My ex-wife came over this evening to work on art together.
It's been about three, maybe four, weeks since we broke up. She is having difficulties finding boundaries as we struggle to be friends and live apart. We maintain almost daily contact with one another and do things for one another. For example, she bought me groceries yesterday--groceries that I should have paid for but did not. She's cooked dinner for the two of us which we ate at her mother's apartment (where she still lives). I've tried to help her through this crisis by being available to talk and visit at her leisure.
Since we broke up she has consistently been the good wife instead of the hateful and evil wife. I am indescribably happy about this lucky circumstance. There have been times when the evil sister has shown glimpses of herself but these were quickly bottled up. I believe that on some level my ex-wife cannot grasp the fact that we have truly broken up and that we will never get together again.
I get this from the bits and pieces I have gleaned about from her past that whenever her current lover has become unbearably annoyed with her she was sent packing back to her mother's apartment. It usually took about two weeks for jets to cool down after which she returned to her lover's abode. I also think that she has driven her previous partners so crazy that all turned to alcohol for comfort. It almost happened to me. I think that this has been a pattern throughout her adult relationships. In other words, although she has been sent packing she always got to return. That's not the case with us.
In all honesty it is possible that she has, in fact, understood that this is no cooling-off-period-at-her-mother's-apartment experience but the real thing. She has completely remodeled her bedroom at her mother's and basically set herself up a nice little studio apartment. I've been called cheerfully to come over to see the progress she has made during this process. I've been duly appreciative and have encouraged her and praised her. She's very proud of herself and rightfully so. She's done a great job.
We still get together. She came over this evening to work on art together. This brings back fond memories for both of us of happier times when there was no tension in the air. We share tidbits about one another's lives. Little nothings having to do with (for example) the weather or her latest news about her daughter and grandson.
It breaks my heart to live alone in this lovely home that we built together and know that she is not, and can never be, my partner again. As time goes by people tend to edit out the negative aspects of their experiences and remember only the good ones. But I don't. I took too bad a beating at her hands. I cannot and will not ever forget the way she treated me during one of her so-called nervous breakdowns. She always leveled abuse at me throughout our relationship albeit to a lesser degree when I was in the submissive role of sick person and she in the clearly dominant role of caregiver. But something really seemed to snap in her after the whole unnerving ordeal of remodeling this apartment and moving into it.
My psychoanalyst thinks that she became threatened by my increasingly dominate role and began to see that I am fully capable of taking care of myself without her. My independence and lack of need of her in the caretaker role rattled her chains in some way or another. She has always been in charge but that role changed as I regained my health.
And it's not just my physical infirmities but also my psychiatric ones as well. My medicine is working (albeit with annoying side effects) and six plus years of therapy have led me to a happier and stronger life. She began to see herself increasingly unneeded in her caretaker role in a mental health way that so dominated the lion's share of our relationship. I got better but she stayed the same. It's a clichè but we did, in fact, grow apart.
Perhaps she did indeed have nervous breakdowns during all the horrible time we shared in our new apartment. I always tried my best to do what I could to help and support her during those periods, even when she slapped me nearly senseless and followed that up by pounding relentlessly on my chest. It was during that breakdown that she ran into the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and stabbed it into the floor. I think she meant to use it on me but a deep, very deep, inner warning told her that it would be extremely foolish and dangerous to her own wellbeing to attack me with a knife.
After that fight my brother, having become increasingly worried about not being able to get in touch with me, called the police. The details are foggy to me now but I remember getting rousted from my bed with my nighttime medication still in full force to greet the housing complex security guards, two policemen and my brother at the door. My wife was there, too, screaming incoherently about something. I think she screamed, "Look at him, he's over-medicated as usual." I mumbled that I had just been awakened and was a little groggy because of it.
I don't know now how the cops got to my door or how my brother ended up standing there. According to my brother's recollection, the cops had actually gone to my Wife's mother's apartment first and she had marched them right over to our (now mine) apartment. Perhaps the argument we had earlier was so bad that the security guards were notified who then called the police. Or maybe it was my brother who called the police and the security guards were contacted by the police to get access to the apartment. Well, whatever transpired was all around ugly and explosive.
The irony of this experience is that I received a desperate call form my wife's daughter telling me that my wife was lying in a crumpled heap at the footsteps leading up to her mother's apartment. I rushed over, in my stocking feet, and found her indeed lying in a pile of scattered belonging and drunk as a skunk. I gathered her stuff and helped her up the stairs where her mother was waiting to take her in. So even though I was the bad guy in all of this I nevertheless rushed to help her when she needed it.
That was the final straw for me. She had to go. I cannot leave because I have nowhere to go. This is my home now. I've changed all of my addresses and even gotten a new California ID. I have nowhere else to go. She knows this and we do not discuss it (although it reared its ugly head in a brush with my wife's evil twin.)
So she is packed up and gone.
One evening while sitting together in her bedroom she asked me why I broke up with her. She seemed relatively stabile so I told her, point blank, what had happened to me. I told her that she had broken my heart once too many times. She had told me in no uncertain terms that she hated me and did not love me. She retorted angrily that she had not realized what a wimp I was and began to expose her evil twin. She told me angrily to go and so I left. I didn't hear from her for a few days and when she called me it was as if the whole incident had not taken place. I let it slide. I am no longer invested in this relationship or her to make any effort to reconcile our differences.
I do not consider myself to be a wimp. I am a strong and healthy man. I am considerate of others and still full of love which I will eagerly share with a new partner in case one ever shows up. In the meantime I can share comfortable time together with her. I do not have a problem with this. As long as all remains civil, she is welcome to come here and share happy time together. And so we did this evening in the art studio.
