UGH. So what I really wanted to be doing while Blue Eyes is at his weekly Buddhist Meditation Meeting is writing another post about Paris, or even writing a post about how wonderful the recipe turned out that I tried for dinner tonight. The plantain tostadas with chipotle ranchero sauce, cilantro citrus marinated chicken, guacamole, and fresh pico de gallo were AMAZING! But instead, I really just need to get this out and off my chest before we head to the airport. The other posts will have to wait.
Yesterday turned out to be a difficult day for me. I do have transition issues when we go out of town. I have noticed they are much more pronounced since dday, but they have always been there. I didn’t feel like doing much of anything other than watching tennis on television. At one point, we did go for a ride in Blue Eyes’ convertible and that was nice, but otherwise, it was a bit of a bust. Last night, as we were going over the logistics of our upcoming trip out of town, somehow I got dragged back in to the nightmare. A vivid vision flooded my mind. It was a vision of my husband of 20+ years getting out of our car, kissing me good-bye, and then proceeding into the airport and meeting the other woman at the gate where they would travel off together to have dirty filthy cheating sex. I couldn’t stop it and wasn’t quick enough, or aware enough, to re-direct. That sick feeling overwhelmed me. What did his face look like when he saw her? Did he give her a big smile, like the one he gave the stranger on the plane last week, or did he nervously glance around to make sure no one he knew would see them there, together, right in the town where we live, where our children go to school, where we own our own business and numerous families depend on us for their livelihood, where we go out to dinner and to the movies together, where my family lives, where I go out with friends, where my life and my strength and my safety used to reside.
He could see that I was drifting away. He asked what was wrong. I told him what I saw, in my head, that vision of him leaving me and going to her. He grabbed me tight and held me there on our bed. He kissed my head and rubbed my hair and said… “I know how difficult it must be… It is hard on me too.“
I looked at him and instead of going away to a place of protection inside myself, instead of pulling away from him physically and emotionally, I looked him dead in the eye and said, “there is no fucking way you have any idea how I feel.” And that is the truth. There is no way he knows MY pain. He has his own pain, I get it, but that has nothing to do with what he has perpetrated on me. I couldn’t stop myself. I said to him, “you want to know how I feel?” And then I did not let him answer, but his answer probably would have been “no.” It should have been no because I was about to unleash a whole lot of painful truth on him right then and there.
I said to him, “Picture this. We are on a plane together. Let’s say we are in, oh, row 2 of first class. We have just completed a wonderful trip to Hawaii, the beautiful Big Island. We have spent an amazing 12 days together. We are blissfully exhausted and ready to get home to our kids and our pets and our lives and there, on the plane, is a man. He is a large man, quite overweight really. Unkempt. He does not take care of himself. His face is fleshy and pasty. He looks sick actually, certainly not like he has been in Hawaii. He is not attractive and he is balding. He kind of has that sallow look of an alcoholic, because he is an alcoholic. His clothes are oversized and ill fitting and look like they came from a thrift shop, and not in a good, Macklemore kind of way. He stops at our seats and says, hi Blue Eyes, hi Kat, what a strange coincidence. He stands there longer than he should, he stares at us, but mostly at you Blue Eyes. He has that knowing look on his face. His look says I have been inside your wife dozens of times. I have had dirty, filthy, disgusting sex with your wife so many times I have lost count. She told me she loved me. She told me how handsome I am. How much she loves my penis and how much she loves having it inside her, over and over and over. His look reminds you of all the things I told him about you, all the lies, about how you don’t like sex and we never have sex and that you probably don’t even love me anymore. He reminds you of all the horrid acts of betrayal that have been perpetrated against you, not to mention, he scares you. You know his presence on the plane is not a coincidence. He looks out of control, like you are not exactly sure what he might do to you. He eventually leaves us and continues on into the plane. And now, you get to sit there with the vision of that large, unattractive man seared in your mind and realize that me, Kat, your wife, your companion of 30 years, wanted that man. I orchestrated encounter after encounter with THAT man. I welcomed his penis into me, I gave him oral sex, I traveled all over the world with him. I sat in a hotel room and plotted a week long trip to Sweden with him and I made sure there was no way you, my loyal, loving husband could go with me because I REALLY WANTED TO GO WITH THAT MAN and then, to top it off, I HAD YOU PLAN THE WHOLE FUCKING THING FOR ME RIGHT DOWN TO THE TAXI WE TOOK TO THE AIRPORT YOU STUPID, FUCKING, IGNORANT, IDIOT. That man took your place dozens of times and for countless hours of phone calls and texting. I wanted that man over you. HOW DOES THAT MAKE YOU FEEL ABOUT YOURSELF, BLUE EYES???”
And then I was exhausted, and he sat there, stunned. He did not have much to say after that. I did not feel good or vindicated by my mean and hateful words. I did not feel like what I had done evened any score. I had to let it go. I no longer feel guilt for what comes naturally from my pain. He left the room to make sure the garage door was shut and the doors were locked and everything was put away in the kitchen before bed. By the time he got back to our bedroom, I was asleep. We both had a fitful night. This morning, the bags under his eyes were dark and deep. I asked him how he was feeling. He was honest in the fact that what I had said had devastated him. He could not stop thinking about the vivid images and how it would actually feel to be me and be in that situation, this situation. We talked a lot. We had a really productive conversation that covered all kinds of useful topics including his recovery, our travel, our work schedule and some other aspects of work since his workaholism and sexaholism were so inevitably intertwined, it is important to stay on top of it all.
The truth is, I would never have sex with another man, any man, while married to Blue Eyes. I would never hurt him in such a way. The harsher truth is, he did have sex with a horrible, mean, hateful, stalking, woman similar to the man I describe above. He did do that to me. He can no longer live in denial of what he has done. I can’t fix him, but I can sure open up that hell box he has buried me in and give him a peek inside every once in a while. It doesn’t feel good, but somehow it feels necessary.