Dead, But Not Gone

I watched the Kobe and Gianna memorial service today. It was heart wrenching to hear the grief and loss in the voices of those who spoke of him. Loved ones taken from us too early and all of a sudden is such a cruel loss. Those cut down in their prime, or even more difficult, as children, leave such a hole in the lives of all who know them, depend on them, interact with them.

Which brought me to the comparison of the grief suffered in the reality of intimate betrayal.

My spouse’s body is still here. I see him every day. The person I fell in love with is gone. Some betrayed say that person died on the day they found out about the betrayal. In my case, my UH died a long and lonely death.

I lived with him for years as he slowly withdrew emotional connection and physical investment in ‘us’. A thousand little betrayal cuts piled up upon my heart. A thousand failures to follow through with agreements, chores, responsibilities. A thousand withholdings of help. YEs, on D-day I lost him in full suckerpuch experience, but it had been building for years. I had felt alone in our marriage and so often abandoned.

“Is it so much easier to lose your husband by choice?” Kathy Bate’s character says to her daughter who is grieving the loss of her husband to cancer in the film P.S. I Love You. Kathy’s husband left her for another woman years before.

I can answer that with a resounding ‘NO!!’.

It would have been easier had he died. How do I know that? Because I’ve suffered the loss of both parents and a brother. None of that came close to my spouse’s betrayal or the loss of the person I thought I knew. He abandoned me and our marriage by choice. He killed our marriage volitionally. He chose to betray us time after time and year after year. And he still chooses abandonment–disconnection—surface interaction.

My husband is dead.

In his place is a person I do not know. The man I married would never have even considered touching another woman. He would never have spent his daughter’s inheritance. He would not have spent our retirement nest egg. He would never have considered chasing after other women. Never.

I don’t know this person who looks like the person I married, but does not act like him. The person I married would not allow me to suffer in silence in order to maintain his comfort and shame. He would not have withheld love from me as he does now every single day he remains silent–knowing full well I need him to talk. To share his understanding, compassion and remorse.

But he chooses to remain silent. Day after day. Days adding up and turning into a thousand little cuts of withholding love in favor of abandonment. This doppelgänger that looks like my husband is silent. And in his silence, he is cruel.

I don’t know him.

And I don’t want to know him or be around him.

His likeness and presence taunts me with the reality of all I have lost. And with the reality that he does not love me and has not loved me for many years. He does not and will not give me his heart. He keeps it locked away inside the shell of a man who happens to look like the guy I married. Only older. So much older. Dorian Grey has been outed and his image now matches the old image of the painting that has been in the closet for thirty years. The painting of the person who could betray and lie and manipulate the woman he swore to love… into staying with him, into sleeping with him–into believing he was someone he most definitely was not.

So no–it is not easier to lose your spouse through his choices.

It stinks.

Greif sucks.

Only the shell of him remains to taunt me.

The Church of My Garden

I’ve not been going to regular services for the last couple months. I was not enjoying the service sitting next to my UH, It was hard to achieve calm when he continues to avoid me and processing. Sadly, he is a big trigger. So I told him I would be staying home until and unless I feel safer.

Well it has been a good thing. Example: Today I spent three and a half hours in my back garden trimming. There is something about repetitive work outdoors that feeds my soul. I get to enjoy the sun, the cool breeze and all the plants. By the time I am finished, I have accomplished a big portion of my pre-spring severe cut back of some of the bushes. The others have to wait until they have bloomed. Hawthorne gets the most exquisite pink flowers in March. The other bushes will soon fill in as the weather warms.

I have a gardener that comes for about twenty minutes a week. He does the cursory trimming, but not something that takes more time. He maintains the plants. I really appreciate his service. He worked for my parents before us, and his dad before him. Perhaps as I age I may have to pay him extra to do this more major trimming/lacing. But as long as I am able, it is a wonderful form of exercise and nature meditation.

I expect to be a bit sore tomorrow–a good sore. In the meantime I achieved nearly all my 10,000 step and some good muscular workout. Nice change from weights.

If you are fortunate enough to have a garden, I encourage you to spend time there. Even if you are not a gardener, there is something about the respiration of the plants. Their green presence is soothing. I can almost feel them breathe along with me.

