Chapter Three: Devastation, Part XVII: January 2010

Please begin reading my divorce memoir from the beginning.

January 31, 2010

Today, after church, I sat reading in the living room. I don’t know why I tried. It’s hard to concentrate very long and I’m not getting into the book. I exchanged the book for scriptures. Something compelled me to look up the word “lust” in the Bible Dictionary.

Jerry came back from wherever he went today instead of church and saw me reading. I tried to be pleasant. I smiled. Then I thought, why should I smile? I’m so stupid. No wonder he walks all over me.

Chapter Three: Devastation, Part XVI: January 2010

Please begin reading my divorce memoir from the beginning.

January 30, 2010

So today I went to Women’s Conference at the stake center. Our stake president spoke and the first thing he said he learned about marriage is “Happy Wife—Happy Life.”

Ha. Ha. The joke is on me.

I took a class on Managing Challenging Behaviors. It was meant for me—truly. It was given by a licensed therapist; I don’t know her exact credentials.

I jotted down the things I learned: and how I feel about the things I learned:

Capter Three: Devastation, Part XV: January 2010

Please begin reading my divorce memoir from the beginning.

January 29, 2010

I think I’m coming slowly to the realization that my marriage will never work out. All that I’m reading about abuse is very dissuading. Verbal abuse is hard to overcome, both for the abuser and the “partner” (me).

Verbal abusers act one way in public and another at home.

Verbal abusers are charming.

Others think we have a perfect marriage. I’ve made sure of that, too, so I am partly to blame.

Verbal abusers don’t remember abusing. How convenient.

Verbal abusers start acting nice to win you back. Once they have you, they abuse again. That’s the story of my life.

Chapter Three: Devastation, Part XIV: January 2010

Please begin reading my divorce memoir from the beginning.

January 28, 2010

I finally called Kathy and told her I need to talk to her. Her daughter had gymnastics practice and she met me for dinner at Friendly’s. We chit-chatted for about two minutes, then she asked me, “So is something the matter? You don’t look too good.”

I whispered, “Jerry’s cheating on me.” She gasped and I grabbed her hand across the table. I said, “You believe me, don’t you?”

She squeezed my hand and said, “Yes, I believe you. What happened?”

So I told her the whole gory story. When I saw the reaction on her face as I spoke, I thought, this story doesn’t even sound feasible. It’s like a soap opera. It makes me sound so stupid. I told her the whole thing from November, up to the phone, going to counseling, him flying off the handle and being irrational.

I told her it was the week before her father’s memorial when I found the phone and I couldn’t tell her because her father had just died. I asked if this is too soon to know something like this but she said it was okay. She wished I had told her sooner, but I just couldn’t.

She knew about his rages, but I don’t think she really understands how he is. She would always say Mitch gets mad, too. I can see getting mad, but to have your husband punch in walls and doors and rant until he is in another realm in his mind is a very scary thing to go through.

I could see she was upset. She said she believed me, but I thought I saw some doubt on her face. Nobody’s going to believe me because I’ve been such a good actor, keeping it all under wraps, saving face, looking good.

We only had a little over an hour before she had to pick up her daughter. She said she wanted me to come over to her house this weekend. I told her I was going into Philadelphia for the Forum. Hopefully it will make me strong and give me direction.

I couldn’t eat the food I ordered. Kathy took the sandwich home with her.

Chapter Three: Devastation, Part XIII, Verbal Abuse: January 2010

Please begin reading my divorce memoir from the beginning.

January 27, 2010

I’ve been going online looking for information by PatriciaEvans. She’s the one who wrote “The Verbally Abusive Relationship.” I read it about fifteen years ago. Lo, and behold, she’s written more books. I sent away for all of them. In fact, I bought two of everything and I’m going to give the extras away, like to Isabella to read, or the stake president.

I found out I’m not the only one who’s been going through verbal abuse. It’s amazing that I’ve lived for so long not knowing about it, yet, there it is, plain as day in my life.

Men call their wives names and wives wonder, is that abuse? Men abuse their wives, then the men act happy, like nothing ever happened. Wow. I can relate to that.

Jerry would spend an hour screaming at me, leave me for dead, emotionally, then the next thing I’d hear is him whistling like he was the happiest person in the world. I can’t stand to hear anyone whistle now. It brings up too many bad memories. Come to think of it, my dad did the same thing.

So the website says verbal abusers almost universally act like nothing happened because they feel the relationship is fine and they feel like they have more control—power over. If they get you to feel afraid or to back down, it makes them happy.

Abuse usually happens behind closed doors. That’s true in my life. Most verbal abusers are charming and helpful men in public. Jerry treats me very well in public. He can scream at me Saturday night and the next day in church he is sweet as pie—in front of other people. Most of the time I just stare at him, wide-eyed, confused.

One time he bore his testimony in church about how he owes everything to me and that I help make him the man he is. He had just spent an hour deriding me to tears the night before and I couldn’t even take the sacrament because I had so many bad thoughts about him.

While he went on at the pulpit, I felt like I was going to throw up. I had to hand over my baby to someone sitting behind me so I could run to the bathroom. I can’t remember who it was. I spent the remainder of sacrament meeting dry heaving into the toilet.

When we got home, I told him, calmly, if he ever did that again, mention my name whatsoever, I would be the next one up to bear my testimony and I will tell them all the real story. He never did that again.

The website also says women who have been abused don’t take to an abuser, sexually. That’s because we’re too traumatized and don’t have any trust in the man. Women need to have trust in order to be intimate. I don’t know how many times I’ve said that to Jerry.

Women are not turned on to men who abuse them. I told him one time, men can be ready for intimacy one minute before midnight. Women start at eight o’clock in the morning to be ready for intimacy at midnight. What happens during the day affects them all day.

Reading this website also tells me that men only change to get their partners back, but once they have them back, they slowly start the control again. How many times have I been through that? Too numerous to count. Abuse, abuse, abuse; win back. Repeat.

Once I tried to watch “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” the Spencer Tracy/Ingrid Bergman version. I couldn’t watch it. It hit home too much. *

And now, on top of all the abuse I’ve suffered over the years, there’s adultery. How much more do I have to take?

I’m supposed to be working on my marriage and I only have anger that needs to come out.

Forgive me, Lord. What should I do? Help me, Lord.


* https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4rT02hKWxyw Watch this YouTube of the transformation Ingrid Bergman takes as spunky, carefree Champagne Ivy in the 1941 movie "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde." I can't watch the movie. It reminds me of my life with my abusive husband. Notice how she changes from a happy person to a controlled, confused, unhappy, abused woman. I can relate to her transformation. I feel like it's me. I often said I was living with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde--and I hate Mr. Hyde. And I never knew when Mr. Hyde would rear his ugly head. I was always cautiously apprehensive. Afraid to be happy.

