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It’s been two-and-a-half years since my husband’s affair.
But after a while, you stop counting the minutes, the hours, the days, the months. Before long, you are counting years. Years since the affair. Or more precisely, years since you discovered the affair.
I wouldn’t have believed this had someone said it to me soon after D-Day, but after a while, you wake up and it’s not the first thing that assaults your senses.
You can even make it through days where you don’t think about the affair. What he did. What she did. Who said what. What they did together.
But that feeling of a lead brick sitting where your heart used to be? That feeling doesn’t leave.
After a while, you come to accept that feeling will always be with you. Everywhere. Every day. For the rest of your life.
The concept of being ‘light-hearted’ ever again does not compute.
The fact that he chose someone else over you is a feeling you don’t overcome.
That he sent you to the depths of despair with his cavalier attitude and believable lies is still unbearable.
Block your ears from those telling you to get over it or that you should be over it by now.
These comments are spoken by ignoramuses, people who have not been in your place.
How I wish I was ignorant about the pain of an affair, instead of having to experience it first hand.
After a while, you realise there is no passion left in your relationship. How the hell do you feel honest-to-God passion again for someone who fucked you over so easily?
That feeling of trepidation when you see your husband looking at his phone screen? That never goes.
And it gets fucking exhausting having to explain to him (yet again) why this fucking bothers me so much.
After a while, even when all is said and done, you truly know your relationship will never be the same.
You still have sex from time to time, but it’s no longer intimate.
Specials memories and dates mean nothing. Even as you see them approaching on the calendar, you feel your chest clenching.
Worst of all, that feeling of being dead inside drains the life out of you. Every. Single. Fucking. Day.
After a while, you dishearteningly discover that you don’t really care that much about anything anymore.
So when your husband tells you his recent biopsy was positive for cancer, you fake concern but realise the love left a long time ago for you not to care more about the possibility of losing him.
When the specialist told us this particular type of cancer is slow growing and may have begun growing around two to three years ago, all I can think about is that fucking bitch he was panting over. Would she have stayed and held his hand through cancer? I doubt it.
After a while, I’ve come to realise I don’t give a fuck about very much at all.