Tuesday, September 16, 2014
The past 48 hours have spun me around and around like those side-show tea-cup rides.
And made me just as nauseous.
Firstly he called from hospital number two where he's been transferred. He's out of danger, walking and talking like a real person. Sort of . His speech was slurred a bit- he was still very much under the influence of the sedatives that induced his coma-like state.
Towards the end of the call he says "I love you".
I said, "you do?' If I could master the raising of one eyebrow I would have.
After that his speech was garbled and I realised he was crying.
Could this be remorse? The return of insight?
How do I feel about that. I feel sad for him, but worried what I'll do if he really has had one of those near-death epiphanies and realised what he's lost. What if he wants to work to get it back?
So another sleepless night. More confusion but mostly stress because I want to take Lilly on a road trip next week and I've just listed his apartment on the web to rent it as a holiday let. It's still full of His stuff.
I mentioned this idea, and being stoned he agreed it was a great idea even suggested Air BnB.
He's so much more agreeable when he's heavily sedated: such a pleasant change from his norm.
So today I acheived a lot. I spruced up my latest curb-side find; an awsome and huge armchair, with two new red cushions (adding much needed seating for the aparment). And as I told him I would, I packed all his stuff into the storage cage downstairs.
But when I brought up the large suitcase to pack his clothes in, it contained a duffel bag that was absent when I put the case in storage. I thought, good I'll put his shoes in this one. But ther was a big file inside. Honestly this man has more manila files than Carrie Bradshaw had shoes. I'm about to try to squeeze it in a bag with the other manila work files but there's a birthday card hanging out of it.
OK. Once upon another cheating bastard, I got wind of the deal with a badly hidden greeting card, so I open it.
There are lots of my darlings, and I love you so very (yes underlined) muches, lots of xxxxxes. There is also mention of a special present that Angela hopes fits. I remember our last session with the couples councilor where I noticed he's wearing a white gold ring on his wedding finger but it's not 'our' wedding ring.
Oh my God - He's engaged?
So - all bets are off.
The gloves are off too as I open the phone-book thick file. There I find lovingly cut out and pasted together are love-emails between the two of them. Hundreds of them. Dating back to March.
he's even made a cover "Our story, by Angela and [Him]."
I learn that he met her in a bar in the US. No wonder, after his bout of crying and apparent remorse before he left, he returned cold and detached.
So they are in love.
He tells her he's waited 42 years to find an woman like her.
He tells her she's so sweet and generous and kind, he's never met anyone like her?
(What am I, chopped liver?)
She tells him she wants to leave her husband "it will kill him but-dot dot dot." And how might it affect her her children?
They talk about passion, sex, their nights together, it's like a bad episode of The Bachelor.
In places it gets really icky.
He gets on his soap-box and craps on about honesty. Like he'd know about that.
They talk about marriage spending the rest of their lives together. He says he "will wait for her no matter how long.."
The stuff he tells her about me is hilarious. The way he spins our story. About me being a kind of re-bound relationship is laughable. Who ever heard about a rebound relationship that lasted fourteen years?
But Angela you are the real thing!
I think of the sex stained sheets and the girl half his age that slept over very recently.What about young Katy? I say out loud.
I swear to God, if hypocrisy becomes an Olympic sport, he will do his country proud.
As the shock wears off, I start to giggle.
I call a friend and she tells me to scan the lot. I'm thinking this will take a week.
She drives over as fast as she can and I'm chuckling.
Later I have my sister on the phone, we read through it together with a glass of wine each.
We alternate between cacking ourselves and elaborate pretend vomits.
It's gets boring and cliche, like reading Mills and Boon, so I skip ahead.
Hello! She's asking about his cocaine use?
Excuse me? Mister Anti-drugs-never-tried-them-don't-need-to?
He responds that he's used it 'no more than half a dozen times in his life'; he tells her its an occasional thing - it gives him a buzz.
News to me, but with his propensity for lying through his teeth these days, I think it's fair to assume that's a huge understatement.
That explains even more. I worked with coked-up Investment Bankers for six years and I saw what it did to them. It ages people faster than anything else.
I've been wondering for a while why my former beloved, at 42, in six months suddenly looks like he's in his mid to late 50's. It also explains the late night and early morning cash withdrawals of $600 or more.
My sister tells me she suspects this started before his being sectioned. She says cocaine with the anti-depressants may have actually caused his psychotic break.
So many pieces are falling into place in this sordid story.
I actually felt sorry for him when he cried and said he loved me.
But now, with this massive reality check in hand, I need to switch off the empathy and focus on untangling (and distancing) myself and Lilly from this mess.
I wonder why I'm not sad. Why do I find this so amusingly entertaining? I'm actually relieved and not sure why.
Where did that 'shrug' come from?
Maybe it's being back having sessions with Pollyanna. :0)
Thanks Pollyanna xx