Chapter Three: Devastastion, Part XII: January 2010

Please begin reading my divorce memoir from the beginning.

25 January 2010

We went together to see the counselor. I told Jerry I want someone with a PhD this time and this guy, Dr. Williams, has that. He seems to have my husband pegged, too.

He asked us if we knew what the term “mensch” meant. I nodded. I said it’s a Yiddish term for a good guy. He told us a mensch means so much more than that.

He said, “It’s a term for a man who has integrity, who would have an almost noble character. A mensch is someone with admirable qualities and characteristics. You can count on him. He is dependable and compassionate.” He said a lot of other flowery words, too. I can’t remember them all.

Then he asked us, “How many men do you think, percentage-wise, there are in the world who are mensches?”

We both thought for a second. My husband said, “Ninety percent?”

I said, “This might be high, but I’ll say five percent,” but I really wanted to say three percent.

The counselor pointed at me, then tapped his nose with his same pointer finger. “Five percent,” he confirmed my answer.

He carried on with the query. “Have you ever heard of the term ‘schmuck?’”

I tried to hide my smile and said, “I know what it literally means, but I think you’re going for a guy who is a jerk.”

He said, “Yes, that’s right.”  Then he turned to my husband and bluntly asked, “Which do you think you are?”

I couldn’t believe he said that to him! I just sat there and stared ahead. I didn’t want Jerry  to think I had anything to do with this line of questioning. He would think I was in cahoots with Dr. W.

“Well, I’m guessing the answer isn’t mensch,” my husband said as he crossed one leg over the other in a defensive and defiant pose. I hate that posture. If he was sitting in an arm chair he would have spread out his arms over the top of the chair as if to challenge the man. As if to say, “Give me your best shot.”

As it were, we were sitting on a cushy soft couch with cushions that enveloped us as we sat on them. My feet barely touched the floor. Jerry just shrank into the couch and couldn’t sit up. It was quite comical.

“And why do you think you’re not a mensch?” The counselor accepted his challenge.

There was a lot of uncrossing and crossing of legs as the man sitting next to me tried to buy time for his thoughts. “Why don’t you tell me,” was the strategy he came up with. Too much testosterone in the room for me.

“I think you know the answer,” was all Dr. W. came back with.

I really like the counselor. As with all other therapists we had been to in the last fifteen years, this one seemed to be on my side. That’s why my husband would never go more than twice or three times.

This was Jerry’s second, and probably his last, visit. I might come back if I see the need to stir up my abusive past out of the ashes of my soul. I really didn’t tell Dr. W. much of anything. I dislike telling my story so much. I just had to regurgitate it to the bishop and stake president. Now, to tell another man? I’d have to bide my time.

Dr.W. went on to making lists. This is the part where I make a list of things that I would like to see changed in Jerry and he makes a list about things I have to change. Only this time, it’s different.

“You don’t make a list,” he told my husband as he pointed at him and shook his finger slowly.

“Why not?” Jerry whined.

“Because you are the one who has to change in this situation,” he told him. “You are the one who committed adultery. You are the one who betrayed your wife. I think there might be some things you will have to change, don’t you agree?”

Now I knew for sure Jerry would never go back to this counselor. If there’s one thing Jerry had probably already done, it was make a list of the things I would have to change about myself so he would be able to live with me. I knew the list by heart. He reiterated it every time we had a fight.

I have to lose weight because I’ve let myself go ever since the children were born; I have to learn to not criticize him; I have to stop spending his hard-earned money and get on the same page with him; I have to get a full-time job so I can carry my weight; I have to try harder to be a good wife.

The list goes on but that’s the gist of it.

My comebacks were never recognized. When I went to a weight loss company, I was told, after I lost twelve pounds, that I shouldn’t lose any more weight. At my age, it wasn’t healthy. I was in my forties then and probably staring at peri-menopause.

When I told Jerry, he said, “Who do they think they are? Weight experts?” I couldn’t believe he actually said that.

When I went back to the company and said my husband wants me to lose ten more pounds, they told me they couldn’t be responsible and I was told to go home and be happy with the weight loss I had achieved. I got compliments from everyone about how, after having four children, I could be so thin. My youngest was five years old.

No compliments ever came from him. He just changed his admonition to, “You need to be more toned.”

He criticized me just as soon as look at me on most days. Once I told him he hurt my feelings, so he made a pact with me that he wouldn’t criticize me anymore and I couldn’t criticize him. He loves to make pacts. I agreed. The next day he criticized me. The next day. When I called him on it, he said, “That’s not a criticism. It’s a fact.”  Ludicrous.

One time he shook the credit card bill in my face and yelled at me that I had to stop spending so much. He didn’t expect me to grab the statement right out of his hand to look it over. He kept groping for it, but I wouldn’t let him have it.

There were only a few things on the statement that were mine: sixty dollars for shoes for the kids and a hundred dollars for groceries. It was a fifteen-hundred dollar bill. There were receipts for items for his new pool table and his new sports car we couldn’t afford but he had to have. He bought that car against my wishes, using half of our savings.

I had several part-time jobs, but last summer I was moved to full-time at the dementia community. He still wanted me to look for another, more lucrative job. When I reminded him I didn’t have a college degree, he wouldn’t accept the excuse. He said he has told me since we got married that I should go back and get my degree.

I gasped at that. He has never said anything about me going back to school—ever—in the whole time we’ve been married. Never. Ever. I would faint dead away if he did because it costs money—his hard-earned money. I can’t believe he said that. It’s probably a lie he’s been telling other people and he forgot who he was talking to.

So, as I sat there tonight in Dr. W.’s office, I just kept thinking that I’ve been through this so many times and it all seems so farcical and hopeless. Jerry is never going to change. He has so much anger for me. Even tonight, as we sat on that cushy couch, he kept telling Dr. Williams about my shortcomings. I turned my face away; tears streamed down my cheeks.

After his diatribe, I asked Jerry why he would possibly want to stay married to me, since, according to him, I have no redeeming qualities. He can’t seem to stand me.

He paused, looked at Dr. W. and said, “I don’t know how to answer that,” hoping Dr. W. would give him some reason.

Dr. W. went through this flowery speech about how he should have responded to my question. I almost laughed. That ain’t gonna’ happen.

