I’ve never given much thought to the stereotypical “woman scorned”. I feel it now.
Granted I’ve always been emotional, but I haven’t reached this level since my teens. You know, teenage broken heart, writing poetry etc.
When I told my dad and my sister that John ,was cheating on me, I asked that neither of them say they weren’t surprised. They didn’t, but Ellen did say “your marriage was always bad anyway”. That is the same as she “wasn’t surprised”, therefore I shouldn’t be as upset as I am.
When you are betrayed by your brain all your life, everything surprises you. I hung on to him all these 27 years because I thought I loved him. I did love him. I do love him. It doesn’t matter how wrong it is, I do.
God I hate him.
I do believe myself when I say I won’t go back to him.
To be able to give him the adoration his narcissistic ego needs to survive, this woman is either as needy as he is or as broken as I was.
Times like these I just really want to give in to my illness and feel sorry for myself. I don’t feel like being strong and “high functioning”.
Remember my “Stinging Tears” post? It almost happened again at work today. I am blessed to be working so closely with a woman who is so like me and then again not. I need a man like that.
This time she was in the office with me and offered to leave me in there, close the door and shut the blinds. A little humor goes a long way when your life and emotions feel like they are spiraling down like flushing a toilet bowl. Not the most eloquent analogy, but for some reason that is the mental image that comes to mind.
I have been doing a little spying. No, because this blog is all about honesty, A LOT OF SPYING! I’ve found out through and overheard conversations that someone is not being truthful with me. In face I feel completely betrayed and revolted by what I have overheard by accident. It really was by accident. He was so drunk in the hot tub he didn’t realize how loud he was talking. I also know he thinks I am a complete moron and couldn’t possibly find his secrets.
The bastard has turned me into an obsessed individual looking for anything I can get my hands on. Rummaging through drawers, digging through paperwork and buying a USB recording device that I either leave casually on the table or placed in my bra.
Because this is so against my nature, I am torturing myself with my own behavior! What the hell have I turned into? I know I can’t use this information to help me with the divorce, but I just need to know.
Why do I need to know? I have been living under a narcissist my whole life, 23 years with my mother and 27 with my husband. I can never seem to get it through my thick head that I will never feel justified. I can’t hear another self-affirmation again. I can’t try another “healthy or mature way to take this betrayal” Is taking the high road all that great? The only person it really helps is the offender. The victim is still left with feelings of unworthiness.
I want to shred his clothes. I want to key his truck. I want to tell his mother. I want to make him suffer. Even though it doesn’t make me feel better in the moment, the best punishment for him is for me to outsmart him.
He really shouldn’t underestimate me. I’m not as dumb as he has always told me I am.
I was standing designing library signs on the computer. All of a sudden I burst into tears. Well not really burst, no one knew I was crying, but I felt like I had burst.
It started with my eyes stinging and then some deep breathes and face getting all scrunched up. I realized at that point it was too late to keep it under wraps and I went into the office and shut the door. The office was dark, but one wall is all windows that face the library. I positioned myself between the door and the wall in a shadow so no one could see me falling apart.
I stood for a couple of minutes silently with tears running down my cheeks. Inside my brain was battling was this really necessary for me to be crying in the first place and how much further and animated was this about to go?
While I was pulling a paper towel from the dispenser to wipe my eyes I began to sob. Sobbing is heart breaking even for the person doing it. When I was young I would let it all hang out and make as much noise as I felt necessary. Now days I hardly ever cry, but when I do it is as quietly and reserved as I can manage.
Silently sobbing, my chest heaving and drying my eyes lasted a few more minutes until I felt I could move on and begin to recover. I put my glasses back on trying to disguise some of the red face. It’s always my red nose and lips that give me away.
I preach to everyone that a good cry is usually beneficial. It wasn’t today. It was horribly emotional and physically painful.
I haven’t written in a while because I have been completely up to my neck in getting a divorce. It’s really happening this time. My sweet narcissist husband started his old tricks last night of twisting my words and making veiled threats. I was doing really well until I realized that he still has hold of me in a PTSD sort of way. I fell into his trap and said a few things I had sworn I would not say as to not make things worse than they already are. I was supposed to be laying low and silently suffering the way I had learned to after years of this treatment. I’m still kicking myself for not being able to hang on to my cutting words.
It was feeling overwhelmed today and not having anyone to talk to about it is what set me into tears. I realized that I wanted to talk to my mom. She was good for that. She listened to me for years about him and always made me feel tough and fiery. She didn’t give great advice, but she listened and was completely on my side.
For the first time in almost two years I missed her. Two years since I’ve talked to her. It hit me hard that she is dead. And realizing I needed her for that made me start thinking of the other things I miss. Honestly, I just feel like hell today.
