The Discard: Act VI

Act VI:

 

The moment my husband vehemently defended his mistress in her decision to block me on Facebook and Instagram after I called him out on his decision to repeatedly lie about living with her in his double life, was the moment I knew I wouldn’t keep my mouth shut for much longer.

 

Yeah. You read that right.

 

And yeah. I know.

 

You’ve read a lot up until this point and any sane person would think that ANY ONE of the SINGULAR other incidences would have been enough. They weren’t. My loyalty runs deep. I never, ever knew how much resolve, patience and poise I had, until this year. And he knows that about me. He’s witnessed it. He’s personally observed my ability to bite my tongue until my mouth seeps of blood. Eyes bursting of tears and all. I hold composure for people that I am convinced care about me.

 

Well. If my mouth was full of blood all summer, the middle of October marks the point at which I grabbed the bucket, spit it all out, took a long exhale, and decided that I had endured enough disrespect for a lifetime, let alone September.

 

Interestingly enough, today, in a conversation I had with 1 of only 4 people to receive daily play-by-plays of the wreckage from ground-zero, I realized that even as brutal as these writings may feel to you, I had still maintained my composure. “Honestly, I brace myself before I read them, because I’m never quite sure of what I’m going to read. I finish reading them and think ‘that’s not too bad, she could’ve said wayyyyy more.”

 

And she is right. In spite of how horrific the words you read are, I hold back a considerable amount of detailed truth. Mostly out of respect for my mother-in-law, who I love immensely. Who has supported me. Cried with me. And openly denounced her sons bad behavior. The mercy I show is for her, not him. Another fun tidbit? She and I got quite close in May as I helped rehab her knee from our home. Little did we know what was happening behind the scenes down in Ft Myers.

 

• • • • •

 

September was a frustrating month. Not only because I had uncovered counterfeit beginnings and cracks in my spouses character, but because in person, though it seemed as if we were on the same page logistically, his follow-through sucked. After all, he was preoccupied Peter Panning. I grew very impatient of the unreliability and lack of consideration. This sparked some heated exchanges on September 23rd that always ended with me getting gaslit, emotionally invalidated, and ghosted.

 

But then Hurricane Ian came, and this would be what we shall label the beginning of the end.

 

On Monday, September 26th, I empathetically text him, checking on his well-being, seeing as how he lives in Ft Myers. He claimed obliviousness, which I didn’t entirely doubt. I told him that I was at our canal-front townhome, fulfilling storm prep obligations: carrying and stacking about 40, 55-60# sandbags, as we were legally required to do so per our lease that didn’t end for another 5 days. At the conclusion of that conversation, I asked where he was living since his ‘condo lease’ in Ft Myers had expired. Evading the truth by circumventing the actual question, I got a pretend answer. As I pushed for more information, I eventually got ghosted.

 

This brings us to Tuesday, the day of mandatory evacuations. I had only lived in my new apartment for 7 days, and was again packing up things, prepping for what could be a bad situation had the storm hit my area. We flee, Brigham and I. I am welcomed with open arms to shelter with my in-laws, in-laws family in Orlando.

 

Over the next 2 days, I was flooded with emotions. Not only had I not heard from him, or witnessed any real concern for my well-being on his behalf, I was discovering details that eluded to the fact he was being brazenly, yet very selectively open about his new mistress. Strike one and strike two.

 

Then, as I habitually do for every storm, I’ll be damned if I’m not sitting on my hotel bed, scrolling public storm damage photos on Facebook, to find a picture of my husbands truck in his mistresses driveway. I did double, triple and quadruple takes. The caption said “Burnt Store Marina”. I knew this community is where the home was, as this area was where he frequented all damn summer. 40 minutes from the condo he staged as his actual residence. As I began cross-checking public internet info, and old real estate listings, it was confirmed.