The only reason he wants to stay married to me is because of money. He doesn’t even care about the kids. He just doesn’t want them to know what he did. And I don’t want to tell them either. They would lose all their respect for him. They might lose their testimony.

Their father was the bishop of our ward and he is in the bishopric right now, though I  don’t know how long that’s going to last. How can somebody who’s been bishop do these awful things? If my testimony wasn’t so solid, I might question, too.

But I know the gospel is true. My husband is a liar—a poser.

Dr. Williams had to give him an example of a way to answer me. It didn’t sound like Jerry at all. It was too respectful. Again, hopeless. I could read Jerry’s thoughts. “She doesn’t deserve that.”

So Dr. Williams wants me to make a list of things I would like to see Jerry try to change.

Where do I start?

Intellectually I know this will never happen, but I will comply. I promised the stake president.

Jerry has a deep-seated resentment of his father. His father put him down. I don’t know if that’s the whole foundation of his problem, or if he’s just innately mentally ill. He’s hyper-active, impulsive, compulsive, obsessive, oppositional-defiant, manipulative. He’s a liar, a cheater, emotionally unable to be intimate, unfaithful, insensitive...he has road rage, he has anger, he has an inferiority complex.

Tonight he asked me what it is I want him to do. Can he change all those ‘qualities’ above?

He sees himself as being a good person. He goes to work, he earns a living, he works around the house, he takes out the trash, he does the dishes, etc. The housework part is what he’s taken over because he does it better, in his opinion. I don’t do it well enough, so he has to do it.  So I gave up trying to please him. Let him do it. He has to be in control. Fine with me. I’ve lost my identity anyway. He might as well have mine, too.

He wants me to be grateful he’s doing it. I wish I could be grateful. But even doing these things is a put down to me.

“Oh, thank you, honey, for doing this for me because I don’t do it well enough. I love you. You’re my hero.” Seriously. That’s what he wants me to do and say.

Chapter Three: Devastation, Part XI: January 2010

Please begin reading my divorce memoir from the beginning.

January 23, 2010

It’s been two miserable weeks since I found out about Jerry...

It’s pathetic and dismal around here. I don’t know how to act and neither does he.

Today we were having a simple conversation, but when I started to say something contrary to what he was saying—actually was trying to downplay what he was thinking—he flipped out on me. He started accusing me of always disagreeing with him. I felt so panicked and scared.

He stopped himself mid-scream and just kept saying, “I’m sorry. . .I’m sorry. . .” but it was so contrived. It was as if I was going to tell on him, like a little kid.

I know he’s mad and blaming me for being the bad person. He has this super inferiority complex. Like he thinks I think I’m better than he is, or smarter than he is. I’m not smarter than he is. We’re just smart in different ways.

Here’s what happened. We were talking about Jenny and I told him how she fell and broke her glasses and she went to the hospital because she started having some contractions.

He made the comment, “It’s Diane all over again.”

I was a little confused. Diane fell and got a spiral fracture in her leg and took two years to recuperate. I started to say, “Well, it’s not that bad—”

Then he flipped out! I didn’t even finish my thought or my sentence. I was going to tell him she’s okay now.

He screamed, “You always do this!” at the top of his lungs, clenching his fists.

My mouth shut and my eyes got big. I was just trying to enlighten him and tell him Jenny  is okay.

When he gets like that, I feel like he’s going to kill me or something. I think he’s plotting to poison me, or do something to my car so I’ll be in an accident. Or he has a knife or a gun. Scary. Paranoid. I fear for my life.

I realize I can’t say anything. If he tries to have a conversation, I have to stick to saying nothing. Heaven forbid I try to converse, and heaven forbid it’s not what he’s thinking or what he wants me to think or say.

Then he went for a walk. I wish he would just leave and go live somewhere else. I don’t feel safe being around him. He’s too irrational.

This is not going to work. Ha! That’s what he used to say to me to scare me when I wasn’t doing something he wanted me to do. When I had little kids, it did scare me. Divorce scared me. Now it’s welcome.

He came back from his walk and acted like nothing happened. I have a feeling he probably called his girlfriend and she consoled him and he knows he has her, blah, blah, blah.

Then the other day, Thursday, I had this horrible feeling he was going to go to a lawyer so he could hide assets or start divorce proceedings and that scared me.

I don’t know what scares me more—living with him, or divorcing him.

He told me not to go to a lawyer because it would be expensive. But I guess it’s okay for him to go to one—so he can have the upper hand.

I’ve been reading all the verbal abuse/controlling man books by Patricia Evans. It has made me see so clearly what he’s been doing.

According to Patricia Evans, he has this “dream woman,” who is really his inner self that he’s projecting onto me. When I (the real woman) don’t do what he thinks the dream woman should do, he flips out.

Oh, my gosh—that’s the story of my life!

How could I have lived like this?

I get to the point where I want to work on it. I’ve said I should work on it, for the sake of the kids—I don’t want them to be hurt.

Then I get to the point where I know this is not going to work. I can’t live like this.

Monday we’re seeing Dr. Williams again. I honestly don’t know what I’m going to say. I’ve got so much anger and resentment.

Please, Lord, help me get over this quickly.

Chapter Three: Devastastion, Part X, Desperately Depressed: January 2010

Please begin reading my divorce memoir from the beginning.

January 20, 2010

I am so desperately depressed, but I know my Heavenly Father loves me. I have been given too many signs and warnings and messages, just in the last week, to doubt that at all. I have to continue to rely on Him to help me through this.

I have been on my knees for weeks and months. I am in such a stupor I am on autopilot when I pray. It’s the same old thing: “Please help me to know what to do,” in twenty which-ways. I wonder if I’m allowing myself to hear any answer my H.F. might give me.

I do feel the constant company of the Holy Ghost. I can attest that the H.G. is tangible. I feel the H.G. It’s a wonder, really, that I am even worthy to have that feeling, I’m so angry inside.

I want to cry but I can’t muster it up. I’m afraid, if I start, I won’t be able to stop. It’s probably the Prozac, too. If I went off of Prozac, I don’t know what would happen. I probably wouldn’t stop crying.

I remember one time I was on another antidepressant and trying to wean myself off because it wasn’t working. I had a hard time not crying. Seeing me vulnerable at the time, Jerry tried to pick a fight with me. I remember standing at the stove, cooking. I kept telling him, “Please stop. Now is not a good time to fight.” I was a wreak. He kept on. I broke down in sobs and screamed at him. He didn’t stop. I don’t even remember what it was he was harping on. There have been so many unimportant things that man has tried me with.

