phone records / self torture
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|Tue, 10-06-2009 - 12:30pm|
About six weeks into our marriage I exclaimed. “How could we possibly be out of money, we still have checks!” That was the day she took the check book away from me and even though I know it exists. I’m surprised that my name is even on them. She took over paying the bills some 19 years ago and didn’t look back until July of 2008.
In July, my spouse invited me to leave but importantly, she was finally talking to me. She had admitted to “talking” to men at school. The next day I found the phone bills in a box and began the process of going through them. I didn’t know what I was looking for–long phone calls I supposed. I confronted her with the bill and asked who the numbers belonged to. The out-of-town number that usually went on for an hour, both day-and-night, was the most glaring. It was HIS number of course. She brushed it off. “It’s just my high school boyfriend. We have been talking since the reunion.” Well, they weren’t just “talking.” and she tore up the phone bills in front of me.
The other man asked her if I would ever find the phone records. "No danger there, I pay the bills."
I went on-line and found the phone records again. In time, I found the other men. From the phone bill, I now know all the dates and times of the icky details, and the fact is, what I know really hurts me. I can track that she tried to call one man at 3 am only for him to return the call at 5 am. I can see the phone call they made as they were driving to each other. There is that 2 min. phone call to me in the middle letting me know she will be late.
The whole thing just tares me apart. Once I found out, I went over the phone records with her and she would tell me who everyone is. If I had a question she would start dialing the number and tell the person some excuse for the impromptu call and let me listen in so I would know it was her Aunt or girlfriend or coworker.
We don’t do this anymore.
Today, there is that phone bill again, sitting unopened on the back of the couch. My impulse is to get on-line again and pour over the old records again. “If there were four guys, there might be five.” “What did I miss??”
Every time I tell her a date or a detail that even she doesn’t remember, a sad look washes over her face. Is that hurt about me or her? Or is it about someone else?
It’s self torture. At some point I have to stop thinking about it. Stop reliving it. I have to accept it for what it is. I’ve poured over it, I know what happened–some ways better than they do. I have my answers. She’s not doing it anymore. We are rebuilding and doing a good job of it.
I have to let it go.
5 kids ages 16-10, D Day: August, 2008
What I'm doing to rebuild: Therapy, Books, Exercise, Forgiveness.