part of a conversation….

His question, via email:     “the most important thing in my life and I fucked it up.  problem was I didn’t realize it was the most important thing in my life.  how could I not have known that?”

My response:   “The evidence was all around you. You were welcomed home with love and warmth. Called almost daily, with love and concern. On and on. Look at what I put my body through so we could try and have more children. Thank god we didn’t.

 
But it was never good enough for you.  You need to be creative, to be free, not ever have any responsibilities, to always have someone to resent, to have a handy cum-dumpster–a full body masturbator, if you will.
 
Secrets are fun; secrets are powerful. You got off on having multiple women taking care of you, right ?and the thrill of secret relationship. and thrill of the illicit sex. And the thrill of having power over me, and being able to feel so much better than me. The fun of telling your lover all about me, about violating my privacy and Lucia’s privacy too, with your whore–who was, it only it turns out–using you and couldn’t care less about you after all.
 
And all I ever wanted was to hold your hand and go through life as your partner.
 
Well, I seriously doubt I’ll ever be able to bring myself to have sex with you again, since know it’s  all about power with you, and not true lovemaking. And then there’s you fantasizing that I’m Shannon–which we both know is the truth, not the pallid version you admitted to…. Plus, I will never again have any self respect if I allow you anywhere near my soul again.
 
You’ve lied to me once too often, once too egregiously.
 
And I’m just waiting for the next shoe to drop.

a little more on the need for honesty in small(er) things

recently….as PF has been living away, he keeps finding excuses to call/email/or just show up and tell me reasons why I must be needing him back here.  My response below.

Dear xxx:

I really don’t understand why every single request you’ve made to come back here has been couched in “but, you must NEED me to be back, let me come back and rescue you” language.

 
I don’t need you here. I don’t need to be rescued. I’m doing quite well, logistically and in day to day terms, thank you very much.  Yes, you used to do the cat box and take out the trash.  So, I do that now.  Frankly, BFD.  It makes little to negative difference to my life.
Did you really think that mattered?  I mean, it was super nice and all–but mattering? no. 
 
What matters:
 
loving
communicating
being honest
being sincere
being yourself
being real
chipping in and shouldering your share of the real work (i.e., child rearing and life decisions)
taking responsibility
caring about other people’s needs
manifesting genuine commitment
 
stuff like that matters.  the trash, not so much.  and you know, things like the endless commitment to vacuuming that never happened…   
 
It’s actually much cleaner and more well regulated with you gone, frankly. I’d forgotten how well I can run a household.  Of course it is 3x too big for me, but I’ve just closed off lots of doors.
 
What I needed was a real person, who really could love and be present, and well, real.  And that I could not have, at least in the last few years. So sad.
 
I need to not be lied to and made a gigantic fool of, and to not be humiliated and spied on and have my intimate life shared with your lover/mistress/whore who was only using you anyway (and you like a dork though it was love. No, really !? D’oh!)
 
I need a person who can be trusted to honor a bond…a commitment…a convenant, if you will.
 
Because in the end, that is all there is.  We come in to this world alone, and we leave it the same way.  If along the way, we can gentle the harshness a bit with loving kindness, then we are lucky. That is a sacrament–as the Belmont minister said, community is salvation.  Well a marriage (or family)  is a little community.  But they only work when we all try to honor each other’s best intentions, and do not work to undermine and deceive.
 
So, the salvation we had–it’s now gone, replaced with damnation.
 
We can otherwise choose to make another person’s life a living hell.  I guess we know what you chose.  
 
It all comes back to the lying: you can’t even be honest about the fact the YOU want to come back here.  You place the onus on me.  I don’t especially want you here.  It’s you who want to come here.  But you always have to say that I want you. No– say the truth, that you want to come here and we’ll talk.

Drumroll please… more infidelity, going back more years!

Ladies and gentlemen, mesdames et monsieurs, Herren und Frauen, I have the distinct pleasure of presenting to you…. the oeuvre of a pathetic man.  Who wrote mash notes and pickup lines to women he did not know, on the subway, at the coffee shop…even the waitress at the restaurant where they went to eat after his mother’s funeral.

Quite Extraordinary (click on images to embiggen them.)

chasing tail in Kendall Square

wonder what she thought about the old creeper oogling her?

