We’re divorced, the settlement’s been paid, the house transferred. It should all be over, right? Wrong. With my MrX, the alcoholic, there are always loose ends that need tying up. So I had to pick up the phone and sort some financial details out.
Of course it led to a heated argument. You wanted to leave, is his reality. I left because he’s an alcoholic in denial and refuses to get treatment or stop drinking and I lived within an environment of abuse.
You didn’t want me, is my reality. His response is, I may have come home late every night and not been home over the weekends, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t love you. Oh? He loved me? Strange. We were separated for 3 fucking years and not once, NOT ONCE, did he ever pick up the phone to contact me. Forgive me and fuck you, but I certainly don’t call that love.
And to add hurt to misery, he flippantly threw into the conversation “Oh by the way, I had to put Max down”. Max (aka Bonbon), was our oldest, most gentle kittycat. Throught our entire 14 year marriage, my husband never once shared a bed with me because he was comatose, pass-out drunk in the living room. E.V.E.R.Y. N.I.G.H.T. Bonbon slept on the bed with me. That was his spot. And if it was very cold, he’d sneak under the covers to warm up. I know its inevitable. But its never easy. He’s gone and I’m heartbroken, flooded with memories of him, and my other babies I had to leave behind.
I’ve cried so hard I’ve given myself a nosebleed. I know it sounds dramatic and theatrical, but fuck it. I’m bipolar. My feelings ARE dramatic. Deal with it.