Gotta Make Up My Mind, Which Seat Can I Take?

I'm dreaming of drinking whiskey and listening to Patsy Cline.  Friday can't come too soon.

I need a break. One is coming Friday, when I head to the ocean with my sisters.  I am beyond ready.  The emotional roller coaster bullshit never ends.  

Today, I was so sad for Jenny, who is suffering a lot with this malady.  After last night's ridiculous therapy session--which mostly entailed 45 minutes of complaining that I didn't cook her dinner the day before and me

correcting the record constantly, and growing more annoyed by the minute, followed by an apology text so familiar I won't bother posting it here (it entailed the inferential blaming of me for her choice to have the affair)--I didn't have any expectations about how things would be today, because how could I?  I should note that again last night she tried to lie about the non-status of her relationship with Eric el pinché, and I shut that shit down.  She had nowhere to go, no counter to the claim. 

She was up at 9:00 and out to see a new chiropractor.  She got home and felt awful, and had stomach problems for a very long time.  It was miserable.  I felt awful for her.  She hurt, was upset, worried about how she would get through the tasks she had to accomplish.  Around 1:20 p.m  she left to run her errands, which included taking Abby to get her second vaccine shot.  Arriving home around 3:15, Jenny was visibly upset walking up the path to the house.  She hurried to the bathroom, saying she doesn't know how she can keep doing this, as she passed.  When she came out a few minutes later, she bundled up on the couch and again began telling me she can't carry on like this, sobbing.  I comforted her lamely, but as best I could. 

Jenny decided to move outside after some time, and I went to comfort her.  As we were talking, her friend Jennifer called.  Jenny lit up like a Christmas tree, as if nothing at all had been wrong, not ever. I went back to my work.  After 10 or 15 minutes, I went to grab a piece of gum from my room and overheard Jenny talking about Eric el pinché and how they communicate every day, and about how the wife is trying to put the lockdown on him through e-mail she found from last summer.  Jenny was amused because it--the email--had nothing to do with the affair.  Ummm.   .   . That is fucking ruthless. Zero fucks she gives for this woman.  Also, about that thing you said to me in therapy last night about having a non-relationship with Eric the pinché motherfucker?

In a fit of pique, I checked her e-mail.  It's how I roll these days. I have so little access to true information, my small amount of data mining is all I can do, and I find her sending pictures to her cancer coach/fake therapist for some bullshit project they are working on.  First picture, Eric smiling with Jenny nuzzling his neck; second and third was each of the kids with Jenny; and the last was a picture of me and Jenny.  Sent yesterday.  Yesterday. 

How in the actual fuck do I keep doing this?  Why do the lies bother me so much?  I am so furious about this relationship and want to leave and yet don't want to abandon her. Its 1,-1, ☯, 0, 1, a conundrum for me.  I can't let go of the feeling of betrayal. It feels new and ragingly painful every time I discover an additional detail, and yet I want to know every bad fact, I want to know how well and truly fucked I am.  It usually occurs after I lull myself into a false sense of stasis. But things are always in motion, even if the song remains the same.

Entry   2

1145 p.m

I have to shake this negativity.  I am drenched in it, swimming in it, buried in it.  If I wish hard enough, can I just wake up and play Jim Rockford in endless reruns? It would be far more satisfying than this life.

How do I wake up and face each day without stepping in the same quicksand?  Covid-19 exacerbated the isolation, as did the illness.  I need out of this box.  Might I make it to whatever finish line there is?

If you are reading this, know that I hate the tenor of this journal, the flavor of this journey.  I don't know why anyone would come and read the travelogues of a shit-eater (the working title of my biography).  I greatly appreciate that you do, as it makes me feel like someone is witness to this bizarre tale. I need a distraction, and will try and figure that out at the ocean this weekend.  The compartments of my "son of an alcoholic compartmentalizing" are leaking these days.  I'm not sure if that is a function of

1)  Size, is there just too much to keep at bay? Or

2) Time-As this drags on is it too hard to keep a lid on it? Or

3) Design--Have I thought through all rhe parameters to make this successful?

The struggle is real.  Also, how do I stop myself from getting lulled into a sense of normality that the betrayal, lying, gaslighting coupled with living with someone who keeps trying to pretend everything is normal, breeds? I spend all my time in this house. She is often here.  Most days she is the only adult human I interact with in the flesh. Tonight, in an act of kindness, which aren't rare, but conflict and coincide with the affair, she suggested I walk with her to a friend's home, knowing I intended to walk.  Meanwhile, throughout each day, today included, she is carrying on with this man. I find the behavior loathsome. Fuck, I want to leave.

Seeing this really
destroyed me today.

Here is the hardest part. There is no real resource out there for this particular set of circumstances.  When my 70 year old therapist tells me this is the first time she has had a case like this, all I can think is, "fuck me.'

I get online and can find grief therapy for death and anticipatory loss, therapy for couples trying to repair a marriage or recovering after leaving a marriage because of infidelity.  But I had to go and pick some particular set of circimstances for which no outlet exists. That is about as useful as balls hanging from the back of a Ford F150. Now you know why I named this blog kvetching up.  This blog feels like a paean to bitching.