D-Day 1 for me was in 2013. He was sleeping with a colleague; she was a divorce attorney in the midst of a divorce with another divorce attorney. They were “in love” and she was “amazing” and I would “really like her” if I weren’t so “jealous.”
I pick-me-danced and “won” three more years of purgatory with this ass-tard before being freed. My ex called me from Burning Man to tell me about the exuberant sexual self-expression he had just had with some randos.
I asked why he bothered to inform me, since his behavior was, per the post-nup I made him sign post-DD1, the end of our marriage. On the phone, he insisted it wasn’t cheating, it was only “genital and anal stimulation.” He said he wanted to establish his credibility so that when he came home, I would seriously consider an open marriage whereby he could explore his new-found passion for BDSM with strangers. I asked him what I would get out of the deal, but he couldn’t come up with any ideas. I asked him what he would get out of the deal and he said, unashamedly “All of the things!” I said “No, thank you.” The rest is PTSD-laden, divorcing-a-fuckwit history (thank God for that post-nup).
While my story has provided hours of amusement to anyone still willing to listen to me complain about it, I am finally ready to move on. I want to try on some new pants for size. I don’t tell people my story so freely now and I leave out the “anal” part, since a sampling of my audience suggests this is “TMI” for the casual listener. The fact that I have got my story down to the two paragraphs above is, frankly, a minor miracle in meh-dom for me.
Along with EMDR and a new life, I am going to try another tactic to move my healing to a whole new level. When I was a kid and would wake up from a bad nightmare, I would come up with a new end to the “story;” one that was pleasing to me. When I went back to sleep, my dreams would pick up from there and the nightmare would no longer affect me.
I am going to try rewriting my history with fuckwit, cutting out the 2nd paragraph in this letter entirely, I am adopting a new ending to the story.
In my new story, I wasn’t pick-me-dancing for the booby prize and coping with it by filling a half-dozen journals with my pain, transcribing his atrocitiies, and plotting fantasies of revenge. I wasn’t spending thousands of dollars on individual and couples therapists to wreckoncile, that only enabled me to remain in purgatory with a fuckwit. And I wasn’t declaring “victory” by sending his ex-schmoopie an anonymous bag of gorilla poop (yes, the internet is an amazing tool).
In my new story, it is post d-day, and after maybe only three days of vomiting from shock and horror, I have summoned my army of family and friends for support in leaving him. I am in the car, driving my ex to his girlfriend’s house. I am arriving at her home and making him get out of the car, then locking the doors to said car. I am walking up to her door and ringing her doorbell. I am lucky that she answers. I am handing her an envelope and pointing to my confused “husband.” Then I am returning to my car and driving off into the sunset to start my new, fabulous life. I start a new day, facing all my worst fears about “losing” him, changing the locks, scheduling an appointment with an attorney, taking time off of work to properly grieve what I believed was a good marriage, and preparing my children for their new normal. I put everthing on reset, trusting that the universe will right itself because I am a Mother-Fucking Woman (thanks Keisha) and I am doing the right thing for me and my kids.
If his schmoopie ever opens the letter, she will read this: “Thank you for taking this selfish, under-earning, emotionally immature, poor-excuse-for-a-father, loser off my hands. Please do not return this garbage to me, as I will simply send it back. Good luck! Signed first name and maiden name. P.S. I have informed your husband that you now have a live-in lover.”
Thank you for all you do Chump Lady. Thank you.
Goodbye Gorilla Poop.
Dear Gorilla Poop,
I hope some new chump out there reads your story and lives the dream. That’s the point of this place — save yourself some pain, newbies. Shorten the learning curve. Read a gazillion curated stories on how this all plays out. Do better.
But to the vast majority of us who did not react to D-Day with the clarity of a Cool Hand Luke, forgive yourself. Chumpdom is traumatic and messy. If the worst thing you did was send gorilla poop, okay. No one got indicted.
(Also, I have questions. Is gorilla poop a home delivery service? Eligible for Amazon Prime? Does it come pre-lit, or is that extra?)
I accept your Friday Challenge request. CN, imagine mightier stories.
That said, while you might wish for a less mortifying start to this whole clusterfuck, remember you can always write your ending. We’re all works in progress. Triumph begins with a challenge.