Anger Is Like Fire

Finally made it through the holiday chaos, relatively sane, or at least no crazier than I was when I went in. Some days that’s winning, right?

So, that anger I mentioned a post or two back, remember that? Holy hell, is it here, with a vengeance. It’s not a constant, but it boils up from nowhere when I least expect it. Rather like the crippling, gut-clenching pain was doing previously. Which isn’t to say that the pain is gone, oh no, but at least something different is happening. I’m going to call that progress. Mostly because I know I have to keep moving forward. Anger is a stage of grieving, right?

Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean. Maya Angelou 

I’m fighting the bitter, and so far I am winning. But I am just SO angry at him, at his callous disregard for my mental and emotional wellbeing, my heart, my sanity. I want him to know that. Not that I want to talk to him, I do not. But I want him to know, truly know, how horribly he behaved, what a shitty, despicable thing he did. I imagine he has an idea of what he did to his wife, but I was in this too, and I got hurt too. Badly. So badly. I want to yell at him. I wish when we talked last that I’d been in a different state of mind other than painfully shocked disbelief. He invited me to yell at him, and all I could say was I love you and I don’t understand. Stupid. Fucking stupid.

I want to scream at him, hurl angry words at him, stand righteous with fury before him. I want to wield a fiery sword and smite him down for what he did to me. Dramatic much? Yeah, I know, but I do. I am pissed, seriously pissed. I just want to matter as a human being, as a woman, as someone with feelings who should have been treated properly, like a decent man should treat a woman, with respect. I want to say fuck you, Dan, fuck you Adrian, fuck you for hurting me so badly, fuck you for seeking me out and doing it again, cluelessly vicious and cruel, fuck you for having no apparent concern as to the consequences of your actions, except as they affect you personally. Fuck you for making me fall ever more in love with you, knowing the whole time that you had no goddamn right to offer me your love, no right to promise yourself to me, no right to do anything that you did. Fuck you for not being willing to stop on your own, for continuing and escalating our relationship, for dragging me deeper and deeper into your bullshit, for setting me up for a devastating fall that you knew would eventually come. Fuck you.

Fuck you.

It still hurts. But the anger, I think it is helping. Time heals, right?

Fuck. You.

 

Anger Is Necessary, Yet Hard To Maintain

I spent a notable amount of time earlier today actually feeling angry. I haven’t really had much actual anger yet. A few brief flashes of irritation, and one burst of sad anger, but that’s about it. But no, today, I was mad. Unfortunately, it was still that sort of angry where, even if you have the focus of your anger around to yell at, you just end up crying. Which is what I did. Cry. Driving around, crying, wanting to yell at him, yell at some version of him, both versions, I don’t know.

My Dan vs. Adrian theory works for some purposes, most specifically it gives me a little bit of mental and emotional leeway in terms of dealing with my own levels of stupidity and gullibility. Which may or may not be a good thing, I don’t know. I’ve been saying that a lot lately. I. Don’t. Know. I’m sick and tired of my own damn self, I’m sure everyone else near me is nearing critical levels as well. WHY am I having such a hard time with this? How long does it take to get over heartache? Do you get over it, or are you just changed no matter what? I think you must just be changed no matter what. It’s not like I can go back to being the same person I used to be.

I’m just legitimately, and I think rightfully, angry at him. I wonder what his thought process was, why he thought it was an acceptable way to behave. Did he EVER slow down and consider my feelings, his wife’s feelings? Or was he solely thinking of his own pleasure, his own distractions, his own wants?

I want to throw something, or stomp around like a child, kicking chairs and doorframes. Part of me wants to somehow, someway, be able to impress upon him the seriousness of what he did, and the very real consequences, the real lives he affected. I want to stand up and scream “I matter, dammit! You had NO right!” But then I also want to be fine, be not in pain, not devastated, not someone who still cries, still hurts. I want to say fuck you for what you did to me, and I want to mean it.

So Far, Time Is Not On My Side

My son and I spent several hours playing outside today, which was good for us both. I feel like the world’s worst mother for how distracted and despondent I’ve been lately. I’m generally a person who loves to laugh, who loves to see the humor and absurdities in life. SInce I fell, plummeted, crashed, had my still beating heart ripped violently from my chest, I have barely managed a smile, let alone an honest burst of laughter or joy. I know it is affecting my son. How could it not?

I manage bursts of anger at him, the him who broke my heart, the him who promised me things he had no right to promise, the him who dared me to believe, waited until I did and then left me standing here bewildered and alone, but so far I’ve been unable to maintain them for very long. Again, perhaps it is a time thing, or perhaps it’s just that I’m not an angry woman in general, I don’t know. The anger I do manage to work up is fleeting. It’s not enough to sustain me.

From where I am sitting, curled up on the sofa, I can see into the room I use for my art studio. The piece I was making for him is still there. I have no idea what to do with it right now, so there it sits. It just makes me sad. I keep hoping the urge to paint something will hit me, and I’ll be inspired and strong enough to go in there and paint over it. Someday it will, I suppose. Not today, though.

I feel very wistful about what could have been. I wish this had all been different, ended differently, NOT ended at all, no lies, no deception, only the love I thought we had. I still miss him. I don’t WANT to miss him, to miss someone with no respect for, well, I don’t know if it’s completely fair to say no respect for women in general, but at least no respect for two women in particular. But I did truly love him. So I do. I miss him. It’ll pass eventually.

Dan Jimenez, Adrian Jimenez, escritorio1978

The Cycle of Sad To Angry And Back Again

I still miss him. A lot. But I’m angry. I’m angry at him, for lying, for hurting me SO fucking badly. I’m angry at him for treating his wife like an afterthought. I’m angry at him for not respecting his newborn daughter enough to treat her mother well, to stand up and be a man she would be proud of. I am angry at him for repeatedly saying I made him want to be a better person and then not actually managing to BE a better person. You want to be worthy of my love? Well, you aren’t. Not at all.

And so I’m right back to sad. It HURTS, dammit!