Recently, I was minding my own business driving to the library when something caught my eye. Two people were making unnatural movements on the sidewalk along the side of the library. It took a minute for my brain to translate what my eyes were seeing. First, two women fighting. Second, a lot of blood.
I don’t know what other people would’ve done, but after the last realization it all clicked and I stopped the car, almost pulling to the curb. As I got out, the other women ran and got into the passenger side of the truck in front of me and sped off (she must’ve heard of me and my bad ass reputation)!
I got to the bleeding woman and asked her what I could do, not realizing the severity of the situation. She sat down on the grass and said call 911. She didn’t even say it sarcastically or with a condensing tone with which I would have expected from such a stupid question.
I ran back to my car to get my phone and called 911. I ran to the hatchback and grabbed the wipes that had been left by Emily on her last visit.
I applied pressure to the deep gash above her eye. Blood was everywhere, it was pooling on her chest. The 911 dispatcher asked me a lot of questions and I relayed the information between the girl and her. That is how I found out the reason for all the violence. Amanda said the weapon was metal, like a pipe or a wrench. She had broken up with her boyfriend and the new girlfriend had accused her of stealing clothes. Sounds like a solid reason for attempted murder to me.
I continued try to comfort her, telling her the ambulance was on it’s way and then she would be okay. I said we should listen for the sirens (exactly what I was saying to Allison the night of the seizure). She seemed to be breathing strangely. I told her over and over to breath slower and deeper. Every baby wipe I applied to the wound filled right away.
10 minutes and 100 bloody wipes later, I finally heard the sirens.
Revealed, I left her to the EMTs. I picked up the blood soaked wipe and her purse and carried them to the ambulance. Then I had to run back because I realized I had put my phone in her purse.
I didn’t realize how shaken I was until I started to write a statement and my hand wouldn’t stop shaking. I was writing illegible nonsense. I told the police officer I wasn’t making any sense. He was really kind and asked if I just wanted to take it home and he would pick it up. The thought of the police coming to my house and having to prolong this nightmare propelled me into tough mode and I said I would start again, but first let me melt into a pile of tears. It took me a few minutes, I recovered, stopped shaking and wrote down what I had witnessed.
A little bit of reflection…no one stopped to help us in the ten minutes we waited for the ambulance! We couldn’t have been missed! Amanda with blood pouring down her face and me, propping her up with bloody tissues surrounding me on the grass. I really could have used the help.
I was back home telling the story to Allison when I realized something. What if when I jumped out of the car, the woman with the weapon came after me? What if the driver of the car jumped out with a gun and shot me? The list of bodily injuries that could have been delivered on me was massive! It was like the time recently when a woman and her dogs were being attacked by a pit bull in the street. I did the same thing! Stopped my car and jumped out to help. Just what the hell was my plan? Get ripped to shreds along with the dogs and their owner?
If a situation like this happens again, I am going to try to park, STAY IN CAR and dial 911! I may have gotten away with being a good Samaritan this time, but next time I might be a dead person. I hope it doesn’t take me being killed to realize this.
I am still drinking wine even though the danger far outweighs the pleasure. The thing is, I don’t see or feel any of the dangers …yet.
I sleep well, get up for work on time and do a good job.
I’ve managed to lose 11 lbs. without giving up wine.
I take seven different prescription medications that do not seem to be affected by it.
I am not showing signs of liver damage.
My skin is not aging prematurely.
I’m not suffering from dementia
Blood pressure is healthy.
I have managed to stay highly productive.
I drink a bottle of wine every night. I actually don’t want to drink until around 7pm. A lot of the time I dread that time of night. I just give in to it. I feel sad, lonely and deprived when I don’t drink. Crazy, right?
I’ve come up with a few ideas about why I like drinking and why I haven’t been able to stop.
I grew up not being in control of anything at school or at home. When I finally reached the age of being able to work etc. I started smoking. It felt good because no one would allow me to smoke and they couldn’t stop me either. Maybe it was the first thing that represented control to me. I ended up being in control, but not really. I wanted to quit, I hated the smell and I felt like a criminal because smoking had started to have a stigma attached. I couldn’t go without it even though I hated it.
Another piece of the puzzle is when I quit smoking, I replaced that with food. For years I over ate, felt sick and ashamed. I didn’t really start gaining weight until after bipolar meds I began taking in my forties. So that had to be dealt with the only way I knew how.
The drinking started because I had been used to such highs and lows my entire life and when I started taking medication for bipolar I felt like a big blob. I didn’t like anything or hate it. I felt as if I had no personality anymore. Drinking wine at least changed that mood enough so I felt a little bit like my old self.
