Thanks for the Nightmares

I still have nightmares that I am married. In the dreams, we are always moving.

My dead cats also star in these dreams. There is usually also a litter box overflowing with turds. I find it a fitting metaphor for most of my marriage.

It’s not that we didn’t have good times, but I think my ex would agree that we are both happier now. He has a lady and is reportedly happy. I am so happy I worry that I am manic at times. Crazy happy.

So why did I leave? Did he provide financial stability? Certainly. Did having my life revolve around the military suck in a lot of ways? Yes. Yes, it did. But living with someone who had no empathy for mental illness was unbearable. And his strange relationship with a female coworker? Icing on the cake, friends.

And it’s not that the potential to have an affair wasn’t present on both sides. Heck, if my stringent ideas of morality hadn’t prevented me, I would have been all over that like white on rice. A husband who’s gone half of the time? Fuggedaboutit. But no. I was a good wife at least in that regard. Dual diagnosis? Sure. Suicidally depressed at times?

We all have our flaws.

So why the contemplation? I have a friend who is going through a rough divorce and it has brought back all the feels.

And all my doubts and fears. Was I, in fact, cheated on? And why does it matter? It’s bugging me like a popcorn seed stuck under my gums.

An attractive female coworker. One who he bragged about because “she works out two hours a day and doesn’t eat real food.” We would invite her over, drink, play video games, or watch movies. And eventually I would go upstairs and they would…whatever.

Hmmm, my friends said. Hmmm. Really Cheryl? Aren’t you missing something obvious? Never caught them. He flat out denies an affair. No evidence whatsoever that anything untoward ever went on.

Still, when I see the gigantic houseplant she gave us sitting at my mother’s house, I can’t help but cringe. Boss is a beautiful plant.

Boss’s mother, however, was a whore.

Moving on. Why would I ever suspect that he had an affair? Was he a flirt?

Oh, a notorious one.

When we were dating I had to teach him that it’s not polite to talk about other “hot girls” directly in front of his girlfriend. Then there was the incident at The Magic Time Machine in San Antonio, TX. It’s a restaurant with ambiance unparalleled as it is unexplainable, and the staff are dressed in random costumes.

We hadn’t been married a year. There was an adorable waitress dressed as Supergirl who (unfortunately for everyone involved) also happened to be our waitress. My ex flirted heavily with her, even requesting that she come home with us. The other couple we were with was alternately entertained and appalled. Was this guy for real?

The unbearable plight of plight of poor Supergirl! Alas, I wish there was something I could have done. But one thing I was never able to do was reign in my ex’s behavior.

Supergirl got in the last laugh for this blatant harassment, however. On our receipt, she penned, “Thanks for the nightmares!”

Indeed.

So I still get mad about crap. Blame the overflowing litterbox of my mind. Does it matter in the end? No. Does it wake me in the middle of the night with feelings of immense regret?

You betcha.

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