At work yesterday I found a penny on the floor in the dining room. I thought, I better pick that up or one of the residents might get it and put it in his or her mouth. They’re so like children.  So I picked it up and put it on my desk.

This morning I found a bookmark with a cross on it and the Savior hugging a man. There was a saying on it with a penny taped to it. There was also a religious medal attached to it with a note that said this secret person noticed I picked up a penny. She prayed to God to help her know who needed His help. She put the penny on the floor and told God that whoever picked it up needed her prayers and her love.

Angela, one of the caregivers, poked her head in my door and asked if I got the penny. I couldn’t stop hugging her and tears flowed. She is that same caregiver who lost her phone because she couldn’t pay the bill. I felt so like I could kick myself. She is in tune with our H.F. and I am so selfish. There was eighty dollars left on that phone to use and I threw it away because I couldn’t stand to look at it.

Please forgive me, Father. Please bless her—abundantly.

Thank you, Father. Thou hast answered my prayers. I know Thou loves me and Thou art watching over me. Thou sent an angel to remind me. She is truly my angel.

Chapter Three: Devastation, Part IX: January 2010

Please begin reading my divorce memoir from the beginning.

January 19, 2010

Ok. Venting big time.

Part of me wants to tell the kids so they will hate Jerry as much as I do. Yes, I hate him. I have for a long time, but now I have a really good reason. Not that my other reason was anything to sneeze at either. Verbal abuse is so devastating. I am such a damaged person.

I don’t trust him at all. At all! I haven’t for many years.

I know he’s a louse and I’ve been living with it, covering up for it, promoting him almost by not coming forth with it—hiding it from everyone.

Internet affairs are no different from physical affairs. Emotional affairs are worse than one-night stands. And who knows what he was doing with his hands, right? Oh, wait, we all know what he was doing with his hands.

He had a phone affair, an internet affair, a text affair and an e-mail affair—and a mail affair. I saw the USPS charge on the credit card. He sent her some of their high school paraphernalia.

He put me down. I was and am nothing to him.

Stay strong....Have courage....Stay the course....

Chapter Three: Devastation, Part VIII: January 2010

January 18, 2010

I went to see the counselor today, Dr. Williams. He is nice and personable. I told him I was used to going to therapy and I disliked bringing up my family, parents, siblings, because it has nothing to do with my situation with Jerry right now. I’m sure he smirked inside but he let me have my say.

I told him my side of the story. I asked him what the odds are that this marriage is going to work. He explained if we were both willing to work at it, it would work. He said he would help us have a happy marriage, or would help us through an amicable divorce. I liked that he didn’t make any promises.

However, he told me Jerry thinks I should forgive him unconditionally. He asked me how I felt about that. I told him how I always have forgiven him in the past for his abuse. I asked him if it was right to keep forgiving someone unconditionally.

He said a mother forgives a child unconditionally, but it’s not appropriate to forgive someone for being inappropriate, especially if they’re not sorry for it. I told him I agree.

Dr. Williams  told me he told Jerry it would probably take me at least two years to be able to start to trust him again. Jerry said he wasn’t willing to wait that long. I balked, visibly shaking the chair.

I said, “That clinches it then, doesn’t it? There’s no hope.” He said he would be happy to meet with us to see what happens and to be there to help us through this time. I got the feeling this guy knew more than he was telling, but maybe it will come out later. It’s nice to be able to talk to someone.

I asked him if he thought it was okay for me to get my own bank account. I told him what Dee said. He smiled and said he thought it was fine. I told him Jerry wouldn’t like it.

He said Jerry seems to do things that I don’t like, too. I smiled. This guy is very likable.

So that’s three people who said it’s okay for me to have my own account. Why do I think I need their approval? But I do. I never know if what I’m doing is right. I’m always so afraid.

Chapter Three: Devastation, Part VII: January 2010

Please start reading my divorce memoir from the beginning.

January 17, 2010

I went to my friend Kathy’s house for a memorial for her father today after church. I didn’t have to put on a grieving face because I have been grieving for a long time now. Not just since last week or even since he came home from Texas. I’ve been grieving about my marriage for about thirty years. I’ve just never had the courage to do anything about it.

The service was very nice, right there in their home. Many good things were said about Kathy’s father. All her brothers and sisters were there. It was sort of like a testimony meeting. He lived with Kathy and Mitch at the end. They set up hospice right at their house for him and Kathy took care of him until he died.

I was the only non-relative there, so I felt honored to be asked to attend. I was glad nobody asked me where Jerry was because I had no idea where he was at that time. He said later he went to work. I don’t really care.

I decided I’m not going to tell Kathy right now, who has been my only confidante in my many crises with Jerry. She and Mitch are our best friends. We fellowshipped them into the church.

They’re going to be devastated.

When Jerry got home from wherever he was, I was sitting in the living room trying to read. I only go through the motions of turning the pages because I don’t think I’m able to concentrate on reading. I keep reading the same paragraph over and over. But I don’t know what to do with myself.

He walked in the front door, looked over at me and said, “What’s the matter with you? You’re all droopy and depressed.”

I blinked and my mouth fell open because I couldn’t believe he asked me that. I said, “Jerry, it’s only been a week. Eight days.”

He said, “When are you going to get over this? I told you, it’s done.”

I said, “I don’t know how long it will take, but it’s going to take longer than a week.”

He walked upstairs in a huff.

What is he thinking?

Chapter Three: Devastation, Part VI: January 2010

January 16, 2010

It’s been one week since I found out about that stupid, blue phone—and their affair.

I’m mad. I’m angry. I want to punch something. I want to punch him. I can hardly utter his name and it pains me even to write it. I’m glad I’ve been keeping a record of what’s been happening. It’s so surreal. I never thought it would be like this. This whole affair thing makes me sick.

Hers is another name I can’t say or type either. Ugh!

I’m getting such mixed feelings from him. He says she’s a sicko, but I know he’s still in contact with her. He says the affair has ended, but I’m not so sure. Yes, I am. Not a chance. He told me several times before in the last two months that he ended it but he didn’t.

He gave me “the phone.” He actually said, “Here. Now you can call Kelsie.”

Ha! Now I can call Kelsie? I wanted to hit him, smack him real hard in the face, punch him in the gut until he doubled over. I handled the phone as if it was garbage—with my thumb and forefinger. Of course there was nothing on the phone anymore. Wiped clean.

The phone makes me sick. Everything makes me ill. I keep releasing those stress hormones and that’s not good for your brain cells. I don’t want to end up like the dementia people where I work.

