First I was clinging to the teat of denial, believing this was just a test, a game, a way of making me suffer and suffer and suffer, as if trying to take my own life hadn’t been bad enough.
Then yesterday, last night, I was uncontrollably sad, crying and lashing and aching.
I didn’t work today. Instead I slept. Within sleep, is renewal, change.
And this morning I woke up fucking pissed off.
I’m pissed off because this isn’t just about it. I have my fault, which are legion. I have been working, actively for over a year to become something different and better. Apparently however, this didn’t work well enough.
My soon to be ex, instead of telling me he was unhappy, spent time, many hours of time online. I can’t tell you how harmless or not harmless this might be, all I know is that my children are alone with themselves until 9 or 10 am every week day because he can’t be bothered to get out of bed after spending a hard night doing lord knows what.
I thought I was in love with this man. I thought that our marriage had most of it’s issues because of me. Yet here I’ve been fucking lied to for lord knows how many months. I worked my fucking ass off, as much as I have been able for him. I thought I was just being paranoid, not that he was actually off doing things.
Worst of all I trusted him. I trusted when he told me he loved me and everything was all right. I trusted him to support me. I trusted that he wouldn’t try to fucking destroy me. You’ve read my posts detailing my love and devotion to him. This has meant NOTHING to him, as evidenced by his continual behaviour over the last 6 months at least. I have my sincere doubts that this truly has anything to do with my bipolar, not in the sense he’s claiming.
I’m am fucking angry. Not at men in general, but that I would have married someone so cold and duplicious as this. I admit my faults freely. He blames his coldness, his abscences on me.
And you know what? Part of me looks FORWARD to being rid of this fucking weight-this creature who has wanted to do nothing more than sit on a fucking computer-never improving our home, never once wanting to improve our comforts, never even being willing to browse the same fucking aisle at the bookstore.
Yet I’m the one unwilling to get involved in “his” hobbies-I bet he can’t even tell you my favorite book, piece of music, artwork.
I want someone who can do these things. I want someone who is interested in what I want, who when I talk about maybe adopting another child in a few years doesn’t laugh and discount it. I want someone who is as interested in my interests as they expect me to be in theirs. I want someone who fucking cares, who wakes up in the morning wondering what new things they can discover.
I was that person once, a very long time ago, and I WILL be her again.
If memory serves from when my mother died, anger is a stage that can stick around. This time, I want to use it to my advantage, to change the me that needs changing, and be a better mother, and woman to my children.
That’s what matters. Nothing more. And if I can’t have the family I’ve had, then I will make my own.