I’ve had a sad couple of days.
I guess the emptiness of my life hits me at long weekends. I do not know how to fill that emptiness. I will not force things. I will give myself time. This is not the time to heal. I do not have time to heal when I spend my days fielding new crap from my ex.
Many of my friends are still unaware of the end of my marriage and I am far too exhausted to tell them.
This week, I told one of my friends who lives in the States and who I have known since secondary school. She screamed for the entire two hours plus we talked thanks to free WhatsApp international calls. She sat there looking at photos my ex and I had taken with her and her family in New York. She was genuinely shocked. She couldn’t believe what I was telling her. She had noticed I had bailed my Facebook and had been worried about me. She tells me that she knows us. She knows our love. It is the real thing.
If she was asked to pick one out of 100 marriages that would make it forever, she would have picked us.
She had even come all the way from New York, heavily pregnant with her first child to attend our wedding.
“No, no, no, no no. This is not happening.”
“It has already happened B.”
She tells me that my ex is having a serious mental breakdown.
I also told another friend who I have known since primary school who now lives in Spain after I dodged answering several messages where she enquired about my ex. She kept asking about my ex. I finally thought this is silly and so I told her. She was shocked and in disbelief. She had spent the last 7 years or so seeing countless loving photos of my ex and I and countless expressions of love on Facebook where all my ex ever posted were photos of us or events we were attending.
“Those happy Facebook photos was the life l truly believed I had.”
She tells me that my ex is having a mental breakdown.
I am exhausted by life. Telling people can be so draining.
She tells me I am the nicest person she knows. I am the most beautiful person she knows. She tells me how highly sought-after I was when we were growing up. She claims all the guys wanted to be with me. She says I shouldn’t say I will never marry again because I am far too young. Time will heal and I will meet the right man. I deserve to be with someone wonderful because I am such a fantastic person and she loves me so so so much. She will pray for me and ask her church to pray for me. She will do special midnight prayers for me.
I end the call grateful for her kindness and feeling a bit guilty for feeling exhausted by the call.
I call my 4 year old nephew who lives abroad. He immediately says can I speak to uncle ex even though the little boy hasn’t seen my ex for a year. It’s uncle ex, uncle ex, uncle ex.
Fuck uncle ex.
On my ex’s birthday, my niece and other nephews remember his birthday. They have spent countless weeks of the summer holiday, over several years of their young lives, holidaying with us during my ex’s August birthday. They go about with sadness, their young lives shattered by the realisation that shit happens. The uncle they adored so much, often declared was their best uncle, with whom they had spent so many happy times, long summer holidays, spent several days over last two Christmases, didn’t want to know them any more.
They mean absolutely nothing to this man they adored who has known them since they were babies and who has so easily discarded them, along with their auntie.
Yesterday, my mum told one of her close friends who had spent a few nights with my ex and I, about the end of my marriage. Afterwards, my mum was very sad and she said that the shock of the end of my marriage had hit her all over again. We tried to console each other.
The biggest fallacy is that for 14 years, I was with someone who I considered a saint. I painted him to my family like one, and they loved him like one.
As my mum and I tried to make some sense of the last few months and my ex’s continued bizarre and upsetting behaviour, which are so far removed from this person that we all knew and loved so much, we couldn’t make sense of it all.
The only sense either of us could make for the vitriol and wickedness is that this man is seriously mentally ill, in need of psychiatric medication but doesn’t know it.
But he says he isn’t ill.
He said that’s just my way of rationalising the end of our marriage.
When he had initially accepted that he was behaving irrationally, and had indicated he would get counselling, I had done my wifely duty. I had given him chances upon chances. I had reassured him that I would stick with him for the long haul as long as he got help.
But he then declared he was well.
If he really isn’t ill, the only other alternative is too heart-breaking and scary.
The alternative which my ex has insisted upon; that he is perfectly well.
That alternative that the person who has done the evil things this man has done, continues to do, does so with a clear head.
The alternative that means that I had loved a monstrous, evil, heartless psychopath for 14 years and I didn’t even have a clue.
What the hell does that make me?
This evening my sister told me of her sadness hearing a song that was part of our wedding video; a wedding video my young nephews used to watch endlessly, declaring that they wanted to get married like their auntie and uncle.
I tell my sister that I cry when I listen to love songs; and so I don’t listen to such songs. Lately, I have been listening to old songs from my teenage years. Songs that evoke memories of happier days; freer days, going clubbing in London as a teenager. My friends and I had no money, so we would arrive early enough for free entries. I would dance all night and nurse a diet coke and a bottle of water all night.
I desperately hope that those memories will block the sad ones. They do and they don’t.
My little nephew who is a sensitive old soul sends me one of his countless “Auntie are you OK?” messages.
“I’m OK, thanks sweetie. How are you?”
We play this little game all the time; I know that he knows that I’m not really OK.
And that’s perfectly OK.