As I sit here, taking a break from yet another “This is the Worst Essay I Have Had to Write!” I read a couple of blogs and reflect on my choices.
I have always been a bit of a ditherer. Not very decisive. It drives me nuts. I think I might have suffered from FOMO before it was even a “thing.” I guess I always framed it as worrying I was making the WRONG choice, rather than that I would miss out on anything if I chose differently.
That said, once I do make a choice, there’s no backing out. Which is also quite frustrating at times! God, I make life so much harder than it needs to be!
I guess my point here is that I always wish I could choose happiness. You know, the kind that everyone always spouts on about, “Happiness is a choice, choose it everyday,” blah-dee, blah-dee, blah. I would desperately like to choose to continue on with Roger. He’s a hell of a guy. Yeah, he fucked up and in a gigantically fucked up way. He came to me this morning and we chatted for a while over cups of tea, me in bed, him lying beside me on the duvet. We have these little tete-a-tetes when we don’t have to be anywhere, and there are no kids about. It’s nice. We are on the same page about so much in life. And he gets it. As he articulated this morning when we strayed onto this topic just slightly (we don’t actually always talk about how fucked up we are!) “you were betrayed in the worst possible way, by people who you trusted, who you laughed with, who you helped, who you supported, and we did it in your houses, in your living spaces and on your time.We made you sick. You have continuing gynae treatment because of my choices, I don’t have any ill health effects. It’s not fair. You should stop feeling so bad about not being able to be with me. I know I haven’t helped, as in my selfishness, I wanted to stay in your bed to touch you, to get comfort from you, and I desperately didn’t want us to end, I love you so damn much, and I fucked the whole world up for you. You have tried so hard, and worked so long to find your feet after we took them out from underneath you.” We back and forthed a little. I am angry that I haven’t healed like so many I read have. We had twenty-one damn fantastic years, and I don’t know why I can’t see that the twenty-seven years I have lived with him are still “mostly good?” Well, obviously I can SEE that, but it doesn’t seem to hold any water…. Bah. I mentioned to him that I don’t really like to talk about any of this anymore, because the waterworks seem to be inevitable. I fucking hate the leaky taps! Then I mentioned to him that I have never seen him cry. Not full on. Never. He had wet cheeks when our eldest daughter was born, and I think one other time, about what his affair has done to me, but really only swimmy eyes, not any weeping or sobbing. Hell, I am not one to try to drag an emotional response out of someone who doesn’t FEEL it, but I asked. His answer was that he has fought the tears desperately, as he is terrified that if he lets the ones fall that he is holding back, that he’ll never be able to stop, the dam is holding back such a great deal of deep pain. I get that, but I told him my dam broke, and I can’t seem to patch it up, the damage is bloody well done. He then said, “you know what, you have healed. This is healed. For you.” And I angrily agreed. I told him I had accepted that about a year ago.
This is as good as it gets.
That sucks arse.
Then I read blogs and see that some people are living the reality that I was afraid of. The life where you love each other, but there is fear, and you can never throw yourself fully back into it. You have to hold a piece back, some insurance, a last vestige of self. I have never held anything back. Maybe that’s a bad thing? But I just live and breathe everything I attempt. Farming. I bred up a top pedigree herd. Parenting. I served on every bloody committee and board for my kids’ kindy, schools, sports, activities. Studying. I NEED A+s, any less seems a little….less. Travel. Go as far away as you can, and throw yourself into a new life. Work. Chuck everything you have at it. Time, emotion, skill. Where has this got me? Heartbroken. But I don’t seem to be able to do anything any other way. So, I feel like the proverbial idiot, doing the same old thing, expecting a different result.
I want to be able to come back to Roger, and do it three quarters. But that feels revolting! It’s not how I love. I love with every atom of my being. I love to the point of fucking self destruction. We fucked like newlyweds our entire twenty-five years we fucked. I don’t seem to own a dimmer switch. On. Or off. No bloody in-between. And it is a sure recipe for making yourself utterly miserable.
This is the stuff I asked of all of the therapists I saw. How do I develop a dimmer switch? How do I learn to do things half-arsed? How do I learn to protect myself, to keep something back for me, and not feel like a fraud?
No one seemed to have the answer. Damn it.