Oh—and I had canine company. My dogs love to be where I am and I appreciate their support. Life abounds around me.

Laudry is done, bed remade with fresh sheets. It is so important to treat yourself well while you are recovering. And, heh, everyday. I know I too often gave too much, to my detriment. I have learned to take better care of myself. One of the positives resulting from betrayal. I will care for me even if no one else does—ESPECIALLY when no one else is.

And you need to care for yourself too. You deserve kindness. Let your heart rest by doing things that bring you joy.

Another Saturday Night

…and I ain’t got nobody…

Not so much this.

Although this song does come to mind when thinking about being in an unfamiliar place with no one to talk to. While the singer is looking for a lady friend to spend his money and time on, we who have been betrayed are looking for a new life.

When you are living with an intimacy anorexic, avoidant unfaithful, you are alone a lot. Left alone by one who avoids you because they do not want to hear about the consequences of their actions on you. They will not reassure you, express empathy or make repairs because that would make them uncomfortable.

So it is with all Saturday nights now. I no longer volunteer to go to the Saturday night speaker meeting through AA with my UH. I have detached from activities in support of him or to focus on ‘US’ because he is not willing to invest in them. Oh sure, he sits his butt in the seat, but he does not do the work. He does not take the wisdom learned and apply it. He does not and will not do the above mentioned necessaries to allow me to feel valued, respected and reassured that he is willing to process through all this.

He avoids it. Thus, he avoids me.

Unless there is something fun to do such as visiting a relative, going to see the grandchild, attending a concert or going on vacation. Then he is all in. Fun, fun, fun.

Recovery action? Nope.

So I spent some time perusing the local adult education catalogue. They are offering Tai chi. Something I want to try. Unfortunately they start their next session when I will be visiting my granddaughter across the country. So I dropped them an email asking if and when summer session begins.

I made a list of things I’ve long put on the back burner in favor of rest and recovery. I want to contact the publisher of a couple of my books to see if they would be interested in taking the books that have been discontinued by another publisher who has gone out of business. I also want to transfer my writing/author website to a new site because my old site has been frozen for quiet some time. Hacked, then cleaned up by my hosting company, though never able to get back into. I’d like to be able to add blogs over there, should I wish to.

I ordered another painting kit made from a photo of my foster daughter. I have completed a painting of my daughter and my son. I’m working toward having a small gallery of family paintings in my bedroom on the wall. After foster daughter I will paint one of my pooch. Then maybe one of myself. We’ll see.

So as you can see, I am moving forward in self care.

I am reading “The Body Keeps the Score” by Bessell Van Der Kolk. A classic about trauma and recovery. It is excellent, but pretty dense, so I’m taking it slow.

Got in my 10,000 steps and weight lifting.

Looking forward to meditation tonight.

I have told our marriage counselor how lonely I feel. I’ve actually been processing through that statement and find that I am seldom lonely. Perhaps I used the wrong word. I enjoy my own company immensely. What I miss is what has been taken from me. A best friend. Or who I thought was my best friend. When all along my true friends have been my handful of gal pals–all of whom live far away. What I miss is a face to face friend. What I wish I had was a partner who wanted to be transparent, open and deep.

So I think that is not ‘lonely’ so much as disappointed and deprived of love. Face to face love. Agape love. Someone to mirror care, respect, empathy—a good listener as I would love to be for them.

Looking in the eyes, the heart of another human being who cares for me and I for them.

All that being as it is–I am still so very very grateful for all I do have. I am my own best friend and company–which is a good thing. I am blessed in that. I have physical comforts and loyal dogs. So much for which to be grateful.

Another Saturday Night and I ain’t got nobody… but me and the dogs. Hey, not bad at all.

To Stay or Go

Some months back I told my UH that if I didn’t see significant progress, I would have to ask him to move out. After three and a half years of little to no forward movement, I felt at the end of my rope—and boundaries. I’d already asked for an in house separation. Over the months I’ve detached (in love) from the recovery activities we were doing as a couple because he was not investing in them and I needed to work on healing myself.

