All Of That Garbage

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After telling my new therapist the entire asshat story (the condensed version due to our 50 minute session time) she simply said one sentence.

“Aren’t you glad that you’re not underneath all of that garbage anymore?”

“Hell yes,” I replied, noticing that my shoulders felt a little less heavy than when I had walked into her office. “I did, in fact, love him once upon a time.”

But that love has now dissipated and a combination of indifference, mingled with intense disgust has taken its place.

She asked me when I started to realize that my marriage was a sham, abusive, hard to focus on exactly what the problem was, a dark, shadowy union.

“When I started getting sick in 2011. But of course, I was in denial. Just two years after we got married. He told me at the end that he felt entitled to do whatever he pleased because I got sick.”

An angry, sickened looked flashed across her face. If I hadn’t been paying such close attention, I would’ve missed it entirely.

“How long were you two together before you got married?”

“Around 7 years. We’d lived with each other for just over 5 years.”

She nodded, writing something down in her notebook. I always wonder what it is that therapists are penning next to my name. Is it something profound or just a random doodle?

Just like the secret of how long it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop, the world may never know.

“I thought I knew what abuse was from my daughter’s father.”

“But there are many kinds of abuse,” she said sagely.

“Yes! Insidious, secretive…shady and manipulative.”

“Those are some big words.”

We smile at each other and I’m filled with gratitude.

I genuinely like this woman and she’s damn good at her job.

It’s always a wonderful feeling when you meet someone who understands you, even if they’re getting paid to do so. She’s in the same office that my doctor is in and once I move in early March, they’ll both be quite a bit of an ass haul away.

But if you ask me, the gas, distance and extra travel time are worth it.

The Asshat Years

It’s been more than two years since I first found out what my now ex-husband was doing and I still fantasize about contacting him.

I’ve written all that I have to say inside my head.

That my mom hated him and hoped that he rotted in hell, which still pisses me off that his betrayal stung her so badly. (My mom was not a hateful person.)

That I feel sorry for his new wife, because she has no idea that he’s a lying, cheating, (cold, dead-beatin’, two-timing, double-dealing, mean, mistreatin’, perverted narcissist.)

That I hope his new wife figures it out eventually and that he’ll yet again be up against a rock and a hard place, squirming around like a worm on a hot sidewalk.

But my friends tell me not to do it. Why waste my precious time? It’s much wiser to let karma do its job and it sure as hell doesn’t need my assistance.

Besides, he’d probably get off on it, knowing that he’s still causing me inner turmoil and whatnot.

I think it’s human nature to want revenge on someone who has wronged you so horribly. I do have my days when I’m perfectly happy with the way things panned out, but then the anger comes back and I picture myself running him over with my automobile.

I don’t enjoy reminiscing about the asshat years, but there were many of them and they continue to pester me daily. A song, a saying, a place, a television show…I’ll never be able to listen to Led Zeppelin again without wanting to vomit.

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What the fuck is up with their tight ass jeans? I mean, really fellas. I can literally see if you’re hanging to the right or to the left.

When people offer me their advice and tell me (not always kindly) to forget about him, that it’s in the past, I usually just nod my head and halfheartedly agree for the sake of keeping the peace. (I detest conflict.)

But what they don’t seem to understand is that it’s not me who doesn’t want to let go of the past…it’s the past that doesn’t seem to want to let go of me.

Ah well. At least I have my first therapy appointment coming up on December 5th.

A Tune Revisited

The 2nd anniversary of my Discovery Day just passed. (July 31st.)

I had asked you guys for angry fuck you songs to help me cope with the swirling emotions of being cheated on and realizing that I had wasted 15 years of my life with a piece of pond scum.

You guys delivered some great tunes, but my favorite one is down below, introduced to me by my good friend ES. It’s a classic 80’s anthem of breakup/divorce and I think that I’ve listened to it at least 100 times.

I’m legally divorced now and happy about it. It’s amazing really…how many things can change in just 2 years.

He ain’t worth the salt in my tears and he never was.


Martin Briley Salt In My Tears 1983

I never did it
No I won’t admit it
Why should I lie for you anymore?
You never loved me
You pushed and you shoved me
I seen a woman I never saw
I saw you laugh when the knife was twisted
It still hurts but the pain has shifted
I’m looking back at the time that drifted by
But I won’t cry for the wasted years
‘Cause you ain’t worth the salt in my tears
Feeling neglected
Used and rejected
You need a shoulder to lean upon
Maybe you’ve picked him
Found your next victim
Don’t worry someone will come along
I broke the spell that you kept me under
I’d had enough of the rain and thunder
I lost track of the time and I wonder why
But I won’t cry for the wasted years
‘Cause you ain’t worth the salt in my tears
I’ll sit around and drink a few more beers
Until the memory just disappears
‘Cause you ain’t worth the salt in my tears

He’s engaged, by the way.

Poor woman. Looks like he found his next victim.