This blog is being written as I’m crying. In my office (again), so much that I can’t speak or work. Those following my blog for a while will know about the spouts of uncontrollable crying. And that those tears were for myself. Today’s crying came about from reading this blogpost https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/47031431/posts/1735181671 and the comments on it and then straight there-after another. The first one started the tears, the second kept it going. Two very different topics, both speaking of the love of a mother for a child.
The second story is about me, not really, but it could’ve been, here’s mine:
20 years ago, it was my oldest child’s first day of school. I was young, just 25, and photos were customarily taken on the day. The woman looking up at the camera was a very different one than the one looking at the screen today. She had 2 small children and a husband that was so busy with his own interests, that he had long since forgotten he had a wife. And there was this man at work, her boss, that talked to her, like she was a person. Like she was an interesting person, who meant something, who had something to say. And because she was young and naïve, the conversations became longer and longer. Because the conversations became longer, it was no longer appropriate to conduct them during business hours, so they worked later and later in order to talk more.
Then the boss arranged a visit to one of the depots, and of course she had to go along. That night, after a few drinks we took the conversation to a new level. I realised that what I was doing was wrong, but could just not get out of it. I didn’t love the boss, but wasn’t sure that I loved my husband anymore either. Devastation hit as the boss told me he was leaving his wife, fuck how could I tell him now that he was only a distraction? And if I told my husband, does it mean I have to now marry the boss? Confusion, so I talked more with the boss, making sure to go home on time, as to not have a repeat sexual act, I also gave more attention to my husband as I was feeling so guilty.
One night my husband came home from playing cricket, late as usual, and confronted me with the truth. How he found out, I still don’t know. When I admitted it, he became enraged and hit my head against the dining room table until I passed out. We never saw a therapist and decided to stay together.
We stayed together another 10 years, but things were never the same. He never trusted me again. Never. We lived our separate lives, whenever we had to attend things together, we were barely civil to each other. He took out his frustration on me a few more times, but I never spoke about it, as surely I deserved it.
Then I met the current X, the kids were old enough to deal with a divorce and I finally had the courage to walk away.
Today I’m still struggling with feelings of guilt. I know the XX has forgiven me, I know the kids have too, I know God has, but I’m struggling to forgive myself. I still believe that I am not worthy of love. I’m not even sure what love really is, how it is supposed to look when it’s really real. Of my children’s childhood, I remember very few details, maybe because I was so busy with my own things. Deceit, unhappiness, pretending to be ok, submerging myself in my work to get away from a house of fear and guilt.
I wish I had a mom that knew, even a friend, just someone to talk too during that time. Someone to give me advise, someone praying for me. I wish we confided in someone, a therapist, a priest, a friend. My kids grew up and turned into “normal” adults despite me, not because of.