No offense to those who make a living in the service industry, where they no doubt deal with all sorts of unsavory scenarios with great care, but if given the option of selecting the mistress who would help to destroy my marriage, I would pick a lead singer of an Indie rock band. Someone kind of renegade and hip, and hot. Not a woman who wears mom jeans.
My cheating husband stood in the kitchen of our home and said, “I’m so relieved I don’t have to lie anymore.”
I was busy summoning the strength to launch shards of glass from my eyes, directed at his face. I wanted to watch them pierce his skin, ripping it from the bones. I wanted to watch him unload his burdened soul on our kitchen floor while I had the pleasure of seeing him bleed to death. And then I wanted to put protective baggies over my new suede, thigh-high wedge boots and stomp him until he was the consistency of chili. The way I like it, minced and ground up. Not the way he makes it, chunky.
My first question: How long has this been going on?
“A year.”
According to the man I wanted to kill, it started in the fall of 2010 as we made the decision to move to the West coast. (Cuz that’s what I do when I don’t know my husband is cheating on me. I move the entire family closer to where his mistress lives.) He was at a convention. She was at the convention. One thing led to another. Again, if I could have written the script I would not have selected a convention hall floor for the opening scene of the adulterous story. It would have either been at the bar of Chateau Marmont or during a tango lesson in Argentina. For some reason men prefer conventions.
Besides using her as a pogo stick, he also used her as a vendor in his line of work, hence her attendance at the convention. As he babbled on about their early days as a couple I was hitting Mach 5 in my brain, ripping through my stored images of people and places, narrowing down to those women whom I’ve met who said hello with their mouths and I hate you with their eyes. There she was. I met this bitch. And when I met her I said to myself, This bitch has designs on my man. The key word being man. (Mom, please pardon my rough language. It was called for. I know you concur, even though you are forever a lady. Except for that time you called The Genius a scumbag. But then your other daughter asked you if you knew what that meant and you didn’t. You retracted when she explained it. Kind of…)
I thought I had married a man. Not a boy who was frozen in time at age 14 with one hand on his penis and one hand on his joy stick, concerned not an iota about values, morals, commitments or anything other than me, me, me. And penis, penis, penis.
I slept on the couch that night and flew back East for a planned trip to see my family the next morning. I did not speak to him at all after he answered my one and only question. At the airport I got out of the car and walked away without a word or backward glance. He was vapor to me. Not there. Not visible. Not human.
If not for my children I would have changed my destination to Buenos Aires, signed up for tango lessons with a man named Javier and disappeared from his life forever. (I know you don’t know me, but those that do would not doubt any part of that statement.) Instead, I headed into the arms of my family who gathered around me like a tribe of warriors.
I had one week to be loved like I had never been loved. And then, after a long return flight where I dreamed of escape, I stood in front of a person who hated me like I had never been hated.
This was a very unexpected plot twist.
You are very lucky your family supported you. Mine didn’t. Mine didn’t say anything to me. One by one by dad called them and told them (against my wishes) so they could “be there” for me during this astronomical crisis in my life and as I entered a counseling outpatient program.
Not even a call. No “How are you’s?” No, What are you doing this weekend? Not even a funny email forward.
All I got was silence.
You’re lucky your family loved you like that.
E,
Consider me family. I mean that. No one should be alone. I have received so much support from the most amazing beings who have found us here at HGM. Let them support you, too. I will always be here. (Although I took last night off to stare at the moon. It was sublime.) E, you are beautiful.
Love yourself,
Cleo
I was looking at your nom de plume wondering if it’s an anagram of your real name, and then I thought, gee, if you take out the EO of CLEO you have CL..EVEREST!
Great story, I’m not at the end yet. Can’t wait to read the rest of your blog. Very well written.
But um, not to nitpick but there’s a difference between it’s and its … you got it wrong several times in your first post. Yeah, I know you had other things on your mind than perfect spelling/grammar at the time
A,
Very, very clever of you!
Its and it’s…I know the difference but when I get all wrapped up in the keyboard I lose sight of proper grammar sometimes. Of that I am not proud.
I also fail miserably at colons and semi-colons. So I use dashes. Lame, I know. Mr. Guthrie, my AP English teacher, would not be psyched.
I aim to keep an editor employed for years.
Thank you for giving me something refreshing to work on. Grammar is a nice reprieve from all this soul-searching I have been doing!
Love yourself,
Cleo
My sister sent me your blog, and I started at the beginning – I can absolutely relate to your feelings and descriptions of what you are going through. You are so spot on in the emotions and the way you take us there with you –
I went through it in 1997 and it was very similar. I am so happy you are sharing this with the women out there that need to read it and not feel alone.
I am so proud of your strength and courage…. and love your humor in all of it.
I am hoping you write a book! I would buy it.
Lisa
L,
Thank you for taking the time to read HGM and to comment. I get a great deal of my strength and courage from HGM. How can I read a comment like yours and not feel energized and supported? I am so grateful to have you here. Thank your sister for me.
Love yourself,
Cleo
Wow. Your words – they are exactly what I’m feeling right now and what I’m thinking right now. It is so relieving knowing that my feelings right now have been felt by those who’ve ‘been there done that’…. it is relieving having my feelings validated. Again, thank you Cleo. HGM is my therapy too… in a funny, crazy, weird kinda way.
J,
I’m grateful our words resonate with you, J. That they help to guide you through this time. As much as I appreciate therapy, I’ve grown more through absorbing the wisdom of the kittens than on any couch, regardless of the talent of the therapist. We’re all different. HGM works for me. And it’s WAY cheaper! It only takes time (well, minus a little hosting) for me to write and time for you to read. We’ve accomplished a lot here in one year. Pretty effective group of lovely beings, I say. Thank you for being one of them.
Love yourself,
Cleo