So here we are now, five years later. I’m up to a bottle of wine every night. I do feel in control when I make a stop at the liquor store and get anything I want. I have been working all day, made my money and now I can buy some wine. Just like I could buy cigarettes and go by McDonald’s or eat a pint of ice cream until I was sick.
My therapist says it is crucial to replace the wine and the ritual with something I enjoy just as much. She also said if I am not experiencing any of the bad side effects of the wine, I should quit to see how much better I could be. Could I sleep better, lose more weight, have better skin and feel a difference if the alcohol isn’t interfering with my medication?
I’ll have to go cold turkey. Drinking less doesn’t work. I’m the kind person to eat the whole bar of chocolate instead of “just one square”. People who do that and say they are satisfied are either on drugs or just not of this world.
My plan this time is to stop drinking completely. Replace it with things I want to do, but never have the time because I am in bed drinking and doing work at 7pm. At the beginning of the summer I had five lists of things to do from immediate to whenever. I threw the last four away. I’m going to rewrite those lists and start checking them off one by one, night by night.
My summer began on May 27th. I left directly from work to drive 16 hours to a wedding in North Dakota. John’s relatives were there, I don’t think further explanation is necessary. Emily and I had spent a huge amount of time trying on dresses and rejecting everyone of them, usually because they didn’t fit me well. In the last two years I have gained another 10 lbs (oh, you know there is going to be some follow up to that bombshell). I finally found one, but it still wasn’t flattering. I tried not to let my vanity get in the way of a fun time, but that that was a hopeless exercise as you would guess.
Emily and family came that week also. It was very hectic. I didn’t get to spend as much time with them as I wanted because there were so many things to be handled before I went to England.
Alison and I left England with my Dad for two weeks. To be honest, it wasn’t the best trip. My dad was/is still trying to deal with the death of his older brother, Pete, and honestly I wasn’t much help. Sometimes I miss cues. I feel guilty for that.
When we got back from England I decided enough was enough. Allison’s depression and anxiety were getting worse. Everything she and I had tried failed. I took her to a psychiatrist. Maybe her moods were a chemical imbalance. After all, all of her female relatives on my side from her great grandma down have suffered from some degree of mental illness.
I tried everything that I had any knowledge of, I had read about or other people recommended. There was Myofascial Release, gluten free, clean eating, essential oils, supplements, a natural light alarm, therapy, EMDR, Brain Spotting, etc.
Oh, but the story gets better! One night she had a seizure! A smallish one at first and two weeks later a “tonic clonic”. It used to be known as a Grand Mal Seizure.
My lovely enlightened husband then blamed the whole thing on me and Zoloft. Even though five medical professionals said it would be very unlikely. We had a few knock down drag out fights because of this. It has been a heavy burden keeping Allison’s struggle front and center and not my own.
She had an EEG and an MRI, both normal. The only bright spot is she was diagnosed with Epilepsy. I know that sounds strange, but it just might be the answer to a lot of things in her life.
Now she’s taking an anti-seizure medication. If it takes care of the seizures it could also treat her anxiety and depression. I guess time will tell.
I was cleaning out the bathroom drawers. I have been accused in the past of throwing out things I shouldn’t have. I can usually counter that accusation by finding the item in question. I am the record holder of “Supreme Finder” title in our family. I can find things without even looking or getting up.
As I said, I was cleaning the drawers in the bathroom vanity. I pulled everything out first, cleaned the drawer and then put everything back in. Well, almost everything. There were the loose tooth floss toothpick things, hair ties, stray, Q –tips, old toothbrushes, etc. Those I threw away.
The real danger came when I approached John’s drawer. I pulled the drawer open and felt my blood run cool for just a moment. Okay, that may have been my imagination, but you get the gist of the apprehension I was feeling.
In his drawer were razors, empty toothpaste tubes, used stray toothpick floss things, an old handle for the blinds, combs and a few pens. Pretty straight forward I thought. A no-brainer. Ah, no. Nothing is ever simple with John. It is my fault. I should’ve realized it. I should have tried to get into his brain while I analyzed every piece of bathroom paraphernalia in his drawer. Hindsight is 20/20.
The next day John casually asked me if I had seen a white pole when I was cleaning out the drawers. I didn’t remember until a few minutes of thinking about it.
“Oh, yeah, I threw it away, ” I don’t know why I felt so confident in myself at that moment. It didn’t last long.
“I had made it into a handle for my razor so I could shave my back”, he said quite calmly.
“Oh no! I thought it was just an old pole!”, I cried (it was just an old pole).
He was very calm, unlike him calm and said, “It was the handle from a blind and the end was broken in just the right way so the razor handle fit.” I thought this was a little strange to invent something when he could have bought one.