I told him that if he invests, I will consider investing too. Until such a time, I am working on me. Trying to regain the strength that was obliterated by his betrayals and his behavior since is a full time job. His abuse, anger and bullying used to be bad enough for me to ask him to leave and sleep at a friend’s house.

That said, he has come a long way from those days when he was so very emotionally abusive and physically scary.

He has yet to convey validation or proactive concern for how his choices have impacted me. Nor has he expressed empathy or remorse . No amends other than a couple brief cursory “I’m sorry for all I did”‘s. I’ve told him I need to know and hear specific ‘what’s’ and why’s. What specific action or event are you sorry for and why? This is not to be a task master or to watch him squirm. This is bare fook’in minimum necessary for me to even begin to feel he is owning what he’s done and taken the time to process through it enough to realize the costs…to himself and others, especially me.

I don’t want to be in relationship with a man who won’t own what he’s done and take responsibility for repairing it. Nor do I feel safe to be in close relationship with a man who has not processed through each and every one of his bad choices. It has been my experience that no processing equals relapse–not ‘if’, but ‘when’.

So–weighing these factors, I can not say I feel so unsafe as to have to ask him to leave. We are not in a financial position to support two separate households, even minimal ones, on our fixed retirement incomes and part time supplemental work. I will not degrade my frugal standard of living even further unless I am pushed to have to do so through his regressive behavior(s).

I do not see our in house separation ending any time soon. It would take a whole lot of consistency on displaying the aforementioned ownership and expressions/demonstrations of concern for me to entertain reengagement of a relationship that includes such close physical proximity–even if that does not include sex. We do not have an intimate emotional connection. Without that I would not consider sleeping with any man. With our now tainted history of abusiveness, any sharing of quarters is still simply too triggering. He has not demonstrated himself to be safe and remorseful, so I do not feel safe to reconnect emotionally or physically.

I choose to protect myself through detachment. No ill wishes toward him. Infact, many good wishes and prayers.

Even though I have explained this many times in numerous ways to him, using metaphors and kind tones, he still seems to think this reconciliation will somehow magically occur. Further demonstration of an inability to process reality.

So while I do not intend to ask him to move out if things remain stable and continue to move in the right direction, neither do I foresee reconciliation on the horizon. I DO foresee continued self care topping my personal list and further exploration of what things I might like to do with my time to help myself and others. I pray for the ability and good fortune to find another friend or two that live locally so I might have some women with whom to share.

I am not certain that I will continue writing daily blogs after my four year d-day (Saturday Feb 29–yeah he dropped the bomb on Leap year day four years ago) As long as I have something to share, I will write. It is part of my self care and helps fill my need to feel useful to others. My life is so enriched when I can help others. I promised myself, self–committed to me, to write daily for one year.

I look forward to reaching a growing circle of individuals and invite any of you to leave comments, either here in the comment section for all to read, or contact me privately on the contact page. We all need each other in this journey called life. Especially when life deals us a knock down blow, such as intimate betrayal.

To Healing.

Directed Thinking

The 12 step guru who facilitates our workshop teaches ‘Directed thinking’ form of meditation. It is a way of accomplishing a daily tenth step to keep things from compounding into resentments or bitterness.

When I focus on setting aside all of what I think I know about my past, myself, my spiritual path and my Higher Power in order to have a new experience and learn about myself, my brokenness, my spiritual path and especially my higher power, it puts me in the right frame of mind to learn more about my Higher Power. What does He want for me and my life?

So I take one aspect of what has been giving me difficulty. Example: How can I continue to detach from my spouse without so much pain and discomfort? And then I listen. Not for an audible voice, but for that sort of wee small whisper inside me.

How do I know if whatever I ‘hear’ is my ego or my Higher Power? I don’t know. I am a work in progress on this directed thinking. I image any advise or suggestion I sense would be less likely to be me and my ego if it is actually helpful in moving me forward.

I’ve been doing this for a number of months and have a tough time continuing to be patient waiting for some results. In the meantime, I find it a soothing, quiet time that allows me to gain serenity for that period of time–say ten minutes. It also stays with me…I remain calm for some time into the future.

