I found out today (on Facebook – the bringer of all news, good, bad, true and speculative) that hubby (I still haven’t figured out what I’m supposed to refer to him as, so he’s still hubby for now until we’re actually divorced. Then I will have to get used to saying “My ex”) is possibly going to have his girlfriend move in. In to what was OUR home. Less than 9 months after we separated. Which seems very quick to me but maybe that’s how it goes. For someone like me, who procrastinates and can’t make decisions, it just seems a little fast. I still haven’t bought myself a proper couch, let alone moved someone else in with me.
I know I shouldn’t be surprised or upset by this. I have moved on and gotten my life together. I’m doing ok and paying my bills, working and nesting and building a home for myself on my own, knowing I might be alone forever now. And, on and off, I’ve been ok with that. I haven’t been harbouring any secret dreams about us getting back together, of him coming to me and begging for my forgiveness. I haven’t. I dream about him all the time, but they’re always horrible dreams of him leaving me all over again and being nasty and me trying to win his attention or affection. So even my subconscious is saying “He’s a jerk”.
But it still hurts. I think it hurts even more knowing who the girl in question is and knowing that my hunch about them being involved even while we were still together was correct. It’s a bit of a smack in the face (with a wet fish – a big, slimy, stinky fish). I don’t want it to be, and I wish I could just go “Oh well..” and get past it, but right now it stings. Because I couldn’t make him happy and I don’t matter. It’s the not mattering that hurts the most, the not being important in even the smallest way. I’m “stuff-you-scrape-off-the-bottom-of-your-shoe” insignificant. And maybe that’s the way it is supposed to be when you break up with someone. But it makes me keep thinking I must be a terrible person to not matter to someone who once cared for me.
But I’m ok. I’m just venting. It’s late and I’m tired and probably won’t sleep while I digest this new info and try to figure out its place in the world. I might not even post this because I keep telling myself I shouldn’t be putting this kind of morose stuff on here. People don’t read my blog in order to hear me whinging about my broken heart. I should be upbeat and fun! Crafty and creative! Inspirational and motivational! Funny and self-deprecating! But then I would be lying. At least for tonight when I am a little bit hormonal and am allowing myself a little bit of wallowing and sadness. I’m getting better at not wallowing. I’m an expert wallower. Have been for years. I could wallow for Australia. If wallowing was an Olympic sport, my shelves would be littered with gold medals and pictures of me standing on those little podium thingies with a bunch of flowers, wearing an unattractive track-suit and waving at crowds of people as they cheer at my amazing wallowing finesse). But that’s not good enough for me any more. Instead of digging myself a big, dark hole to climb in, I’m trying to take a different direction and maybe tunnel a little first, see where it takes me. If there’s light at the end of the tunnel, and there usually is, I will go towards it and emerge at the other end, a little bit tired and grubby, blinking a lot and probably coughing and wheezing, but at least back out in the light. And hopefully not wearing a track-suit. They make me look a little hippy.
I hope I can be important to someone again. But for now, I have to try and be that person for myself.
Thank you for listening x