It's been about three, maybe four, weeks since we broke up. She is having difficulties finding boundaries as we struggle to be friends and live apart. We maintain almost daily contact with one another and do things for one another. For example, she bought me groceries yesterday--groceries that I should have paid for but did not. She's cooked dinner for the two of us which we ate at her mother's apartment (where she still lives). I've tried to help her through this crisis by being available to talk and visit at her leisure.
Since we broke up she has consistently been the good wife instead of the hateful and evil wife. I am indescribably happy about this lucky circumstance. There have been times when the evil sister has shown glimpses of herself but these were quickly bottled up. I believe that on some level my ex-wife cannot grasp the fact that we have truly broken up and that we will never get together again.
I get this from the bits and pieces I have gleaned about from her past that whenever her current lover has become unbearably annoyed with her she was sent packing back to her mother's apartment. It usually took about two weeks for jets to cool down after which she returned to her lover's abode. I also think that she has driven her previous partners so crazy that all turned to alcohol for comfort. It almost happened to me. I think that this has been a pattern throughout her adult relationships. In other words, although she has been sent packing she always got to return. That's not the case with us.
In all honesty it is possible that she has, in fact, understood that this is no cooling-off-period-at-her-mother's-apartment experience but the real thing. She has completely remodeled her bedroom at her mother's and basically set herself up a nice little studio apartment. I've been called cheerfully to come over to see the progress she has made during this process. I've been duly appreciative and have encouraged her and praised her. She's very proud of herself and rightfully so. She's done a great job.
We still get together. She came over this evening to work on art together. This brings back fond memories for both of us of happier times when there was no tension in the air. We share tidbits about one another's lives. Little nothings having to do with (for example) the weather or her latest news about her daughter and grandson.
It breaks my heart to live alone in this lovely home that we built together and know that she is not, and can never be, my partner again. As time goes by people tend to edit out the negative aspects of their experiences and remember only the good ones. But I don't. I took too bad a beating at her hands. I cannot and will not ever forget the way she treated me during one of her so-called nervous breakdowns. She always leveled abuse at me throughout our relationship albeit to a lesser degree when I was in the submissive role of sick person and she in the clearly dominant role of caregiver. But something really seemed to snap in her after the whole unnerving ordeal of remodeling this apartment and moving into it.
My psychoanalyst thinks that she became threatened by my increasingly dominate role and began to see that I am fully capable of taking care of myself without her. My independence and lack of need of her in the caretaker role rattled her chains in some way or another. She has always been in charge but that role changed as I regained my health.
And it's not just my physical infirmities but also my psychiatric ones as well. My medicine is working (albeit with annoying side effects) and six plus years of therapy have led me to a happier and stronger life. She began to see herself increasingly unneeded in her caretaker role in a mental health way that so dominated the lion's share of our relationship. I got better but she stayed the same. It's a clichè but we did, in fact, grow apart.
Perhaps she did indeed have nervous breakdowns during all the horrible time we shared in our new apartment. I always tried my best to do what I could to help and support her during those periods, even when she slapped me nearly senseless and followed that up by pounding relentlessly on my chest. It was during that breakdown that she ran into the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and stabbed it into the floor. I think she meant to use it on me but a deep, very deep, inner warning told her that it would be extremely foolish and dangerous to her own wellbeing to attack me with a knife.
After that fight my brother, having become increasingly worried about not being able to get in touch with me, called the police. The details are foggy to me now but I remember getting rousted from my bed with my nighttime medication still in full force to greet the housing complex security guards, two policemen and my brother at the door. My wife was there, too, screaming incoherently about something. I think she screamed, "Look at him, he's over-medicated as usual." I mumbled that I had just been awakened and was a little groggy because of it.
I don't know now how the cops got to my door or how my brother ended up standing there. According to my brother's recollection, the cops had actually gone to my Wife's mother's apartment first and she had marched them right over to our (now mine) apartment. Perhaps the argument we had earlier was so bad that the security guards were notified who then called the police. Or maybe it was my brother who called the police and the security guards were contacted by the police to get access to the apartment. Well, whatever transpired was all around ugly and explosive.
The irony of this experience is that I received a desperate call form my wife's daughter telling me that my wife was lying in a crumpled heap at the footsteps leading up to her mother's apartment. I rushed over, in my stocking feet, and found her indeed lying in a pile of scattered belonging and drunk as a skunk. I gathered her stuff and helped her up the stairs where her mother was waiting to take her in. So even though I was the bad guy in all of this I nevertheless rushed to help her when she needed it.
That was the final straw for me. She had to go. I cannot leave because I have nowhere to go. This is my home now. I've changed all of my addresses and even gotten a new California ID. I have nowhere else to go. She knows this and we do not discuss it (although it reared its ugly head in a brush with my wife's evil twin.)
So she is packed up and gone.
One evening while sitting together in her bedroom she asked me why I broke up with her. She seemed relatively stabile so I told her, point blank, what had happened to me. I told her that she had broken my heart once too many times. She had told me in no uncertain terms that she hated me and did not love me. She retorted angrily that she had not realized what a wimp I was and began to expose her evil twin. She told me angrily to go and so I left. I didn't hear from her for a few days and when she called me it was as if the whole incident had not taken place. I let it slide. I am no longer invested in this relationship or her to make any effort to reconcile our differences.
I do not consider myself to be a wimp. I am a strong and healthy man. I am considerate of others and still full of love which I will eagerly share with a new partner in case one ever shows up. In the meantime I can share comfortable time together with her. I do not have a problem with this. As long as all remains civil, she is welcome to come here and share happy time together. And so we did this evening in the art studio.
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