As science has proven, meditation has all sorts of physiological and mental health benefits, so I really have nothing to lose. I think it might be beneficial to try doing it early in the day, as I have taken to meditation right before bed. Or do it early and late. It is a great way to calm your mind before retiring. I imagine it would help with clarity for the day ahead if done in the morning.

So off I go to ‘show up’ for my meditation practice. I’m only responsible for trying and showing up—not for the results. Guess that is why they call it a ‘practice’, lol.

I invite anyone who has undertaken directed thinking and/or meditation to tell us about your experience…

Spiritual Poverty

“The greatest disease in the West today is not TB or leprosy; it is being unwanted, unloved, and uncared for. We can cure physical diseases with medicine, but the only cure for loneliness, despair, and hopelessness is love. There are many in the world who are dying for a piece of bread but there are many more dying for a little love. The poverty in the West is a different kind of poverty — it is not only a poverty of loneliness but also of spirituality.”

Just as we are wired for attachment, to be part of a community, so too are we in need of sustenance to feed our soul. I believe that is as Mother Theresa has explained it. We crave love.

And if God is love, then so we can connect the dots to a hunger for God. In the case of Mother Theresa, that would be the catholic perspective of God. In the 12 step perspective it would be much more inclusive. The God of their reference is the unknowable, indescribable “Higher Power”. What is it in the universe that seems to transcend all knowing? What is the force that glues us together if not love?

I’m not referencing the gooey romantic love of film and books. That is more a feeling engendered by the object of our enamourment that allows us to bask in the glow of how they make us feel. That and powerful hormones.

I speak of a love, an agape love, a love that chooses others above self. Selfless love.

As limited beings with bodies that require replenishment and the perimeters of time; our ability to express agape love is also limited.

The kind of love I have tried, Lord so hard, to give day in and out. I have tried.

This betrayal has changed me. That woman of Agape love used to be me. Now I have turned that love onto myself. To heal. To make it through a day. All that energy and power of agape love is eaten up in an attempt to breathe and love and struggle toward the light of change and growth…and love.

It is I who now need agape love. I who have been impoverished by betrayal and the loss of the relationship that gave me a soft place to fall—someone to rely on if the world were to explode.

Well it did explode. And it was precisely that person who had his hand on the detonator. He who purchased the explosives. Not the person to turn to after the explosion. Not safe.

I who have had enough reserve to give to others in spiritual poverty my whole life long, am now depleted and bankrupt. I, the only one who can recover—alone. Feed my own soul, body and heart. Scrape whatever strength I can glean from nature, art, music, animals, and time. Slow. So slow. I struggle toward the light.

It’s not simple to say
That most days I don’t recognize me
That these shoes and this apron
That place and its patrons
Have taken more than I gave them
It’s not easy to know
I’m not anything like I used be, although it’s true
I was never attention’s sweet center
I still remember that girl
She’s imperfect, but she tries
She is good, but she lies
She is hard on herself
She is broken and won’t ask for help
She is messy, but she’s kind
She is lonely most of the time
She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie
She is gone, but she used to be mine
It’s not what I asked for
Sometimes life just slips in through a back door
And carves out a person and makes you believe it’s all true
And now I’ve got you
And you’re not what I asked for
If I’m honest, I know I would give it all back
For a chance to start over and rewrite an ending or two
For the girl that I knew
Who’ll be reckless, just enough
Who’ll get hurt, but who learns how to toughen up
When she’s bruised and gets used by a man who can’t love
And then she’ll get stuck
And be scared of the life that’s inside her
Growing stronger each day ’til it finally reminds her
To fight just a little, to bring back the fire in her eyes
That’s been gone, but used to be mine
Used to be mine
She is messy, but she’s kind
She is lonely most of the time
She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie
She is gone, but she used to be mine

Story Doctor

I’ve found something that has rescued me from the eternal negative perseverations post intimate betrayal.

Storytelling.

By this I do not mean total fictional fabrications. What I do mean is taking the time to luxuriate in memories from the past that were either wonderful or to re-write difficult memories focusing on the lessons learned.

To move away from victimhood, I can choose to focus on stories that bring me pride. I remember acts of courage or generosity from my past and paint them in vivid color. As a writer, journaling is a great tools with which to endeavor. But it does not take any particular writing talent. No focus on grammar or spelling. One can retell a story out loud to a friend, a pet or one’s self.