I took the phone to work with me and threw it in the dumpster before I went inside. I realize, in hindsight, that was a selfish thing to do, especially since I found out there’s a caregiver who lost her phone because she couldn’t afford it. I could have given it to her. I was blinded and saw it as evil.

I’m sorry, Lord. I could have been helpful and I can only think of myself and this awful tragedy of a marriage I’m in.

Jerry says he doesn’t have another clandestine phone, he’s off Facebook and he doesn’t even use his email anymore. Ha! He can always buy another throwaway phone, use an alias on Facebook and get a new email. Does he think I’m stupid?

They are underground now and getting more savvy about it. What were his words—“under the radar?” They’re under the radar.

He’s obsessed with her and I know how he acts when he’s obsessed. He does think I’m stupid because I am that stupid. The stupidest wife on earth, that’s me. Always giving second chances—third, fourth, fifth—a hundred chances! Always forgiving.

I wouldn’t be surprised if, on his next business trip, she shows up where he goes. She mentioned getting away to Florida. Jerry doesn’t go to Florida on business trips but I bet he’ll find a way. Or she’ll find a way to go where he is. If he says he’s going to Florida on a business trip he is really stupid, knowing I know what she wrote in that text.

We went to see the stake president this week. He actually called us to come to his office. Bishop filled him in on what happened and he wanted to see us. It’s so embarrassing.

He was in shock that this happened. He and his wife are two of our closest friends. My husband was his executive secretary when he was our bishop. His ultimatum—go get marriage counseling. He was angry. I couldn’t help but get the feeling that he blamed me for this. Did he know the story?

I didn’t care. I’m still angry. I told him we had been to marriage counseling before, but to no avail. Jerry would stop going and I was left to go by myself. I finally relented, but with a caveat. I said I would go for as long as he would go. And he had to pick the counselor and make the appointments. I would do nothing about setting it up. I would also do whatever was asked of me by the counselor—as long as he did.

The president agreed. I added, “He never goes more than three times. If he only goes three times, I will only go three times.”

I also told him Jerry had to work on his anger with an anger management class or work closely with the counselor on that. Jerry nodded in agreement.

Jerry said he knew someone at work who went to counseling, so he would get the name. He has to take the initiative this time.

I told the president, upfront and truthfully, that I thought it was a waste of time, but I would do it, for his, the president’s, sake.

Jerry actually got himself an appointment this week. He went to see the counselor first. His strategy, which will fail, is to tell the counselor all about me before I can get there to tell about him. Fine. I don’t care who goes first. I’ll tell my story. He’ll tell his. Bring it on.

First of all, he’s cheap, so he won’t continue based on economics. Second of all, every counselor we’ve ever gone to has seen he is the problem and has tried to give him things to do to change. Third of all, he won’t change because he doesn’t see himself as being the cause of any problem.

I hope going to a counselor will make me so strong that I can tell Jerry exactly what I think and hope he rots in hell. Pardon my French.

I told Jerry, if this is going to work, it’s up to him. It’s not going to be up to me anymore. And since I already know if it’s up to him, it won’t work, I need to plan my own strategy—divorce!

Chapter Three: Devastation, Part V: January 2010

January 15, 2010

I couldn’t hold it in anymore so today I told Carey, my church friend that I’ve known for twenty years. I got her a job at my dementia community as director of nursing. It’s been wonderful working with her because we go to different wards now and I don’t get to see her very much. Now I see her every day.

Anyway, at the end of the day I went into her office and shut the door. I looked at her and blurted out, “Jerry’s cheating on me,” and started to cry. Of course, she comforted me and said a few choice words about Jerry and called him unmentionable names.

That’s why I like Carey. She’s not afraid to let her anger show like I am. I keep everything bottled up inside. I’m so glad I got that out and allowed her to comfort me. I don’t know how long I sat in her office and she just let me.

When I got back to my office that I share with the director, Isabella, she could see I was distraught. I broke down again and Isabella confided in me that she was going through the same thing with her husband. We exchanged our experiences and I said I felt like we were married to the same guy.

She said, in her rich, Haitian-French accent, “Are you sure your husband isn’t black?” and we both had a good laugh. Laughing felt good. Such a foreign feeling lately.

So I have a good confidante. Isabella hasn’t told anyone at work either, so we can talk and console each other and we will be able to understand what we each are going through.

I have to remember I’m her subordinate, so I will let her lead the way as to how much can really be shared, although she told me she is having the same hormone release that I am. She has only been able to eat soup. I can only keep down Cream of Wheat, a very little bowl, which is served almost every day for breakfast at the cottage where I work. I try to eat, but can’t put more than one bite in my mouth and I choke that down.

Chapter Three: Devastation, Part IV: January 2010

January 13, 2010

I spoke with the bishop today on the phone. He actually called me. Nice man. He has persuaded Jerry and I to work out our differences and keep our marriage together. With many reservations, I told him I would try. He wants us to see the stake president.

 

I'm really not in my right mind. I'm frightened. Still in shock. Is patching up our marriage the right thing to do? Is there enough duct tape in the world? I suppose it's his job to get us to try. I don't feel compelled to be working hard on anything, let alone my thirty-plus-year broken marriage. There's no energy left, no argument unturned that will make me happy.

I asked him if he thought it would be okay for me to get my own bank account and he said yes. So I went to the bank--not the bank Jerry and I use--after work today and opened an account.

For a minute I thought I should have the checks delivered to my office instead of at home, but I don’t want to slink around doing things behind his back and lie. I’m not like him.

I’ve had my own bank account before. Of course, he closed it out—without my permission. He didn’t want me to have my own, but when I first started back to work years ago, I realized I could pay tithing and not be part of tithing settlement under my husband. Even my kids had their own tithing settlement statements.

Tithing was the first check I wrote when I opened my own checking account.

Still, I’m having second thoughts now. He will get really mad. I just have to face it. I have to learn to be strong and stand up to him or I’m going to have the same marriage I’ve always had, with him in control and me submissive.

Chapter Three: Devastation, Part II: January 2010

January 9, 2010, continued

I changed my mind and decided to drive over to Dee’s house. I couldn’t just stand in the doorway waiting, with my coat on. What if Jerry came in and saw me standing there?

As I pulled into Dee’s driveway, her husband, the bishop, walked out the front door. I got out of the car and hurried over to him.

“I was coming to see Dee, but, bishop, I believe it’s you I’m supposed to see,” I said, my chin quivering. The Holy Ghost planned it perfectly.

