a good idea to say any words, and those words in particular, to your new boyfriend’s wife. As if you are any part of “we” where my husband and I are concerned. It was those actions, and those words, that let me know you’re not simply some chick who got duped by the charm of a sex addict looking for a higher high. You’re an active and willing participant in ensuring another human being gets REALLY hurt, and a marriage comes to an end. He shouldn’t have let you answer his phone, or text me, but you shouldn’t have wanted to.

None of that is the reason though that I’m writing this. I’m writing this to say to you, while you may have my husband now, and while you may think he loves you and you him (of this I’m not sure, but he does like to move fast, as most addicts do) I got the best of him, and you, and he, and a divorce, won’t change that. And nothing short of full-fledged recovery will ever make it possible for you to know the person I knew, who is nothing like the person whose phone you answered. He has had to compartmentalize so many events, and recreate the facts and details of parts of our marriage so that he doesn’t have to face his own pain, and so that he can say to you and anyone else who cares to listen that the only reason we are still married is “point finger/blame Michelle/blah blah blah.”

I know he’s given you his new party-line about how the reason he’d cheated on me previously was because he became insecure about our age difference, but seriously, even if there was an iota of truth to that, why would you want to be with a man who blamed his wife’s age, of which he was well aware from before the day they met, for his infidelity, and for his now suddenly wanting to get divorced? I get that he’s all like, oh my God, in a band, and charming and what not, but, why do you think he tried to keep your identity hidden from me? Why does anything need to be hidden, if neither of you are doing anything wrong?

You and others can of course could flip the script and ask me why I stayed married to a man who cheated, a lot. I’ll happily say to all of you that the reason is multi-faceted, and the largest part of the answer is not “I loved him” but rather “I’d hoped I could love him enough that he’d get healthy, for himself, and me.” I also couldn’t, and still can’t completely, shake the images of the beautiful man, the man you’ll never know, I met and married, and things he said he wanted to do, and did do, in an effort to get healthy, for himself, and us. But do you really think that he just somehow couldn’t divorce me all this time? Or can you fathom that he actually does still love me, but I moved away because I felt I had to, but we still didn’t intend to divorce, and that you were there, and you don’t really know him, for good and for bad, and that you’re happy to play groupie. You’re easy. You’re new.

While you probably don’t know that while you were being the groupie at his shows, he was calling and texting me that he loves me, and misses “his wife” and that he’s lost without me, and doesn’t know what to do. You might have even been screwing him while he was saying those things to me, I don’t suppose I’ll ever know nor do I suppose it matters. All that matters is, he has chosen addiction, he has chosen you, and that I have to move on. Based on everything I’ve learned about you, you fit right in to the life he’s created for himself since he moved back to Michigan, and it’s that life and those choices that brought his addiction to new lows, so, have fun with that.Have fun being the small voice in his head that tells him you want to answer his phone when his wife calls, to which he listens.

Maybe I’ll thank you someday for being a part of the reason I’ve lost hope that he’ll get his shit together. For now all I know is that I really dislike you, and who he has chosen to be. And I really fucking miss the man I met, whom you will never know. I got the best of him, and you are getting not even a shadow of that.

 

Day 1 – The Day Hope Had To End

Don’t marry a porn/sex addict who has emotional enmeshment issues with his mother. If you do, and are as stupid as me, you may find yourself 11 years later, crying, for the 11 millionth time. And restarting your blog for the 100th time. And being sick of your own story.

He has a girlfriend. Again. I shouldn’t be crying. But I am. A month ago he was all “I love you, will you move back here” and today he’s got a girlfriend.And he’s desperate for the divorce because he’s not procrastinating anymore. I imagine that has more to do with her telling him to get off his ass if he really is over me.

I shouldn’t have stayed married for so long. But I did. And I let him hurt me over and over and over. But I always held out hope that he’d give us the chance to have a relationship that wasn’t ruled by an addiction. Because I really fucking loved the good things about him. I actually thought 100% that when I moved to New Jersey that he’d get that I wasn’t joking about him needing to get back to counseling and earn my trust, and he’d wake up so he didn’t lose me. It wasn’t a game. I couldn’t stay in Michigan anymore. I never wanted to go back there.

He says he’s not an addict anymore. Like, poof, it’s gone. The excitement of the new chick has him feeling like he did when I was the new chick, I’m sure. But instead of seeing it as that, he’s saying he only did the things he did, because of me. Because he was married to me. And I KNOW it’s not true. And I know I can’t stop crying anyway.

Fuck broken heart bullshit. I don’t want to mourn this anymore! You’d think finding out about women number who knows how many I’d not have tears left. Dammit. I do though.

Its a real mind-fuck, being married to a sex addict. Or an addict in general I imagine. You never know what’s true or real. You can lose yourself. I lost myself. He said it’s me, I’m the reason he screwed so many other women. And the reason he did so many other things I can’t even talk about yet. Because I’m older than him and he felt embarrassed for marrying someone older than him. That story came out last week. The iteration of it changed today. Nothing like being told you’re the reason you got cheated on though.

 

I feel pathetic and small today. And stupid. Maybe day 2 will be better.