Small changes in the story can have big implications for improvement in identity. Focusing on the bravery it has taken to weather the emotional rollercoaster of trauma allows one to feel noble, rather than soiled.

“All sorrows can be borne if they are put in a story.” – Isak Dinesen

You can retell your story to make it richer, more complex and more hopeful. “What did I gain from this experience?”

Stories have been told around a fire throughout human history, passing on wisdom, entertainment and sanity for the storyteller and those who might listen.

There once was a girl born to a family who loved her. They were not perfect people, but they did all they knew how to make her feel safe and special. Even when she grew up and had a family of her own, she drew from their lessons of courage and responsibility to steer her own ship. And when her husband betrayed her, she had the strength to know that she’d done all she could to give to him and her family. That it was something inside him that led him to derail–not anything she’d done or not done.

She grew up with the growing ability to rely on her own good heart, intelligence and fortitude to dive into this new unfamiliar and painful time by relying on resources found, and her own inner intuition to navigate. Although the way is turbulent and hard, even on the worst of days, she knows she has the power to choose to heal, to look for and express gratitude and to take care of herself. She possesses all she needs. She is a good person.

That might be the prologue to many individual stories of my past and how I grew in good times and bad. I can choose how to tell my story and on what to focus. I choose me, my strength, my proactivity and perseverance– with love.

Life is Like A Peanut Butter Cookie

Even with the best of work and intentions, they will burn if the timer is not working.

Today I made this family favorite. The first two batches came out perfectly. On the third and final batch, the kitchen timer did not go off. I use this timer for all sorts of cooking and baking projects. It is the type you rotate the dial past the time you want and turn back to the exact number of minutes desired. It ticks like a time bomb and rings as a school bell at day’s end.

My internal timer went off before I smelled burning, yet the cookies were definitely a few moments from no return.

What’s this metaphor got to do with life and infidelity recovery? Just this. Even when we betrayed have given our batch of cookies our best–great ingredients from the supermarket. Fresh and all lined up. Carefully the recipe of cookies and life has been followed with lots of love. There is joy in the doing because we know we will enjoy the cookies, but as important, so will our family. We set the trusty timer, put the cookies in preheated oven and continue to go about our life at earshot of the timer’s brrrriiiiiinnnnngggg.

Was it a mistake to count on the timer’s reliability when it had not been unreliable in the past? Perhaps the most doubting would keep an eye on her wristwatch to be sure that timer went off. Or maybe those of us who have had timer’s fail us in the past would be more likely to do the backup plan. We had burnt cookies before because of an unreliable timer. Certainly it will take a long time to trust a timer again. Maybe never.

And so we who have been betrayed will NEVER again trust blindly and in innocence.

It’s sad. Just as a coming of age story is bittersweet. Just as saying goodbye to our kindergartner on his first day is difficult and heart rending. Just as tossing the final rose on the coffin of a parent or beloved friend. Endings are either bittersweet or just plain old awful. Grief. Sucks.

Our marriage as we knew it is over. Killed on the alter of our unfaithful’s self centered brokenness. It will never be the same. Even if we are fortunate enough to have a spouse who eventually takes full responsibility, makes amends ongoing and becomes the person we thought we married (or better)… We will never trust completely, tenderly, innocently again. We will never have a marriage untainted by betrayal. We will never be the only one our spouse has ever slept with, in some of our cases. We have been changed down to a cellular level. Read Bessell Van Der Kolk’s “The Body Keeps the Score” if you don’t believe me.

Our cookies have been burnt. Sure there are those first two batches of sweet delightful memories. But this dark bitter batch leaves an aftertaste in our mouth, even if it is still edible. We never want to go there again.

We have been burned—badly. About as deeply and painfully as any experience in life. Infidelity changes you.

Next time I make peanut butter cookies, no matter if my timer has resumed it apparent reliability, I will be more careful, more watchful, use a back up plan. Even if I was to throw out the old timer and get a new one—I would be reminded to be careful. I would not trust completely, perhaps for a long time—maybe forever—that the timer wouldn’t fail me. I am more clear eyed. More realistic. More mature.

