During our first two years, I kicked him out three times. A total time living apart of around four months. We decided we were better together than apart, but for me, it was the frying pan or the fire. It all hurt so damn much. I couldn’t outrun the pain. In the second year, I tried sleeping pills, leftovers from the shrink. This attempt was probably a bit half-hearted, compared to the first, I just wanted to sleep forever, so I didn’t have to wake up with that horrendous slump, “he cheated, he really cheated. I wonder if today she will harass us again?”
At almost exactly the two year mark, I called it. Permanently. I said to him, “I can’t do this anymore, I don’t need you anymore. You need to get out of my life, please.” So, he moved out. This time he was sure it was forever. So was I. I was exhausted and emotionally bare. The previous time I asked him to leave, we had tenants in our cottage, so we gave them notice, and Roger moved to his maimai at the back of the farm (a small hunting lodge) with a small petrol generator, and a 2km dirt track into it. He lived there for a month, then another three in our cottage. He tells me that was when he hit his lowest low, he bawled his eyes out. He says it was worse than any crying he can remember as a child, and I had certainly never seen him cry much, twice, but never whole body, wracking sobs. This time, the cottage was empty, but fully furnished.
He rang her. For the first time in over two years, he dialed her number. The woman who he didn’t love, who meant nothing, who gave him chlamydia, who gave me HPV, the woman who harassed us, and the woman he hated for her contribution to my poor mental health. He rang her that night. He met with her the next day, she was in a nearby town for her little sister’s wedding, for coffee. Three days later, JUST THREE DAYS, he drove to her house. To talk. To try to work out why he did this. What was it about her that made him do this to me? He had questions. The biggest of which was, “were the only good parts of what we were doing only good because it was illicit, and I needed the adrenaline hit?” He tried to get information out of her, he tried to talk to her about the fallout to me, her former friend. She was unmoved. Then they fucked. Yep. They fucked. Again. FUCK!!! He reported to me that it was quite possibly the worst fuck in the history of fucking. He felt nothing but revulsion, and she lay there like a cold, dead fish. He crawled out of there on his belly, disgusted and done. As he drove home, he says the relief was growing and growing, he was done. Done with her forever. She really was a narcissistic sociopath. But he had to fuck her to find that out for sure, right?