The bishop didn’t hesitate and invited me in, though I knew he was probably headed out to see someone else. I felt for the cold metal of the blue phone in my pocket as I walked into the house. Both ired and afraid, I shook and shivered as we went downstairs into his basement office. The sting of humiliation followed me and, I knew, would be a constant companion in the coming weeks and months.

I spent about an hour confessing my life with Jerry to the bishop. Nobody knows our whole story. I’m sure the bishop found it hard to believe. After all, my husband was once a bishop, too. He’s this bishop’s second counselor now!

But he didn’t judge me. He didn’t show shock. He didn’t exhibit disbelief in my words.

It’s not the first time I’d been to a bishop. No bishop ever believed me when I told him about the abuse I endured, until one finally did. That bishop who believed helped me and I am forever grateful to him. In fact, the stake president who was just released believed me, too.

Other bishops followed and all I got was, “But Jerry’s a great guy. He’s always helping people.”  I couldn’t explain it myself, so how could I ask them to understand?

The stake president when Jerry was bishop actually showed me the door when I came to him depressed, confused. I told him Jerry was acting strange, he yelled a lot, had a lot of anger, road rage.

In mid-sentence, that stake president got up and walked over to the door. I thought, I didn’t hear anybody knock. He opened it and pointed his hand at me, then to the hallway, signaling me to follow his hand out the door. I couldn’t believe it. I was about as low as I could get that day; suicidal—again.

 

Jerry moved a twin bed into his sparsely-decorated man cave tonight. I don’t even want to be in the same house with him. I am disgusted.

I’m venting now. I’m exhausted. I can’t eat. The thought of food makes me want to throw up. I don’t know what will happen to me or to my family. A husband, a father, is supposed to be a protector. He’s supposed to take care of us.

I’m afraid to go to bed and I’m afraid to wake up in the morning. Tomorrow is church. I’m a counselor in Primary, the children’s Sunday School. The Primary president is pregnant and she doesn’t need me calling her to say I won’t be there tomorrow.

Please, Lord, let me fall asleep quickly. I am the waking dead right now. I need to sleep. I want to crawl under the covers and forget this day ever happened. I just want to die.

Chapter Three: Devastation, Part I: January 2010

January 9, 2010

I can’t sleep tonight. The discovery this morning is the last straw that broke my camel’s rose-colored glasses; smashed them to pieces. Yes, something else to find out about. What a fool I’ve been. How could I have been so stupid? The stupidest wife on the face of the earth. Yeah, that’s me.

I am heartbroken, inconsolable, in despair. Why am I surprised? If I would have let myself feel the true feelings of my soul, I would have inwardly died years ago. I saved face. I tried to save my family—keep it together, for the sake of the children.

Now they’re grown and gone, and I see our house crumbling, apparently built upon the sand. A blue phone, the harbinger of my betrayal.

I lay in bed this morning, unable to get up, my deliberation of the last few months weighing me down. That old familiar feeling of depression crept into my body, like vines crawling around me, encompassing me, smothering me.

No, I will not go there, I admonished myself. Too late, came the reply.

Loud, banging noises coming from the back yard had awakened me, I guess.

I decided I should pray, so I got out of bed and went down on my knees, entreating the Lord about my predicament—my marriage—asking my Heavenly Father what I should do. What could I do? How sad that I saw my marriage as a problem. Help me, Lord, I prayed.

The noises were so earsplitting they interrupted my prayers and I felt compelled to go into the back bedroom to see what Jerry was doing.

I will never doubt that my Heavenly Father is watching over me; that he knows me and loves me.

I crossed the hallway, my movements robotic, to the converted bedroom—his “man cave”—to see about the commotion. The loud noise, metal being ripped from wood, pierced my ears. Then it stopped.

I walked to the window, moved away the curtain, and saw him, leaning on his sledge hammer, taking a break, staring into the sky. After a month or so of persuading myself he had stopped his communication with her,  I could tell by his daydreaming, he hadn’t.

I sighed and stepped away from the window and took a minute to look around the room. Jerry had invited me to do just that a few weeks before. It’s furnished with an old love seat, a book shelf and a television. He also has his desk in there and all our files in a file cabinet.

On the book shelf  I noticed the little book I gave him when our daughter got married: “What is a Husband?” It’s tiny, pocket-sized, and decorated with illustrations of flowers and calligraphy. I gave it to him to honor him over a year ago. I don’t know why. He’s not sentimental in the least. Yet, there it stood prominently on that shelf. It surprised me to see it displayed, so I approached the shelves and handled the book, fingering through it.

When I replaced the tiny hardback, I looked around some more at the artwork on the walls: posters from cycling races we had attended. Sparsely decorated, I thought. Minimalist, just as he likes it.

The banging started up again. “Busy” could be his middle name. He never stands still—or sits still—for very long. He always has to be doing something. ADHD. It makes me look lazy by contrast, though I know I’m not.

I walked back to the door, but something prompted me to gaze around the room again. I noticed a blue cell phone sitting on that very same shelf as the little book. It was plugged in and charging, pulsing light. I walked slowly over to it. How did I miss it? Why hadn’t I noticed it the first time? I am so not observant. He didn’t tell me he got a new phone.

I picked it up to examine it and thought, it must be a new work phone. I flipped it open and saw a different number than the one he had previously. I thought, I can’t believe he didn’t tell me, his wife, he got a new cell phone number. When was he going to tell me?

Putting it back on the shelf, I started back to my bedroom, but once more, heeded a prompting to check out this new phone. I turned around, picked it up again and, easy to manipulate, pressed the buttons that led me to his messages.

Curious. There were so many text messages, sent and received. One hundred exactly. How long has he had this phone to have that many messages?

I opened the last text sent.

I’m going for a run. I’ll call you.

Now I was really curious. Who is he talking to while running? Probably his buddy, Justin.

I pressed another sent message.

How is everything on your end? I had to go under the radar after the November blow up.

My heartbeat sent electrical pulses through my body. It was that woman—his high school girlfriend. I couldn’t believe it.

The next sent text message cut me to the quick.

When u asked me if I was sorry that I didnt marry u I said no but the truth is that not one day has gone by that I havent wished we were married.

I dropped the phone and the world stopped. In slow motion, I felt pounding in my ears, the noise deafening. I began to shake uncontrollably. It was the same kind of shaking that happened to me when I found out my dad died.

Am I going into shock? I asked myself.

I saw the phone on the floor, its bright display looking back at me like an evil eye. I leaned down to pick it up and sent that message to my own phone. I don’t know why. A protective Spirit was in the room with me, urging me to do it, controlling my actions, for I was on auto pilot. I heard my own phone ring in the other bedroom as the message reached it.

