Journal Entry: January 18, 2015
My husband loves me. I know he does. I know he always has. That is not what scares me.
On our last day in Tokyo, we had afternoon tea with GQ, his wife, and the little ray of sunshine. Then we walked them to Tokyo Station and said good-bye. We don’t know when we will be back to Japan, but I hope it is soon. As we walked back to our hotel, Blue Eyes suggested we just order room service and eat in the room and pack. We had plenty of time and I thought it might be better if we stopped at a little restaurant and had a more authentic experience on our last night. We had had a great day. Blue Eyes asked if I was up for it. He seemed leery, but I wasn’t quite sure why. I was doing fine…
We found a building across from our hotel that had numerous traditional Japanese options and we picked one. We sat down at the little table. For some strange reason, Blue Eyes struggled with the menu and the ordering. The server just wasn’t connecting with him and he was getting flustered. I helped out as best as I could. My Japanese vocabulary isn’t nearly what his is, but my pronunciation is pretty good, which sometimes helps the situation. It didn’t seem to be a big deal to me, but Blue Eyes seemed off and became increasingly fidgety.
With it being our last night, and having to say good-bye to our sweet niece, I started to get a little melancholy. Transitions have become a lot more difficult for me in the past year. I asked Blue Eyes what was bothering him, if he was having some kind of flashback or something. The whole scene became uncomfortable. I made the mistake of delving back into his time with Camilla. I instinctively felt like he was holding back. It gave me an uneasy feeling. A part of me just does not want to hear any of it anymore, but a part of me feels like if he doesn’t get it out, it is festering inside, eating him alive. I asked him if they had sat in a restaurant like this one, on a night like this one, was that what was bothering him. I have been asking Blue Eyes to be more open and forthcoming with remembering things about his previous secret life, hoping that facing it, and acknowledging how he felt when he was doing what he was doing would help him release it because he still appears to be all bottled up and tense a lot of times. As our food arrived, Blue Eyes started talking. He said he was so sorry for all the things he had done when in his addictive cycle. He couldn’t even believe it was him doing those things. He was so sorry for having brought Camilla into our lives. He was nervous and antsy.
I looked into his eyes and he said these words, “it makes me feel like shit that I poisoned our marriage. I hate the fact that I brought her here to be with me, to hug and hold me… “
and I just stared at him, with my mouth gaping open. My heart seized up and was tight in my chest. He had never said those words before. I mean, yes, he had supposedly put those words in his Craig’s List Ad all those years ago, and she had graciously obliged at providing him with the hugging, kissing, holding, nurturing before ravaging him sexually (blech). She had done all those things he had asked for all those years ago, but then he said it was just sex, and very ritualistic at that. I believe that. We have been over this a dozen times. He had backed off of the whole nurturing deal a long time ago. This woman he was having sex with just is not nurturing, but recently Blue Eyes had been working with his therapist regarding his parents and the neglect in his childhood. Trying to make sense of why he has perpetrated so much evil on our marriage. As a sensible adult, I can understand how the addiction took hold. He was not nurtured, he was abused, and he felt emasculated. In adolescence he figured out how to self sooth with masturbation. He continued the pattern for the rest of his adult life and then it escalated to needing more, needing a secret sex life. Okay, I get it. But he is now equating this horrible, horrible woman with hugging and nurturing, providing him with what he did not get in childhood. NO, NO, NO. The lack of nurturing propelled him into his addiction. This woman was not nurturing or loving. She was a fucking blackmailing whore. Please please please don’t give her any more power than she already has. I have written about this before.
And then, I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop my downward spiral, right there in that little Japanese restaurant, sitting at that little table, on those little stools, I fucking checked out. It was too hard. It was too painful. I wasn’t strong enough. I wasn’t prepared. I couldn’t look at him any more. I stared at a poster on the wall.
The next thing I remember, we were back in our hotel room. He was trying to comfort me, but since I had not been able to voice what was bothering me, he actually had no fucking clue. He continued with the same bullshit about needing nurturing. As a wife, this is unacceptable. Sure, medicating yourself with meaningless sex, okay, but saying this woman was taking my place, it hurt me that his brain had conjured that image, and that that was how he was rationalizing what he had done. I did not believe that was the reason he brought her, and if it was, why not walk hand in hand with her down the fucking boardwalk, and kiss her at sunset, and buy her lovely gifts, because she is a fucking goddess providing you with everything that is supposedly missing in your life. If she is so fucking nurturing, why are you not with her asshole? The more he talked the more my heart ached, the more my head hurt, and without even realizing it, I viciously scratched by left arm, the same arm that always gets my wrath. I scratched it over and over and then he screamed, NO, and that jolted me out of my altered state. Although my chest felt much less constricted, I collapsed from the exhaustion. I lay down on the pillow and cried. I told him I could not do this anymore. I told him I cannot stay with someone who thinks the whore who fucked him cowgirl style dozens of times and obsessively stalked me was providing him with the loving and hugging and nurturing that he misses from childhood. If that is the case, I am obsolete. Do the right thing and let me go.
He was horrified by my words and the realization that he had done it again. He had hurt me, and he knew he had made a mistake. He has such a long, long way to go.
Later that evening, as I stared at the wall and he tried unsuccessfully to download “The Interview” with the misguided thought that he could distract me from my pain and get me out of my mood, for the first time I felt the burning in my arm and realized what I had done. I pulled back my sweater sleeve and witnessed the destruction, the bright red welts and dried blood. I was so disappointed in myself, that I let fear take control of me. This is not me. This is not the Kat I want to be.
I was so sad that I had lost control, again.