Tag Archives: lies

The Man I Fell in Love with is Gone

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And I don’t know who this other guy is.

Yesterday was my second court appearance for my divorce.

The first didn’t really count — it was just an appearance to set dates for the appearances that would follow. My husband and I both showed up with our lawyers. Neither of us got to say anything of substance to the judge. They set dates, we wrote them down, the judge left, and we left. Simple.

Yesterday’s appearance was different. Yesterday, we were each put on the witness stand and questioned by the two attorneys. At stake was who would be able to live in the house and use my hangar until the divorce was finalized.

I don’t want to go into detail about what was said and done. Two reasons. First, I don’t want to save the experience forever on the pages of this blog. It was extremely painful to me on so many levels. Second, my lawyers would probably scold me, depending on how much detail I provided and what I said. It’s not worth pissing off my lawyers or getting into trouble. My legal team rocks.

But I do want to briefly touch upon what I realized when my husband came to the stand and began answering questions that he and his lawyer had likely rehearsed in advance: he was not the man I fell in love with.

It’s funny, in a way, because it looked like him and it sounded like him. But the things he said were not the kinds of things the man I fell in love with would say about me. The man I fell in love with loved me just as much as I loved him — if not more. He always spoke kindly to and of me. He always defended me.

This man, however, was in attack mode, bending and stretching the truth (almost beyond recognition) to make a case against me. The man I fell in love with would never do that.

No Real Surprise

I don’t know why this surprised me so much. I knew the man I fell in love with was gone. I knew it this summer.

In June, while going through a pile of papers that I’d brought with me to Washington to sort out when I had time, I came across two greeting cards that the man I fell in love with had sent me years ago. They were the kinds of cards people in love share with each other, sometimes for no apparent reason other than to express their love. I can’t remember exactly what they said, but I do recall one of them mentioning “love” and “forever.”

I sat on the floor in my RV, looking at the two cards and thinking about the man who had sent them to me years ago. And as I thought about it, I realized that that man was gone — dead, I thought. The man I’d left in Arizona in May didn’t give me cards or flowers or anything else for no special reason. The man I left in Arizona spent most of his time glaring at me when I did something he didn’t like. The man I left in Arizona seemed almost too eager for me to leave.

So I wrote a letter to the man I’d left in Arizona — who is apparently the same man who showed up in court yesterday. I appealed to him to remember the old days, the days when he told me that I needed to “make it happen,” the days when he was an idealistic dreamer and inventor. I asked him what happened to that man. I told him what I suspected: that that man was dead.

I didn’t know it, but as I was writing that letter, the man I’d left in Arizona had already found my replacement. His response to my letter arrived in my mailbox, forwarded with my mail, the day after my birthday, the day after he told me he wanted a divorce.

Right now, all I regret is sending the man I’d left in Arizona those cards. They’re gone now, along with the man who sent them to me, the man I fell in love with. I’d really like to have them back to help me remember him and the way things were.

The Upside

Amazing as it may seem, there is an upside to all this.

Listening to the man in the witness box bend and stretch the truth to build a case against me was like a slap in the face — a slap of reality. Although he’s spread the word among family and friends — and even to me in email messages and written notes — that he still cares about me, that’s so obviously not true. It’s just another lie in a long series of lies that were likely spun to put me off guard about what’s to come. The man in the witness box doesn’t give a shit about me and the 29 years he and the man I fell in love with spent with me. The man in the witness box is simply seeking revenge for imagined offenses. The man in the witness box cares only about himself.

And knowing that now, without a shadow of a doubt, will help me begin my healing process.

Gold Digger

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A definition that I find extremely fitting for a certain person.

As I learn more and more about what’s been going on in Arizona since I left in May, a term came up that I find extremely fitting for one of the parties involved. From the New Oxford American Dictionary:

gold digger
noun informal
a person who dates others purely to extract money from them, in particular a woman who strives to marry a wealthy man.

What amazes me is how easily a weak man can be led around by his penis.

The Pain of Betrayal

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The reality is much worse than I imagined.

Back when I was writing fiction, one of my plots involved two characters who developed a deep romantic relationship.

be•tray | biˈtrā |
verb [ with obj. ]
1 expose (one’s country, a group, or a person) to danger by treacherously giving information to an enemy: a double agent who betrayed some 400 British and French agents to the Germans.

  • treacherously reveal (secrets or information): many of those employed by diplomats betrayed secrets and sold classified documents.

  • be disloyal to: his friends were shocked when he betrayed them.

2 unintentionally reveal; be evidence of: she drew a deep breath that betrayed her indignation.
DERIVATIVES
be•tray•al | -əl | noun,
be•tray•er noun
ORIGIN Middle English: from be-‘thoroughly’ + obsolete tray ‘betray,’ from Old French trait, based on Latin tradere ‘hand over.’ Compare with traitor.

Jack, the woman in the story, was damaged goods — she’d lost her husband, who she loved dearly, when he killed a man in a jealous rage and was locked up in a foreign prison. For years, she tried bribing guards to get him out — stealing to get the money she needed — only to learn that he’d been dead almost as long as he’d been gone. She’d become an outlaw, basically destroying her own life, to get back a man who would never return. Along the way, she lost their child to a family member who threatened to expose her if she tried to find them. With everything she loved taken away from her, she took refuge alone in an outpost city, a borderline alcoholic watched over by a very close friend named Alex. That’s her backstory.

The man, Ray, entered at the beginning of the story as another outlaw who had chosen to take refuge in the same outpost city. He quickly became friends with Alex, and through him, with Jack. They had many similarities in their knowledge and skills and it was natural that they should hook up. They worked together as a team. His companionship and their lovemaking helped her forget the tragedy of her past. She fell in love with him and it seemed pretty clear that he felt the same way about her.

The only problem is that Ray wasn’t what he seemed. In reality, he’d come to take Alex out of the city. He was using his friendship with Jack and Alex as a means to achieve his real goal. As the plot unfolded, he stood by while one of his men gunned Jack down. Jack survived it, but was left with the pain of the feeling of betrayal.

As a writer, I had to instill my character with that emotion. It had to come through her in the way she spoke, looked, and acted. It wasn’t enough to say she felt betrayed; I had to get inside her head and make her feel betrayed. And then communicate that to readers.

That’s fiction. Whether I pulled it off will never really be known; the work is at a standstill and will never be published or shared.

But one thing is for certain: the feeling of betrayal is far worse than I ever could have imagined.

I’m going through it now. After 29 years of a life with a man I loved, a man who claimed he loved me and acted as if he did — right up to the moment I last saw him! — I’m discovering a huge web of lies and actions behind my back. As I learn more and more about his betrayal of my trust, everything that comes before our last communication is in question — including his true motivations for marrying me in the first place. As I realize that I can’t believe a single thing he told me, the pain grows and grows.

What makes it even worse in this situation is his complete failure to explain his actions. It’s as if he just doesn’t care — something I’m finding so hard to believe and accept after a 29-year relationship. But it confirms my worst suspicions about his actions and motivations.

A complete and utter betrayal of my trust, possibly going back for years and years.

The pain of betrayal is the worst pain possible. It’s a pain without end, rooted in once fond memories now analyzed and questioned. It’s pain made worse by realizing that someone you thought really cared about you apparently doesn’t care at all. Or, worse yet, is now bent on hurting you as much as he possibly can.

That’s where I am today.