So, he's coming home. And his new girlfriend's going to be at the welcome home ceremony. Even though we're still technically married. This shouldn't bother me. But it is. It's driving me crazy. I hate the bastard and everything he did. To me. To his family. To MY family. I'm excited about the divorce being final. I'm nervous about being single again, but I'll be fine and I'm looking forward to it. Especially having more days like today where I can watch whatever cheesy stupid movie I want and not have to convince someone else that it's good. YAY!
But I'm so pissed!! How disrespectful can you be? And why doesn't anyone care about what he did? It's like he's come kind of hero or something. For what!? For sitting over in a really sandy country for 10 months doing nothing but set up a myspace account and cheat on his wife over and over again? For looking at porn 24/7? And now he wants someone to be at his welcome home ceremony to make him feel great about all he accomplished with his really hard (no pun intended here) job of masterbation 101. He knew *I* wouldn't be there so he hurries up and falls in love with someone after 2 weeks and now she's going to be there. Awww...
I'm being snarky here but I really wish he would have to come home to nothing. To no one. To loneliness and heartbreak and humiliation. Lord knows I've had enough of all of that. Writing 50 letters and getting one in return. And one more from his ex-girlfriend. (Who wanted to make sure none of her naked pictures were shown on the internet. Oh, and a scrapbook of their time together before he left. My favorite was the one where they were both naked.) Or sending packages with his favorite stuff and then finding out he had been receiving packages from his other girlfriend(s) too. Then having to move all the way across the country back home because I had no where else to go. And having to endure everyone's pity eyes and the "How are you's?" and the "Did you try counseling, books, prayer, x, y , z...?" As if I had somehow not tried everything in my power to make it work. As if I just gave up. I did more than any woman would have. Any woman in her right mind anyway. I have no idea why I tried so hard to save us. Love, probably.
And now he's coming home. On Sunday. 10 months have passed and I don't have a clue where they all went. Half of them are a blur, because I slept most of them away. The other half have been spent trying to rebuild my life.
It's a funny thing how divorce is a lot like death. Except it's worse because the person is still alive, but you can't stand to see them. You lose all the memories, the plans, the material crap that doesn't matter, the smells, the schedule of daily life. And everytime you're reminded of it or him you get this hot, burning, sick feeling right in the pit of your gut. It's like reliving a funeral over and over again. Like watching that second plane hit the other tower and knowing what the end result is. And it's not like you can avoid it. It just happens. You'll be watching the news and BAM there it is, you can't have reflexes fast enough to get away from it. Or you're looking through a picture album and damn it if you forgot that last miserable picture of you two. Bam. Plane two.
Maybe it'll rain on Sunday and I can sleep in. Or maybe I'll do something he hated... ALL day. Like read. Or maybe I'll just skip Sunday and it'll be Saturday Part 2!
Ever not look forward to Sunday? How do you get around Sunday?