Six Degrees of Separation
At first I was afraid; I was petrified. I didn't know how I could live without him by my side.
My first reactions were anger, and
seeking to understand why. His desire for divorce, I could wrap my
head around, but once he told the children he planned to remarry, I
melted down. How did I not see that developing??
So I dissected the laptop, shredded
through the information, pieced together minute scraps. I infiltrated
email accounts, Facebook messages, culled the Recycle Bin and
searched archives for photos of women. I created dating profiles that
I imagined would attract his attention.
I spent hours trying to discover his
dating profiles. What was he seeking, I wondered. Love? Marriage?
Sex? Companionship? Adventure? What had he missed so much that he
actively sought it online and from our “friends”?
The information I found infuriated me.
He had planned to leave for months – years actually. He had told
his brother and a handful of friends (even people who were supposedly
my friends too) that he was finished with the marriage and plotting
his way out. He twisted the truth and made me look bad, but I suppose
that is natural. He had gloated that this would be his last
Thanksgiving with me, his last Christmas. He celebrated first one,
then two, then three relationships with other women that he had
fallen into infatuation with and knew this was “the one” who
understood him and knew his soul.
So I vilified him. He became Evil
Incarnate. This insane man I had loved and nurtured and shared my
life with was a complete stranger. He had taken away my future. I
would no longer get to spend the rest of my life with someone who
knew me intimately for decades. No more would I look forward to
growing old with my life partner. There would be no future days
without children cockblocking our relationship. No free and easy
just-him-and-me, happily ever after finally. No reaping what I had
sown. And I was livid that he took that from me.
I also was afraid. Afraid no one would
ever love me again. Afraid I was too old, too fat, too sick to be
loved. Afraid that if the person who had known me best chose to leave
me, maybe I was unlovable altogether. I was vulnerable. No longer did
I have the protection of my man. I knew that when predators sniffed
around, they would no longer perceive his scent. I was unmarked.
Exposed. On my own. And I didn't like that place – had not
bargained to be in that position.
- Then his woman kicked him out and he turned to me. Inside, I gloated just a little bit. His karma, I thought, but my humanity also was triggered. His number one fear was homelessness (again), and I could not refuse him shelter. At the very least, he was my daughter's father.He and I spent hours talking over a two-day period and he confessed many of his sins against me. I was touched by his honesty, this change of pace that had he instituted it while we were together would have meant the world. My desperation returned and I decided to make one last pitch, one last we-can-make-this-work. I threw everything I had into showing him what we had together, how much I loved him, how much I knew he loved me. I pointed out the folly of throwing away nineteen years without giving it one last shot. I begged. I cried.
He told me how he loved her, how pure
and innocent and untouched by harm she was, how he couldn't be that
guy who hurt her, how he refused to be that guy. How it wasn't her
fault, that she had done nothing to him, she had never hurt him. I
pointed out that it wasn't my fault either, that I had done what I
was supposed to do, that I had been there through thick and thin and
loved him through some pretty intense situations, that it wasn't
fair. I always know I'm whining and losing when I resort to the
fairness card. But I decided pride had no place at this time. I
consciously decided that. I did not want anything to look back on
with regret. No what if I had said or done this or that. I gave it my
all.
- We began what was essentially an affair. He reiterated that he wanted a divorce, that he could no longer stay married to me, that maybe we could rebuild and start over. I grasped at straws. As long as I could keep my foot in the door, I had a shot. He would see how much he loved me, how good I was for him, that he had just become twitterpated with the bright shiny aspect of a new relationship.
The sex was great for the first time in
years. My desire returned, which shocked me. I realized that I
trusted him again and so was able to open up. In the meantime, he
lobbied hard to regain her favor and she let him back, little by
little. Supposedly she knew about him and me, and I about him and
her.
By the time she invited him to move
back in, I pretty well figured that it wasn't going to work, this
three-way relationship. But I wasn't ready to let go yet. He and I
discussed the logistics. He would live there with her, see me on a
regular basis. We would enjoy time together, maintain our
relationship, love each other but not live together. We continued our
intimate rituals, texting and IM-ing, phone calls. Everything
functioned just as if he were still living here except that he
actually paid attention to me again, and well, he didn't live here.
It seemed to be the best of both worlds, and I was okay with it.
I didn't have to deal with his dirty
laundry or picky eating habits or depression or acting out or
sullenness or any of the negative things of our relationship. I got
the sweet aspects instead. But you cannot have your cake and eat it
too – not for long. The cake runs out.
He told me he would be in town on
Tuesday. I hadn't exactly pinned my heart on seeing him then, but I
did look forward to our time together. Tuesday afternoon, he casually
contacted me and without explanation or apology said he wasn't coming
and “might” be in on Thursday. I saw then where I fit into his
priorities: I did not. At all. He had given no more thought to my
feelings than the man in the moon. That's when I knew it could not
be. This, I was unwilling to do.
I could share him, I could be the
“other woman.” I could ignore Society's derisive stares. I was
willing to stick my chin out and defy everyone in order to continue
the relationship. My cardinal order did not matter. But I was
unwilling to be taken for granted. Funny how that works. It framed it
to me that this entire arrangement was solely for his convenience. He
wasn't trying to help me deal with my loss; he was doing what was
good for him – as always.
I went through another, mini-mourning
period. Once more, I had to let go of dreams I looked forward to, the
future that would never be. I realized the folly of believing it
could ever have worked.
That was the turning point. I moved on.
He flailed as he sensed me slipping
away. His texts picked up in both number and intensity. He made sure
to contact me at all the “special” times of day, those private
intimacies we'd developed over two decades together. He posted on my
Facebook wall, on his Facebook wall about me. He IM-ed me. He called
me. It was clear he couldn't understand what was happening, or had
happened. It was clear he was panicking.
I admit, I felt a little bit of evil
enjoyment while witnessing that phenomenon too.
Eventually, he processed through it. He
realized I had moved on. I felt guilty about it, strange as that
sounds. I felt almost as if I had betrayed him. After all, he didn't
do anything we hadn't agreed to do. It was me who had changed the
rules. But this was a very fluid situation, and a paradigm shift
occurred.
- My car broke down. I sat there for only a moment before realizing I had the option to call him, or not. I knew he would come to me. Of that I had no doubt. I also knew without a doubt I would not call him. Instinctively, I realized this was a turning point. A page had turned in this process of moving past. He was willing to let me hang on as long as I needed to; it was up to me to let go. I let go. Right there on the Dunbar/South Charleston Interstate bridge, with the steam pouring from my engine and the car swaying from the semis' roaring by, I knew freedom. As always, it was bittersweet.
He apparently sensed it too, because
when he learned of the car trouble, he did not seek to contact me
directly. Instead, he posted publicly on Facebook. That did surprise
me a little, honestly. But it also made me pleased to see he, too,
understood and was working to move on. It had been uncomfortable to
watch him flounder.
I do not know what will happen in Steps
5 and 6 of these Degrees of Separation. I only know that I am in the
best place I've been so far, and I am thankful to be here. I'm not
angry; I don't feel hurt. Kubler-Ross put forth five degrees of
working through death: Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and
acceptance. I think I've probably processed through the vast majority
of the first four.
But that leaves a sixth degree, you
say. If Acceptance is the Fifth Degree, what is Number Six?
I believe Number Six is the next phase,
the Future. I'll be sure and keep you informed on my progress.~~CC