Tonight S was going to come over and hang.  MJ asked if her and JP could come over and hang.  SR was gonig to stop by after her night class.  All four ended up coming over.  They brought me wine, margaritas with salt, and pie (for pi day of course!?)

I have never “loved” these friends.  They have always been sort of my B team of friends.  But I can honestly say that I feel cared for by them.  I felt really cared for and … respected by them.. almost, protected even.  When one would ask something, another would say “she’s not talking about that.” And then change the subject for me.  They are going to change neighborhood wine night to Wednesdays for me.  It’s Thursdays now, but upon hearing that I am free every Wed night, girls night might be Wednesdays.  It’s just a gathering at someone’s house in the neighborhood.  I feel thankful.

They know me more than I realized.  They know what I’m not willing to discuss.  I’m not sharing the details.  My favorite one, S, she knows I appreciate that she is my normal friend.  The one that doesn’t look at me with sad eyes, always asking, “so how ARE you today?”

She doesn’t know and doesn’t need to know.  Somehow, she doesn’t even want to know.  I love her for that.  They know my husband left me.  When people ask who’s choice, whose doing is this?  I say his.  It was “both of ours” for him to go, but it was his choice to ruin our marriage.  To leave me.  To put me in this position.  So it is his doing.  “He” left “me.”  It hurts to say that.

That was the only pointed question that I’d answer, JP said that’s all she wanted to know, because it would tell her what kind of mindset I’m in.  If I was the betrayed hurt left one or the angry, caught betrayER.  I told her I was the one that was left.

It does tell a lot.

She also asked if he was sorry.  I only said “not sorry enough.”  And that is true.  He is NOT sorry enough.  Being sorry in words is not enough, not at all.  He doesn’t feel it deeply.  In 2003, he was sorry enough.  The remorse was real.  Why can’t I have the comfort of that now?  I wish I could.  Again, I await the download of the reality of it.  I await the empathy coming upon him.  I await it all, in limbo.  Settling into limbo and finding what minimal comfort it may offer.  One day at at time.

The gloriousness of the past few days has dissipated and this afternoon I became sad again.  I just felt heavy and empty.  I know it had to do with being horizontal for FOUR HOURS while my baby slept, being unproductive and sloth-like.  There is no win in that.  I hope to have the strength not to take myself there tomorrow.

I felt sad though.

I thought of how he handed me back four dollars post haircut and how he must be transparent about EVERY DOLLAR he touches, so he doesn’t start hoarding up enough for a hooker.

I thought about how he had tears in his eyes when he said “I’m so sorry, this is so awful of me, but I don’t like your breasts.”

I thought about the million times he said “yes, this is ALL OF IT” when it was a miniscule fraction of all of it.

I wondered how there could ever be trust.  How a real relationship could ever rise out of the cracks, how gold could mend the broken pieces back together making it even better than it was before.

I was sad.  Heavy heart.

The girls cheered me up.

I told my parents today.  Finally.  It went much better than expected.

The one thing my mom kept repeating was this, in reference to him confessing to her that he’d had sex with another woman in a parking lot when I was pregnant with his first child, age 23.

“I can’t believe this.  I can’t believe him.  Back before your first baby was born, back when he did that to you then, Dad and I both remember when he called us up crying, promising us- PROMISING US that he would spend the REST OF HIS LIFE making it up to you.  I believed him.  I can’t believe this.”

I’d forgotten that he said that.  He spoke from the heart, to my mother.  Promising he’d “spend the rest of his life making it up to me.”  And he meant it.

Where did it all go wrong?  What happened?  That man, that man who cares that much, who was so deeply sorry, who cried on the phone to my mother, who FELT what he did to their daughter- he is gone.

In his place is a shell of a human, a man that is trying to care, wishing he could reach his heart, but to whom caring deeply does not come.  Because he never forgave himself.  Never allowed himself to love or be loved again after that.  And the person hurt the worst in all of that – is me.