Been a little while. Life has been busy in the Land of the Torn. Apologies.
We had Chilean billets for a few nights this week, a sporting exchange with my kids’ school. That was fun, and they were just awesome girls! I also had to fit in two and a half work days into my week (I go to uni four days.) Mmmm, the juggling continues…
I also got the mark and hard copy back on my essay on online spaces and the body. I got an A+, (95%.) That was a relief. First time I handed in something that no other eyes had been over – usually one of my kids, they are great at editing – to correct any flaws that I missed. But best of all, when I picked up the hard copy, the marking tutor (who I emailed in a mild panic halfway through – she has almost completed her PhD on online gaming, romance and the 30+ year old woman – can’t remember the exact title, but it is interesting) wrote a really great critique on it, with some perfect tips about fine-tuning my academic writing style – mostly about more seamless incorporation of quotes. Then the lecturer, a teaching fellow, wrote a page and a half on the back of it. Quite personal, not inappropriate, VERY empathetic, and thanking me for my commitment (hell, I’m GREAT at commitment – until someone caused me to question that commitment 🙂 ) to the topic and that she was very grateful for my candour, and that my piece had opened her eyes to some different aspects of the online body – as places of healing – and I think she might be interested in using some for some new research she is tooling around with in her head. She asked me if I ever wanted to catch up for coffee, that she’d love to with such a brave soul, but respected that this was an exposing piece and would understand if I didn’t. I took the paper to my car and wept big, wet tears.
I was talking to TOIL about this a few days ago – he never asked about it. I told him I had done well and that there were some moving comments from the teaching staff. I guess I thought natural curiousity would nudge him to enquire further.
So this morning I told him that I was surprised he never took any notice. He said he thought it was private. I mean, we have been living under the same roof for 26 years, and he has never really got me, I guess! I mentioned it to see if he was interested in finding out what the lecturer said.
This from a man I once thought was extremely in tune with his feelings, and showed fantastic insight and empathy into others’ emotions. So much so that counsellors have remarked on this. Boy, was I off the mark!
The chat moved along to some other stuff about us. He is always interesting to talk to, but I don’t much anymore about “us,” the affair, or relationship chitchat (lol) as he knows I am out of here in just over two years. We somehow talked about the time he fucked Leanne again, very nearly two years after D-day (he brought it up, not me!) – legitimately – as I had told him we were over, and he had moved out. I realised I never knew that he had stayed the whole night at her house. I mean, I know that he drove all the way up to her house, they bought a takeaway meal and a bottle of wine, and fucked. I knew he told her that they didn’t work and he told me that the sex was APPALLINGLY bad, very much like fucking a dead fish, with no passion, not emotional connection, and that he felt dirty after doing it. Then they talked (hahahaha! Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around???) and she said to him that she needed to know that the door was shut to me, and that she wasn’t ever going to play second best. He replied that although I didn’t want him anymore, and had told him that he made me feel worthless about myself, that in his book, he would NEVER be able to shut the door on me, that I was the love of his life. (Great chat up lines, TOIL, BTW!) And that she would ALWAYS be second best, or even further down the list, as his kids and his farm would rank above her. Cool, love your work! In the morning, he got up, and drove off, and that was the last time he saw her. (She continued to try to “be friends” by texting questions about things we had and where we got them, so she could get them, often for her little boy, ugh, in weird flurries for nearly another year. Until he finally changed his number, realising very belatedly, that yes, Paula knew a thing or two about how to asphyxiate a whore. He was so frustrated that he hadn’t got that when I repeatedly told him that for those three years. “This is how to make it stop. Get a new phone number.”
Hell, no wonder I am getting A+s – super-genius here! (FFS!!!)