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Now that I’m coming up to 6 months post D-Day, I’m finding triggers are easing, and not having the all-consuming power they once had.
But today I was hit over the head by one, and only returned to a present state several hours later.
We were getting ready to go out. My husband had just had a shower, and was coming out of the bathroom to finish getting dressed.
One of the kids ran into the bathroom to brush his teeth and found daddy’s wedding rings sitting next to the sink. So he grabbed them, put them on his thumb, and came running out of the bathroom to show daddy what he’d found.
When my husband saw him with the rings, the little man turned to run, but daddy caught him.
“Give those to me,” he said. “They’re special.”
Special.
So fucking special he was willing to throw them away on some skanky whore he later told me “meant nothing”.
Special. The word hung in the air.
So special that he thought nothing of our marriage when deciding to connect with a married skanky whore.
Special.
Special.
Special.
What did that even mean?
Did he mean ‘valuable’, as in, “they’re made of gold”?
Anyway, for the next few hours, I was not present. I was miles away. Luckily we were in the car driving and I could just sit in the passenger seat silently and stare out the window without having to engage.
And there I sat just thinking about that word.
Special.
Yeah, real fucking special.
So goddam special.
I was thinking of Katie from http://www.theoppositesideofthestreet.wordpress.com who walked into the jewellery store her husband had purchased her rings from, pulled the damn things off her finger, and pawned them then and there. Being fucked over by your husband for a skanky married whore will do that to a person.
But really, what are rings? A symbol of a promise. A promise to love that person. A promise to forsake all others. A promise to be with that person, no matter what (in sickness and health, right?).
So when those promises are broken, what value does the ring have? What is its meaning?
The ring becomes as tainted as the cheater.
No wonder so many married couples get new rings made, post-affair. A new start, a new promise.
I stopped wearing my rings for a while after I discovered my husband’s affair. I didn’t like what they represented. I didn’t “feel” married. And besides, I hated his fucking guts.
I began wearing them again a few weeks later at Christmas as I didn’t want be asked any awkward questions, like “why aren’t you wearing your wedding ring”?
Today, I’m a bit ambivalent about the whole thing. Because of my sudden and dramatic weight loss, my rings sit loosely on my wedding finger. They move around when I walk, they rub against each other and spin around, and I am constantly aware they are on my finger.
Like I need another fucking reminder of my husband’s indiscretion.
But one word I will never again use to describe my rings is special.
Because let’s just face it: they aren’t.
Not anymore.

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