My sister was talking about me. This would be the sister who shared the same divorced parents, the same childhood experiences, the same trauma. Despite her mental illness, or maybe because of it, she is sharp as a tack. She’s insightful, and intuitive, and I know she looks up to me. I’m her big sister, the good girl. She was the naughty one. Driven by her mental illness, she was the party girl, the mean girl, always wanting to be different from me, and always high on something, medicating those wounds. She’s no longer that person. She likes country music television, and Hallmark movies, and long rides to nowhere. She’s on meds, sees her therapist regularly, and tries really really hard to fit in to this crazy world we live in.
On Thanksgiving afternoon, I excused myself to use the bathroom. I shut the massive door that separates our master bedroom from the great room where the family was gathered, chatting. As it turns out, I didn’t quite shut the door all the way. I could hear their conversation. I sat down on the floor next to my bed and had an overwhelming desire to burst into tears.
I honestly don’t even remember what she was talking about, something nice, about me. Probably something about how much she loves my cooking, or how beautiful the flowers were that I arranged for the table, or maybe she was just talking about how grateful she was for me hosting Thanksgiving dinner. I don’t remember. She loves me, I know she does. I know they all do, but I still, sitting there beside my bed, felt like a vacant shell. I knew if I disappeared right then and there, it would be fine. Everyone would move on to a different conversation, about something and someone else.
The emptiness inside since the break in, is massive. I’m falling into that abyss again. It’s that part of me that doesn’t understand why so many awful things are happening to me. I know, technically, these things aren’t about me, but they’re happening to me, and instead of getting stronger, I’m getting weaker.
As I sat on the floor with tears streaming down my face, I knew I needed something to get me through this. Even my Dad is worried about me. He sent numerous texts over the holiday weekend saying he thinks maybe I need help. I didn’t break down in front of him, at all, but he knows about all the burdens. I think he understands the weight I am carrying. All these years I just thought of him as a cheating bully Dad (my step father is the amazing guy with the waldorf salad), but I know, in his own way, he loves me and worries about me. I’m the oldest, his first child, born when he was just 20 years old. I grew up with him. He’s part of the reason I instinctively knew that adults are extremely fallible, not to be trusted, that I needed to be strong enough to take care of myself and my sister, because Dad wasn’t capable. But now he’s worried about me? That’s a sign.
Later that day I expressed to Blue Eyes how I need him to stop asking things of me right now. I’m feeling used up. I feel empty. Anyone who reads this blog knows my husband is a sex addict. Not just any old sex addict, but a guy with a huge sex drive and a desire to be with me, next to me, all the time. Sometimes it feels like he is sucking the life out of me. I needed him to stop. I want hugs, meant to nurture me, not deplete me. I don’t want sex unless I initiate. I know he desires me, but we all know how he also desired others. It’s been quite a while since I felt special that way. He knows that. Everyone knows that. It’s not the end of the world. Sex doesn’t equal love to me. I need him to show me he’s in this with me, for better or worse. The saga of my sex addict husband isn’t what’s causing this latest hurdle, but it has contributed to it in a big way. I wouldn’t be in this hole if he had never betrayed me, I’m sure of it.
Later this month, I’ll get the help I need. I’m looking for a safe space where I am given some tools to start getting me back, again. I’m a good, strong person and I want to be whole and happy. I feel really frustrated that I don’t have the skills right now to do this on my own, but I won’t feel guilty.
As always, I thank you, my blog friends, for being there for me and with me. I need you.