There is always that chance our unfaithful will fail us—again. Even with a new spouse there is a chance of failure. Oh, this horrid pain and trauma. We will well and truly never be the same.

We will be wiser, more careful, less trusting. We will also be more appreciative of all the batches of cookies that are to come. We are grateful for the timer and even more grateful for the sweet results. We have been forewarned. No timer, no man, no woman is failsafe. We can do everything right but still have those, or what we rely on —fail us.

It is part of life. Disappointment. Death. Birth. Growth after betrayal. Growth after the longest winter of discontent.

We will savor the fruits, the cookies, of our labors again. If we let ourselves risk failure. We all risk when we love. We all risk when we get out of bed in the morning and drive to the store. We all risk for what is good. We all hurt when what was good disappoints us. Especially when we did everything we could to make it right.

Peanut butter cookies—and love— worth the risk.

Painting as Self Care

I’ve discovered something I love. It allows my brain to rest and my hands to create.

Painting.

Not just any painting. I’ve done the ‘Paint and Pour’ sort of directed painting. I’ve directed my kindergarten students in tempura painting “Monart”-style and I did some very complicated Classic oil paintings paint by number as a kid.

What I’ve been doing now is sending in a favorite photograph of a family member to a company that then prints the photo onto a canvas stretched over a frame. They add in suggested sketched in areas and numbered paints to match the areas, brushes, a print of the photo and a blow up of the sketched photo. Yeah–an adult sort of personalized paint by number. There is just enough engagement in the process that it motivates and just enough meditative repetition of the paint strokes to allow for escape. It is calming and so rewarding when the product is complete.

Here’s the link to the company I use.

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07SJJDQ97?pf_rd_p=ab873d20-a0ca-439b-ac45-cd78f07a84d8&pf_rd_r=SM9BEABPSE1T2Y23D0JC

I have painted one of my daughter holding her infant daughter to give to her and one of her for my wall. Next on my list is to send in a photo of my son that I like. Eventually I hope to have a family wall. Maybe paint one of my daughter’s wedding for her Christmas present. Ohhh…the possibilities. And ohhh…the relaxing self care.

UH Recognition and Self Recognition

My UH actually talked about recognizing his knee jerk reaction, anger and defensiveness WELL AFTER the event, but hey.

He recognized it.

That means he 1- thought about it. 2- processed through his reaction enough to verbalize it. 3- Shared it at his 12 step meeting, so he tells me. 4- Took enough responsibility for it, that he actually admitted it to me.

*jaw drops*

You may not think this is big stuff, but for someone who is six and a half years out from his financial betrayal admission and four years out from d-day for his infidelity, this is sooooooo overdue and slow in coming. And huge.

Has he moved beyond recognition of his thinking? Apparently not.

One does have to recognize and admit what one is doing before one can attempt change, let alone attend to the people hurt by his actions.

That ‘people’ would be me in this case.

Actually that person is me in thousands of instances he has yet to acknowledge and amend. What is so dang tough about apologizing? He used to be very good at it. Ahhh…but that was before his brokenness, his double life and the escalation of multiple addictions.

I praised him for a job well done and said it was a great step toward personal healing and betterment. I also said it was a step toward recognizing how his choices affect others as well. (One can hope)

Hope does seem to burn eternal. I have pretty much detached from just about everything having to do with him that I can—short of physical separation (we are in house seperated) or divorce. Not much left but fragments of a relationship. Passing ships is more like it.

I received a canvas I ordered, of my daughter on a sailboat—printed from a photo of her taken a couple years ago. I began painting it, as I have another photo/painting I finished of her with my granddaughter that I plan to give to her when I see them in mid March. This painting is going to be for my bedroom wall. I plan on doing one of my son and one of my foster daughter as well as my granddaughter. A wall of family photo/paintings. I makes me happy to think about it. Makes me even happier to be actually painting. Just that undertaking really rescued my sanity today—after the debacle of my UH’s tirade described above.

Congratulations, Christine. You rescued yourself from going down the drain. You watched a PBS show about the California Coastline and you painted on a picture of your daughter. Wonderful self care. Bravo! (This is me providing my own kudos and raised self esteem)

Whoo hoo!