I decided to check the received texts:

Good mornin bright eyes…what a beautiful day…only one thing missing…

I felt my heart stop and wondered if it would start up again. It did, and it hurt when it finally pounded furiously in my chest.

A message from him to her:

I m all yours. Call me when you can.

She said she loved the page they were on. He said he felt a need to discuss their history. Fifty-one messages sent and forty-nine received. I could not believe it.

The communiqué got more serious over time. She texted that her husband felt threatened by their contact. Well, he’s not the only one.

A pitiful text from him:

in case we don t get to talk tomorrow, merry christmas and iwbtoy.

I only thought about it for a split second. I Will Be Thinking Of You. So juvenile. This is like junior high school. Some messages ended in xxoo. Disgusting.

Then came the clincher. A message from him:

I can think of no better moment to say this than on Christmas morning. . . I Love You!

I cried out an agonizing gasp that caught in my throat as I read that. Christmas morning? Our kids were here. We had gone to the Stake President’s house for brunch. We visited with our friends from church who attended. We had a spiritual program and dinner with his sister and her husband.

What a hypocrite. His lies stacked up and today is the day his house of cards came falling down—to expose him for who he truly is.

Christmas morning to tell her he loved her? I felt my heart breaking, shattered like a fragile, China dish falling to the floor with a loud crash. Hearts really do break and hurt, I found out quickly.

Her next text read:

I’ll try to call later. Happy New Year babe.

Babe? Familiar. Intimate.

Patsy, let yourself get mad. Throw things. Punch things, I told myself. No, I screamed back. Instead, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I shivered, still in shock.

I sent about a dozen messages to my cell of the one hundred in the blue phone—which he said, in a text to her, was “sending out its vibes.” At that I almost did throw up. I felt physically ill.

So juvenile. So maddening.

She texted:

Like you, the roommate stuff  is getting to me. Keep asking myself why I stay.

Another text from her:

I might go visit my mom in Fla. in Jan. or Feb. just to get away.

Her husband is just as leery as I am, I thought. I felt bile climb up my esophagus and it was all I could do to keep it down as I thought of them texting about me and about her husband. I felt assaulted.

They must feel pretty good about themselves. My throat burned with a nasty taste. My hands still shook as I sent each relevant message to my phone. I didn’t bother sending the ones that just had x’s and o’s or love ya’s.

 “Under the radar.” Well, I guess he had to come up for air and charge his little blue phone. His radar is faulty.

Just then my cell phone actually rang with a phone call in the other room. I pocketed the blue phone in my flannel pants and ran into my bedroom to answer it. It was Dee, my friend, who is also the bishop’s wife. She’s like a big sister to me, and very wise. I always go to her for counsel.

“Oh, Dee, I have to see you. I have to see you now,” I pleaded, trying not to sound so desperate, but enough to send a message that I was.

I had emailed her the night before because I just had to talk to somebody about this new glitch in my life—the high school girlfriend who would not go away, who could not be suppressed. I told her I had to see her. I didn’t mention why. A good friend, she responded as soon as she read her email this morning.

She said, “Uh, can you give me about a half hour? I’m not even dressed.”

“Yes, but you’ll have to come get me. I don’t think I can drive,” I said as I noticed my hands still shaking. I wasn’t dressed either.

I knew Dee caught my tone. She didn’t ask me what was the matter, she just knew something was up.

Even though I really needed a shower, I dressed in a hurry, throwing on jeans and a sweatshirt. That bile taste could not be removed by brushing my teeth. The seething hormones rushed throughout my body and made me feel sick.

I waited by the front door for Dee to come.

Jerry was still out back tearing down the shed, oblivious that his life was about to turn upside down. Mine had already started. The normal PTSD escaped and surrounded my clouded head with dismal memories of my life with Jerry. Spinning. Dread. Swirling. Fear.

I’ve planned a divorce for years and years, always in the winter when his moods are the worst. This year, I now knew, would be no different, except it would be the final year. Will it really be the final year? Yes, Patsy. Face reality. This will be the year of my divorce.

I think of my mother and grandmother. They got through it, and so can I. I’m just mad enough to go through with it this time. I will go through with it. Divorce!

CHAPTER TWO, continued: DENIAL DAMAGE: December 2009

Please start reading my memoir from the beginning.

(All names are changed)

December 14, 2009

I saw Jerry posted a picture on Facebook of our house in the newly fallen snow. His post read, “I love winter.” I laughed out loud when I saw it. I’m sure he posted that photo of our house so she could see it. This is so junior high.

It’s actually funny. I’ve lived with the man for over thirty years and he has never loved winter or Christmas. He is always moody and depressed, angry and aggressive during the holidays. It has been hard to celebrate because I love the holidays so much and he ruins them with a temper tantrum or other outburst. It blindsides me. I have always said I wish I could take January first off the calendar. The holidays are wrecked for sure by that date.

He’s been diagnosed with SAD, Seasonal Affective Disorder, among the myriad of other diagnoses he’s chalked up over the years: ADHD, OCD, ODD, hypomania (a form of Bi-polar). Every time we go for counseling he gets new initials.  

The SAD makes him unbearable from about Labor Day to the beginning of May. I never have happy birthdays because it’s during the winter. Just one year I’d like to have a peaceful birthday. I don’t even want to write about it. There are too many brokenhearted birthdays to remember.

Because of his issues, I suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and situational depression. When he gets in his moods, it sets off my PTSD and I can’t stop thinking about his mistreatment of me. It’s like a scratch on a record that keeps playing over and over—and over.

December 15, 2009

I’m still lurking on his Facebook. I saw Jerry posted the pictures of him on his new motorcycle. I took the pictures! How could I not see that coming?

 

It’s so cliché. Middle-aged man on a motorcycle. The Triple M.

He had me take the photos from all angles. He told me to hurry up and email them to him. Now I know why he was so anxious about it. I’m sure he’s told her all about his motorcycle and how he’d love to take her for a ride. Personally, I will never get on a motorcycle with him. I went for a whole year once of never getting in a car with him driving. She doesn’t know about his road rage.

Of course, he had to spend a fortune to get all decked out so he could ride the cycle in the cold. He said it would save on gas if he rode his motorcycle to work. He got battery-operated gloves for warmth and leather breeches that cover his legs and an expensive helmet and expensive all kinds of things. We would have saved a lot more if he didn’t get his motorcycle, I think.

I don’t understand how Jerry can afford to buy all these accessories—a box comes every day in the mail—all while telling me not to go over $75.00 a week for groceries.

