During the first week of December, I got to have another one of those "here's how I feel" sessions with D. We had started to get into a rhythm with childcare: I had Little One 100% of the time outside of daycare, except for 3-4 evenings a week when D would take her to his place for a few hours at a time. She never slept anywhere else but home, with me. That was how it needed to be, because I did not trust D at all. It made me crazy that he was alone with her at all, primarily because he had so little prior experience in this area.
I was, in retrospect, rather glad I had no social life to speak of, since this arrangement would not have helped it.
On this particular day, D had discovered, much to his chagrin, that some of his local relatives were not interested in having him come to their house. They did not approve of his behavior, and told him so. His response - no shocker here - was to be shitty to me. This time, however, I called him on it. I pushed him to tell me why he was being short with me, even though I knew. (He didn't know I knew, or perhaps he assumed I was behind the ostracizing. I was not.)
This turned into a loooooong phone call, during which he was also taking care of Little One. (Later, I would find out that she was quietly mashing cherry Chapstick into his carpets while he was on the phone with me in the other room. I love that kid.) I was pissed off and I was no longer going to let him be shitty to me, especially given that he thought it was okay to treat me that way given that it was HIS behavior which had caused these consequences which he didn't find palatable.
During this phone call - which I will not rehash here, because quite frankly, dear reader, you've heard it all before - I accused him of having used Sally to fuck his way out of two relationships. That really got to him. It felt good. Once again, I found myself yelling at him while sitting in my car, in my driveway. Only this time, I was alone, and it was dark, and I had much, much less to fear.
I had been able, once again, to say everything I could possibly think of, and had pretty much done it in a way I can be proud of. No name-calling (except liar, etc. - you know, factually accurate ones), no fighting dirty. I had just said everything that I'd been feeling, all the conversations I'd been having with D in my head for weeks now - all of that, I got to say to him.
All that nasty stuff I had to get out of my system, all the ways in which he done me wrong, I got it out. I told him that I mourned his passing. I felt like the man I had married was dead. Not that he was any sort of prince, but at least I thought I knew who I was divorcing. Turns out that guy didn't really exist, not really. He was a figment of our collective imagination, created by Sally's interaction with him.
I got to clarify that no, Sally was not the reason we were getting a divorce. I got to explain that she was the reason we were getting a divorce at that moment, and the reason that the divorce was now the way that it was. So there, assholes.
I wish I could say that I made him feel bad. But even though he'd tell you I did hurt him and I did make him feel bad about his behavior, I honestly didn't believe he was the kind of person who would ever really get it. He would never be the kind of guy to really truly get what he'd done, and the depth of how it had impacted me. Nothing I could ever say would get me there.
So now I knew from experience.
A part of me - which diminished quickly, with time - wished at this moment that I hadn't had this conversation with him. But a bigger part of me was so glad to have had the opportunity to get this all out in the open.
When the call was done, and I had once again said everything I could possibly want to say, in the way that I wanted, and had him respond to everything the best possible way that he could, I walked into the house.
And right then, I found myself calling up Athena, sobbing to her, telling her I didn't feel any better.
When D brought Little One home, maybe a half hour later, he didn't get out of his car. It was not an offensive he was mounting; rather, I took that as a sign that he understood how little I wanted to see him.
When I had put Little One to bed, and returned downstairs, I realized I felt different.
I was looking around the house, alone there, and suddenly, it doesn't feel so violated or violating for me to be there.
Maybe, I thought, just maybe, one day, I'll be able to walk into that office again, where he and Sally did whatever. Maybe.
Or maybe I'll just sell the fucking house.
As with all emotional states around D, this feeling of hope was short-lived. Because the next day, he informed me about a trip he was going to be taking right before Christmas. With Mrs. Bellydancer. Ah, but this did not go well.
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