The dinner after his mother’s memorial service…Nice one!

hot and artsy--went back over and over...still missed her name.

what a clown.

pussy hunting in Kendall Square

OMG–more creeper-watching… hard to eat lunch.

I am a scientist, I seek to understand

i am a scientist – i seek to understand me
all of my impurities and evils yet unknown
i am a journalist – i write to you to show you
i am an incurable
and nothing else behaves like me

and i know what’s right
but i’m losing sight
of the clues for which i search and choose
to abuse
to just unlock my mind
yeah, and just unlock my mind*

Another forensic email

I was looking at the black notebooks of work stuff that you left in the study, and I couldn’t help but notice that the one that runs from about (8-Feb-10) through (28-Oct-10) is really dense with work notes.  

 
Then the next one picks up at about the first week of (November 2010) and runs…all the way till a couple of weeks ago, or maybe just September.  
 
Anyway, the contrast is 8 months for one notebook–all Global Flows– vs 24 months.  That will tell you pretty much all you need to know about your concentration, and in particular, your concentration at work.  So–You must have started your Shannon-affliction some time around that fall, perhaps?
No wonder they fired you.  Seriously. It’s a 1:3 ratio of paying attention to your job. Yowza
 
In that same, second notebook:
 
Interestingly, at one point you were wondering ” L p.,  F’ s reaction;  House –> don’t want to [unreadable] xx do (possibly re-do) ?; renting;  Phase of life”
 
No idea what “L p. means.” Lucia pissed maybe?  well- you were right about that. I mean, seriously?  What DID you think…that we’d congratulate you, for “getting some” ???
 
This entry is between (18-Aug-2011 and Oct-2011).  So, obviously you were thinking about telling me about your San Fran fun and games at that point, and maybe splitting. But chickened out or re-thought or something.  There is nothing about me “being hurt”  Probably this was your Lynn Bratmann appointment on 8/16, given the notes about Neal coming on thursday, and Lalicata delivering gravel the week before. 
 
Slowly, slowly, I try to reconstruct the shattered bits of my life.  I am a forensic specialist despite myself.
*Lyrics from I am a scientist by Guided by Voices.

my 3 AMs…how about yours?

I always feel like if I could just go back in time maybe I could sleep, maybe it wouldn’t all hurt so bad, maybe I wouldn’t awaken tomorrow to discover that my life remains a living nightmare. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like ripping my beating heart out of the middle of my chest and throwing it against the wall, to watch it slowly drip down the side and collapse, in a puddle, where it belongs.

Just another pile of offal.

another recent post….from another realm…

[Another writer suggested the idea of smudging the house with sage to cleanse it of the gunk from the affair and the whore involved.  It's a great idea, especially in a case like mine where it was phone-fucking, or texting all the time, all over the house.]

“I love the smudging. I may need to do that. I’ve had the “joy” of learning this weekend that my WS (probably soon to be xWH) would text his whore while he was in bed with me. Me!

He took photos apparently of everything near and dear to my heart and sent it to her–as if it was *his* work (big fat joke there, since he rarely lifted a finger). Even my beloved dog.

What a jerk.

‘Course I don’t think the dog will take too well to being smudged!

It’s 3+ months since D-day–the day he dropped the bomb on me and casually said, while drying dishes, ‘hey, I fucked Shannon at Reunion.”  and he STILL hasn’t told me all the truth. It’s trickle trickle, dribble dribble all the time. Like some poor old guy with a prostate problem, really. Possibly, if I’m really lucky, a foretaste of his life.

Today he actually tried to convince me that 1 conversation he had with a friend about how crummy he thought (I) and our marriage was–never telling me of course–heavens!–was only one, when 2 months ago he swore it was many.

Poor lil’ dearie can’t even keep his own lies straight any more. that’s when you know they’re desperate, I guess. the Marriage Counsellor  has demanded that he write it all down, and wow, is it ever making him crazy! (He’s even ‘remembering’ things he had ‘forgotten’. Ever so Ever so convenient]  The best part is that he gets all puffed up and indignant when you say you don’t believe him. “What!  you don’t believe me! what! (pout, cry)”  As if he has any claim to be in the same state, never mind zipcode, with the truth, at any time. yeech.