He actually made me take food back to the grocery store while I still had two kids living here. I was so embarrassed. Humiliated. He didn’t flinch. I was happy I had kept it under $100.00 for four people, but that wasn’t good enough. I told him to take it back but he yelled at me and gave me those threatening looks and made me go.

I asked the lady at customer service, “Does anybody else ever bring back food because their husbands say they spent too much?”  She just looked away from me and didn’t say a word. Not a word. I gathered not. I just stood there, mortified.

I will never do that again. Why do I let him verbally beat me up like that?

 

How could I not know he would send those pictures to her? I'm so naive! So in denial! So damaged . . .

CHAPTER TWO, continued: DENIAL DEVICE: December 2009

Please start reading my memoir from the beginning.

(All names are changed)

December 10, 2009

Jerry came downstairs to the family room tonight and begged me, in a dramatic way, “Promise me you’ll stop me if I try to go to the funeral.”

Since I work at a dementia community, and a man just died there, I said, “Why would you want to go to his funeral? I’m not even going.”

He twisted his mouth, shook off what I said, and told me, “Just promise me.”

I said, “Did you take your meds? You’re acting weird.”

He raised his eyebrow at me and said, “She just told me the doctors found a spot on her lung.” His voice caught.

“Who?” I wondered if he was talking about his sister. Why wouldn’t he want to go to her funeral? Then I realized, no, it’s his girlfriend.

 “How do you know they found a spot on her lung? You told me you weren’t going to email her anymore.”

“I know, I know. But this was important. She felt she had to tell me.”

 I got up from the couch and started pacing and huffing in disgust. I turned to him and made a gesture like he stabbed me in the heart with a knife and was turning it. “Why are you doing this to me?” I wailed. “Stop. emailing. her. She has a husband to confide in and doesn’t need to confide in you.” It was hard to hold back my wrath.

Still pacing, I spoke, as if to myself, “I must be the stupidest wife on the planet.”

“No, you’re not.” He plopped down on the coffee table and held his head in his  hands.

“I am. I told you to stop your contact with her and I believed you when you said you would. Now you’re on Facebook with her and you’re still emailing her. I want you to stop.” I stamped my foot. "Stop lying to me!"

“But she could die.” He gave me a horrified look as if I should join him in sympathy.

“I don’t care if she dies,” I snapped—and I meant it. “You have to stop this. You are a married man. She is a married woman.”

“Okay, okay.” He didn’t look compliant, only angry. “It’s obvious you don’t understand.” He stomped out of the room like a child in a temper tantrum and took off upstairs, calling over his shoulder, “If it upsets you so much, I’ll just stop telling you about it.”

I am the stupidest wife on the planet. Still, I sat back down on the loveseat, fuming, and picked up my crocheting. I told myself, I think he heard me this time.

My reasoning turned off and my inner thoughts took over as I sat in front of the television again in a Post Traumatic Stress Disorder orbit. I remembered all the things he’d done to me in the past on an unceasing loop—thinking, wondering, analyzing.

Crocheting is my coping mechanism, but I’m thinking now it’s my denial device. It helps me forget . . . rather, deny.

I am my mother.

Help me, Lord. I so need Thy help.

CHAPTER TWO: DENIAL: Deceber 2009

Please start reading my memoir from the beginning.

(All names are changed)

December 3, 2009

I won’t deny that the thought of Jerry going to Texas isn’t always in the back of my mind. I try to push it away, but it’s there, plain as day, taunting me. My subconscious, which I symbolically hold underwater, keeps trying to gasp for air, wanting to surface, to scream out, “He’s thinking of her. He’s probably in touch with her. They are probably laughing at you and her husband for being so stupid!”

I wonder why I care. I’ve been pulling away from my bond to him for the last few years now, thinking it will help me get over all the hurt he causes. But this does bother me. It’s not right. It’s a betrayal. We’re married.

We’ve had the conversation before that if someone wants out of a marriage, they should get a divorce first, then start a new relationship. Jerry was a bishop, for heaven’s sake. He knows that.

Tonight I repressed my thoughts, as usual, and sat on the loveseat, crocheting until my wrist hurt from the repetitive motion. Like a robot, I watched television and worked the hook and yarn as if asleep but awake at the same time.

Jerry came down from his “man cave” and stood at the entrance of the family room. After trying to act nonchalant, he began talking about her. “I just emailed her and she said she’s disappointed we’re not coming to Texas.”

“You what?” My legs brought the recliner up with a bang. “You’re still emailing her?” I knew it.

“Yeah, what’s wrong with that?”

I threw down the yarn. “Listen to me. You are treading on thin ice,” I said, furious, as I stood up to face him. “She is a married woman and you are a married man. Think about what you’re doing.”

“Okay, okay. I won’t email her again,” he said before he ambled back upstairs.

He wasn’t lying, or, at least, I didn’t think he was. He did other things rather than email. I decided to check out his new Facebook page that I knew nothing about until his little trip to Texas. He still hasn’t “friended” me.

When I saw his page, my mouth dropped open. Adrenaline coursed throughout my body. I saw he had sent her a heart. I didn’t know you could do such a thing, so I followed the trail to her Facebook page. She wasn’t feeling well so he sent her some little love note heart to make her feel better.

I haven’t said anything to him yet. I want to watch to see what else transpires over Facebook. I check his page every day. He spends considerable time uploading pictures of himself and she comments about how great he looks.

I noticed, in a day or so after the heart, she changed her profile picture from one of her and her husband, to one of just her, posed with a big smile, like she was beaming at him.

 

December 4, 2009

Jerry changed his Facebook profile. I guess he wants her to see him in his element, with his bicycle, in his latex, skin-tight clothes. She commented on his picture: “You look really fit.”  Blech!

 

December 6, 2009

When the Facebook banter accelerated, I decided I would make a comment after a comment she made so he would know I was watching. I thought it prudent since our kids have started to post on his page, welcoming him to Facebook, even though he's been on FB since August. Hrmph. His posts must have started showing up on their FB pages because I posted something and we're all friends.

 

Funny how he responds to her posts, but to none of ours. Not once.

He is now fully aware that I know about his FB chats and comments. I told him it was inappropriate. He didn’t agree.

“You always tell me I’m too skinny,” he said. “She told me I look ‘fit.’” He stuck his nose up and chin out, triumphant.

"Yeah," I thought, "She doesn't live with you and know you compulsively starved yourself by eating yogurt for every meal for months." Even the kids were worried. He shaved his head, lost weight, and looked like a cancer survivor.

This is so juvenile. I don't want to play this game.

I shouldn't have to!


. . . to be continued