My first response to a problem, especially when caused by me is to begin to solve it. I took a handle from the blinds in the bedroom, no dice. I took one from Allison’s room, no. My last one was from the kitchen and it didn’t work.
I felt terrible, probably worse than the situation warranted (as is also my way), but I kept trying to fix what I had caused. I think I was also trying to save face. I had always heralded the fact that whatever I was accused of throwing away I had always found it and felt quite smug about it too.
My first line of defense was Amazon. I looked for something to replace “the rod”. I found two things, so I screen shot them and sent them to John. He texted back saying “I will figure something else out”. Always the martyr.
I had an idea of going to ACE Hardware with the razor and getting a piece of pvc that it would fit into. I could also get some plastic tubing. I meant to go there twice, but I always ran out of time. Yesterday I went to the bank, the post office, grocery store, etc. and I thought I could fit it in. I was in the process of trying to convince myself to go when I had an epiphany.
I had found a replacement “razor pole” and he said thank you, but no. My part was done. I can move on with the other 15- 29 things on my to do list.
Who was I trying to kid? Of course, I didn’t move on! I went to ACE today and told the guy what I needed and what I needed it for. I asked for pvc pipe and plastic tubing. I got it home and after much filing, shoving and twisting etc., I got it to work!
Pheww, that was close! I almost wasn’t able to move on with my life.
I’ve included the blueprint to the “razor pole” below in case anyone is in need of such a high quality gadget.
Allison has been in kind of a funk lately. It’s her age, summer is too long, etc., etc. I have (as is my way) been trying to fix the situation. I get criticism from Allison that this is a “fault” of mine and sometimes she just wants to talk. Point taken and so I usually stay silent. Staying silent in the moment is one thing I can handle, but not trying to come up with a fix as soon as we stop having the conversation is another thing.
I have so many ideas and projects I want to do the list is ridiculously long. I would have to hire an assistant to complete all of the fun things I want to do. So in looking for something for Allison to pass the time, one thing I came upon was a great app called Stylebook. It’s where you take photos of all your clothes and make your outfits for a whole week! She was not interested. I showed her how she can change photographs to really anything with Photoshop. Not interested. I told her about a new Nintendo game app where you have to find the Pokeman in real time, kind of like a treasure hunt. Not interested.
Enter Tristan, my 20 year old son. I mentioned to him I had told Allison about the Nintendo app, but she was not interested. I said it must have been the way I had explained it. A few minutes later Tristan left and went into the living room where Allison was and this is what I heard:
It was meant to be a great week. John and I had not been on a vacation for 20 years! When we decided not to divorce one of the things I asked for was to go to the beach, something I had been promised year after year.
It was off to a great start! The resort was wonderful. We went to an all-inclusive for the usual reason of not wanting to do anything except eat, drink and sunbathe. We saw the dolphins and snorkeled. We ate a lot and drank a lot.
One night we went to a little market that the resort set up with locals to sell us tacky stuff. It was perfect for John. He got a Bronco tiki mask and a three legged stool with Harley Davidson stamped on the leather seat. Of course, that went downstairs with the Harley Davidson side table and the Jack Daniels wooden keg.
After we got home, I left the next day to fly out to visit Emily and the children. It took me a little while to settle in. I had “travelers’ diarrhea” so I wasn’t much fun or good to anyone for a couple of days. After that settled I started to itch. At first I thought it was mosquito bites, but more kept appearing and the itching was driving me crazy! So much so that I went to Urgent Care. Have you guess yet? Yes… I had scabies!!!
In case you don’t know what that is, here is the definition: “Known as the seven-year itch, is a contagious skin infestation by the mite Sarcoptes scabiei.” It is highly contagious. The treatment is EVERYONE that I had come in contact with had to put on a special prescription cream to kill the eggs. Ewww! It still makes my skin crawl (no pun intended) to describe it.
I know none of you know my daughter, Emily. Let’s just say she is a little bit of a germophobe and so is her husband. As you can imagine, being infested with a parasite didn’t go over too well. I not only felt like Typhoid Mary, I was treated a little bit like her. Everyone, including the baby, had to be treated with cream. We washed all of the sheets, rugs, everything that I may have touched. I couldn’t hold the baby or hug my granddaughter. I was pretty miserable.
I still don’t know where I picked it up. It could have been in Mexico or in the airport. I guess I’ll never know.
I’ve only told my family about the scabies. Even though it wasn’t my fault, I still feel a bit of shame. I believe it was caused by what my mother said when I contracted impetigo, “Oh, isn’t that a dirty disease?”
anincidentallife.com 
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