Deeply frustrated with my husband’s apathetic response to my (admittedly funny) experience at the gynecologist, I started to act out. I was fueled entirely by my unstable emotions, insecurity and fear.
I went ballistic, I wrote. The divorce papers came out, [he] revealed that he doesn’t quite love me enough. [He’s hoping] feelings will follow because he’s doing the “right thing”.
Painful, hurtful, hopeless, awful.
And then, another piece of the puzzle fit into place.
A few weeks earlier, while I waited for my husband to return from Portugal, my dear friend had “accidentally” been forwarded an email. It was a conversation between my husband and his best friend. This was the same person from whom I learned of the initial affair, via a candid Skype chat on my husband’s computer. In addition, the two had traveled extensively together throughout the years, and shared the same ideas and beliefs. The friend was divorced. In this particular email, they casually discussed the “investment banker”. My husband called her a “half breed”, and they evaluated her age, background, and how “hot” she was. My husband’s BFF asked if they had been “shacking up.” He evaded the question. BFF went on to detail plans of meeting his new, model girlfriend in London after she recovered from her breast enhancement surgery.
Then, my husband wondered when he should “pull the trigger” — end our marriage.
I was glad my friend summarized the content of the email for me. It would have been too painful (not to mention familiar) to read the actual exchange. I absorbed the shock, and then exploded. I grabbed the big file folder, angrily labeled “DIVORCE”, and fled the house again. Since my husband had no cell phone, he tried communicating with me via email. It had oddly become a new form of texting between us.
He wrote and asked me where I had gone, most likely from his permanent spot on the couch. His laptop was always glued to his knees. I would go to work every day and he would sit and write. Oftentimes I would come home after a long day and he would not have moved. His writing seemed to consume him: mentally, spiritually, emotionally and now even physically.
“To pull the trigger,” I emailed back. “I am done.”
He asked why; why today, why now.
You are free…goodbye.
My heart can’t take any more. I don’t think I’ll ever be patient enough to wait for you to come around.
I think you got what you wanted, anyway. In five months, five years, you’ll be glad.
I’m tired of being dramatic, I know you are tired of it, too. This is the most cinematic way to blow it all up.
He asked again where I was.
I’ll be back later to get my stuff.
Kathy will be in touch with you about signing the lease papers for the house. You just have to sign, she’ll do all the rest of the work (finding a tenant, etc).
I’m thinking we can find someone to rent starting in January. I don’t want to lease the house before I get back from tour because I want to go through, sort and pack it up. I’ll re-post furniture, etc. on Craigslist.
I’ll pay the rent for November and December so you can stay in the house. Unless you want to move out, that’s fine, do what you need to do.
He wanted me to come home. He understood my frustration, and if we were to end things, we should do it face-to-face.
Sorry. Talking face to face doesn’t work. Nothing works.
I give up.
You got what you wanted.
He reiterated that, no! – this was not what he wanted. He wanted to talk.
You don’t even know what you want. I don’t fit into your life.
You don’t talk. You just sit there and listen.
I’m tired of talking. Deep, deep down, you don’t want to be married to me. I know it. I feel it.
I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO YOU BECAUSE YOU ARE GOING TO BREAK MY HEART
I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE
A simple line: Please.
MY BABY SHOT ME DOWN.