Every time July comes around, it fills me with trepidation.
Prior to this fucking affair bullshit, July was my wedding anniversary month.
When July rolled around, it signalled a time to celebrate being together. Have a romantic escape somewhere. Tell each other how much we meant to each other. A night of passion was guaranteed.
And then D-Day hits and you realise you’ve been living in a fucking matrix your whole life. An alternate reality.
Your confidence is shot and you feel like the world’s ugliest, most worthless woman. It takes years to get any confidence back.
Your eyes are open for the first time. It’s a stark and frightful reality.
You begin to notice interactions in a new way — the way men interact with women. How women interact with men. The flirtatious exchanges, the hidden meanings, the knowing smiles.
What was probably already there becomes magnified with your post-affair lens.
And you realise how naive you’ve been all your life.
You wonder if that fat woman’s husband is cheating on her. You wonder if that married man is chatting up that younger, sexier woman he’s talking to.
Because nothing is innocent any more.
Everything is tainted and dirty and underhanded.
Because THAT is the lasting effect of betrayal. THAT is its legacy.
Even now, almost 4 years later, the pain never leaves.
It subsides, sure. You no longer pull over while you’re driving so you can burst into tears. You no longer do the shopping with tears streaming endlessly down your face as you walk the aisles in slow motion. You no longer go to bed crying every night because the person you thought would die for you, killed you instead.
It’s totally fucked up.
You live recalling the lies they told you to spend time with the whore. The “late nights” at the office. The “weekend gigs”. The “Sunday morning runs”. The text messages “from a mate”.
The excuses roll off the tongue so naturally and effortlessly. You have no reason to question any of it.
Until the bomb detonates in your face.
So what is there to celebrate now?
Absolutely nothing. Love don’t live here, anymore.
We stopped celebrating anniversaries post D-Day. I want no mention of it, no recognition of the date, abso-fucking-lutely nothing.
I’ve been doing some spring cleaning around my home recently and came across anniversary cards I’d been given by my cheating husband over the years.
I love you so much. You’re the best wife. I’m so happy we’re together. Blah, blah, blah.
I took great pleasure in ripping up every single one. There was nothing left to preserve. Nothing to savour.
It’s a part of my life that is over now.
To the half a million of you that have read this blog over the past almost 4 years, I’m sorry I cannot give you more hope.
You see, I was one of the ones that thought we’d come out the other side of this hell in tact.
We did couples therapy. We had individual therapy. We talked and talked and fucking talked.
But in the end, it all came to nothing.
We have separated but continue to live under the same roof. He sleeps downstairs, I sleep upstairs. We continue to co-parent our three children, and pool the majority of our money to pay the mortgage, and the cost of sending all three kids to a ludicrously expensive private school.
I don’t know what happens next.
I was recently attracted to someone and even though nothing came of my limerence, it was the first time in almost four years I ‘felt’ something other than depression, anxiety, blackness, emptiness, death.
To feel alive after being dead inside for so long was a surprise to me.
But that’s neither here nor there.
It was what it was.
Life goes on.
This year would have been our 20th wedding anniversary.
Such a fucking shame.