No one gets through a divorce from cheating unscathed, I know this and I have to believe this even when I don’t ever see the damage done to the guilty parties.
Supposedly, one day the Cheater will wake up and realize he is broke, alone, drunk, and dying of lung cancer. When the taxman and wage garnishment interfere with the helicopter rides, Mongolian BBQs, Benihana grill shows, casino concerts, and package store runs (all of his extra-marital affair entertainment choices reek of lowbrow tackiness. He and the whore can’t even get blue-collar chic right), he will cry to the Heavens.
Frankly, I don’t give a damn because I can’t bother with waiting for comeuppance when the probability of that happening is low. My solace is reminding myself that no matter how tough things got in our marriage, I wasn’t the weak and sorry bitch who cheated. I win, even though I’m suffering financially right now, that is the anthill that I’m lying on with my victory flag. Pride doesn’t pay the bills, but it sure in the hell helps me sleep at night. All I have right now is my smugness. And it’s warm and fuzzy.
My uncle was a cheating bastard. I only learned about this recently. He was married for years and years, maybe forty-five years before his wife kicked him out. He was a traveling salesman. He even tried it on with me when I was 16 years old. Pervert. My mother says that his wife found out about his affair or found out one time too many, and made him leave. That generation never wants to give up the dirt, so I have to fill in the blanks. For a while he was living with his brother, two old fools in their early 70s living together in some Southern backwoods house, both sitting on the internet every day spitting out armchair political propaganda on Facebook. Then what happens to the cheating bastard? He gets into a motor scooter (maybe it was a motorcycle) accident so bad that he was in the ICU for a month and what materializes like magic? A long lost daughter that he never knew he had. She took him home to Miami where she has a rich husband and a Mega-McMansion with a swimming pool and everything else that would rival the cover of Fancy Living Magazine and takes care of him. She has had him about five years now. He posts his elaborate living on Facebook all the time. What was his comeuppance? The Miami Marlins suck?
What will be the whore’s comeuppance? Well, she will probably have to cover their living expenses when my husband has to start paying alimony and college expenses. Even though he should still have plenty of money, he manages it so poorly that she had better hope she doesn’t have to rely on him to keep the electric going. His budget method is to spend until his cards are declined. Will she regret her complicity in destroying a marriage then? The man was an asshole husband but he was my asshole husband to deal with and possibly divorce on our (his and mine) terms if and when it came to that time. Of course, that type of divorce never came about because he was a chicken shit asshole who had an amoral whore provide him with a cowardly exit.
All of the above to talk about how I am suffering in addition to financially. I have developed Dermatillomania, A.K.A. Scalp Picking. Self-diagnosed, of course. My doctor knows about it and so does my hairdresser. She asked me the other day if I was still scratching my head after she was finished cutting my hair, so she knew the answer. I felt like a teacher was quizzing me about cutting. How foolish can I be? None of this started until he left and I started worrying about how I was going to survive financially with four kids. Thank God and the court system, there are pre-divorce orders that require a working spouse to continue to pay the household expenses (sans grocery money however) in situations like ours. At first, I imagined the worst and assumed we would have to go to a homeless shelter or be kicked out if he foreclosed on the house. The judge told him that he had better be paying the mortgage.
Anyway, I am tired of my poor scalp being so tender. If I am super busy I do not pick my scalp. But let me have a moment of down time and my hands go right to my hair. According to this website, here are some possibilities as to why I am compulsively scalp picking:
Compulsive scalp picking is sometimes done as a means of self-inflicted punishment or as a method of deliberately causing the sensation of pain. The rationale behind the need to cause pain is that life has become so dull and uneventful that the pain is welcomed as a sign of actual engagement in the process of living.
No, I don’t think I need to cause myself pain to feel life. I am fully engaged.
Another response to the need to inflict pain is the distorted sense of relief that is realized when the pain (the picking) stops. When this pain-inflicting behavior becomes a routine part of life, the relief from pain is felt only momentarily, at best.
That one made my head hurt. Okay, I understand it, but I’m not sure it applies. I know when I was a silly little girl I would deliberately press my stone bruises. Going barefoot in the summer often caused a bruise. Pressing it caused pain, but there was a weird sense of pleasure to that pain. As I got older, the pain became painful without any pleasure, so that put an end to pressing them.
Oftentimes, psychological counseling during the course of treatment for scalp picking reveals the source of the internal pain that leads to the compulsion to pick the skin of the scalp or of anywhere else on the body.
This explanation may be the most likely one. I don’t need counseling to find out that I have internal pain. Actually, internal sounds a bit ridiculous as if I have something hidden that needs to be unearthed. My pain is very much externally-internal.
I know the source of my pain. I’m scared to death when it comes to thinking about how I am going to financially support my family. I need to move. I need a job. I need money to move. I need a job to want me. I need to not think I am too old to start a career. I need to keep four children believing that everything is going to be okay. I need to stop wanting to blame myself for all of this (even though I tell myself I am not at fault, for some reason I feel like I need to blame myself!).
Stop. Stop right now. I need to stop picking my damn scalp.
Besides, I have to color my hair. I have grey-ish white temples. I cannot pass for ten years younger if my scalp is too scratched up to have my hair colored. It was so painful the last time I colored my hair and it is time to do it again.