 

I sat there. Fuming. My blood pressure actually increasing as I write this. He wasn’t just not giving a shit about me, he was not giving a shit about me and our dog, while he tended to her and her dog, Buckeye. They were prepping to evacuate themselves, as the new family unit they are, and did. This was strike three.

 

But you know, sometimes the batter strikes out and stands at the plate. Just waiting for a reversed call by the umpire. I did that. And while I did that, I waited for my anger to subside. Emotional choices weren’t to be executed in these affairs. I knew better. So I sat on the information, and began making some equatable financial decisions that served my best interests given his marital cohabitation.

 

Such choices sparked notifications on his end. Low and behold, a text rolls in. Except for the first time all summer, I was no longer the pathetic puppy begging for breadcrumbs. Another day goes by, and another text. Ignored. And then a few days later, another. Still, I didn’t reply. Mind you, I hadn’t received this much communication since May. However, I now cared about my well-being more than his. This likely came as a shock, but I figured when you’re in the thick of a pseudo-family vacation, you don’t have the time to text a wife inconspicuously, even if you did give a shit.

 

I come home. Got settled. And then October 3rd rolls around. A voice told me to search for divorce decrees online. It didn’t matter that, in June, July, August and September, we agreed to do that together, I had a feeling that I had been had. And I had. On September 23rd, moments after I expressed my disdain for his inability to keep his word, he angrily takes it up another notch by again obliterating his word, filing behind my back, taking his cousin as a corroborating witness. Partners in crime those two are. Strike four. Still yet, I kept my mouth shut.

 

A week rolls around, and he texts again. This time about our monetary affairs, as if we hadn’t already decided those things. I took it upon myself to educate him on why I didn’t respond to him the other 3 times, “On September 23rd, I made it clear that respect was the expectation.”

 

I went on to tell him all that I had found and that him making the decision to repeatedly lie and disrespect me, was also me making the choice to no longer feel a sense of loyalty, as if I needed a reason by this point. He calls me when he gets off work. The first 10 minutes, sober.

 

The final 50? Not so much.

 

Admits to having been living with her. Asks how we make this all go away.

 

I was clear in that I wasn’t sure that was possible anymore. Even I can only take so much. But as he continues to disrespect me, my ante raises a little each time. He tells me he will call me tomorrow. We both know he didn’t.

 

I wake up, and I’ll be damned if a little voice didn’t tell me to check social media. Yep. She’s now blocked me on both outlets. I immediately confront him. “I’d love to know what type of story you spun to enable that choice. Painting me as an unhinged stalker is really really rich.”

 

“I didn’t! I showed her the photo, neither of us took it, so you didn’t just casually see it.” The pathological liar suddenly has the audacity to call me a liar. He goes on to say, “I bet she did block you. I’d be creeped out too.” I sat, stunned, yet again. Because now, not only was he defending a woman he said was “fucked in the head” and “meant nothing”, SHE was blocking me as if I’m the villain here, AND their relationship was now suddenly meaningful enough to prioritize conversations about the fact that their union was outed?

 

It’s funny, ya know? You can abandon your wife, your promises, your responsibilities, your dignity, and your commitment to someone you proclaimed as your moon literally one week before ghosting her. Someone you had just went on vacation with, had sex with, and discussed the future with, THE WEEK PRIOR. But you feel inclined to have a formal “sit-down” with some woman you claim means nothing?

 

Strike five.

 

He didn’t reply to the proof I presented that detailed the PUBLIC post I scrolled upon. That I didn’t indeed drive there and take a photo. Though, most woman would have made that trip days into this charade. Let’s be honest. MOST WOMEN would have had clothes and belongings on the front lawn, and a lawyer by week 3.

 

Yet I’m somehow unhinged and unreasonable for my expectations and accountability? In the eye of an abuser, it is always one’s reaction to abuse that gets coined as the issue.

 

Which leads us to today. Today marks 5 weeks since I’ve heard from him. A new precedent. Not counting the five strikes apparently now aloud in baseball.

 

• • • • •

 

Chanelle