I Don’t Blame You

Initially, I planned to title this post 'Watch For The Signs,' but about halfway through, I had a revelation.

Ultimately, I am penning this post to get some things off my chest, mainly the disappointment I'm experiencing. And sure, I could execute that plan with hate in my heart; I mean, I'm certainly not in love with how my marriage unravels before me.

But I am a recovering addict. Because of this, I can look at destructive behavior in those I love and hold dearly to my heart and see their reckless actions through a different lens—one with total compassion and empathy made possible by experiential understanding.

Simply put, I believe (and I could be wrong) that the man I'm divorcing is suffering from a brain chemical imbalance—just like me and everyone else in need of Lexapro. Reward System: Hijacked! So hearing him say he is in love with someone he barely knows and for whom he is willing to walk out on his family doesn't come as that much of a shock.

Here's the thing, though: Like any -ism, the afflicted must genuinely want to change his mind (spirit, too,) because the solution is in surrender. But, unfortunately, most of us are too damned proud to concede, even to our most authentic, highest selves. Furthermore, it's impossible to admit defeat when you deny the fight is even taking place.

Today, when conversing with my dad, he reminded me of the many times I've been through similar situations with Josh, my soon-to-be ex-husband, over the years. Unfortunately, we couldn't agree on a number, but it's more than I can count with both hands.

Then, dad asked, "What attracted you to him in the first place anyway?"

Immediately, I thought about the texts he sent me at the beginning. "Good morning, beautiful," is his go-to.

I received that one every morning for quite a while before our first date. See, our relationship began long-distance; in 2014, I was fresh out of rehab and living in a basement on a farm in Tennessee with my mother and step-father—the situation was less than ideal.

So, after months of texting every day, with more than three hundred miles between us, he threw a spark, and I lit up. That October, four months after our first kiss, I moved east to the coast where Josh lived, and I'd grown up, and the two of us rented a condo together.

Within six months, I was pregnant with our son. If that wasn't enough of a shock to the system, I got my first taste of Josh's infidelity just days after learning about the baby.

As it turned out, he was involved in multiple online relationships with other women—most in different cities, some from his past, and others he'd never met in person. To my surprise, most flings began long before we signed the one-year lease; we're talking way back, starting as a teenager.

Just typing this sends a chill down my spine. Of course, any sane person would've heeded such a clear-cut warning, but I married him instead. Perhaps, it's because I was in a dark place mentally and emotionally—dry but not sober, lacking in self-worth, a chicken with its motherfucking head whacked right off.

And I had a human being growing inside my body. So I needed to figure out where to even start with that. If you knew me before I became a mother, you likely didn't think I'd make a good one. I sure didn't consider myself fit for that duty. But I was confident in Josh's ability because he's the oldest of five siblings. Also, he's a kid at heart, which, as it turns out, would become our detriment.

Unfortunately, his promises to cut off contact with his long-distance lovers, even those under the impression they were engaged to be married, were in vain. Instead, I'd go on to catch him in similar online scenarios—every six months, like clockwork. In hindsight, each alcoholic relapse I experienced during our marriage moved in sync with his hot pursuits for excessive female attention.

Finally, in 2021 I stopped looking for clues, partly because I didn't know if I could handle another gut punch, another glimpse into his delusion, another blindsided fiance whose bubble I'd have to burst. But in a strangely freeing way, I stopped looking because I didn't care anymore; was I busy running a household, or was I no longer in love?

When I got sober (again) six months ago, I changed; not all parts of myself, but indeed the essentials, especially my spiritual fitness, which before had been in piss-poor health and was keeping me sick.

And thank goodness for that because here I am: a doting mother with a boy who thinks I hung the moon, my head securely attached, and my heart in the right place for probably the first time in my life.

But, back to falling out of love. I believe that couples, especially those in lengthy marriages, get to a place of complacency. Sometimes, we become business partners, or in my and Josh's case, ride-or-die besties who liked to make one another laugh to the point of tears. Perhaps, we still love each other, but eventually, one of us claims he's fallen out of love.

Josh and I celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary five weeks ago—three weeks before everything came crashing down on me. Over dinner, I expressed to him my gratitude for putting up with me and my addiction for so many years; God knows he tolerated a lot.

He stared into my eyes and said, "I am more in love with you now than ever before, and we have forever to go." And I'd be lying if I said I didn't believe him. On the contrary, I'm more in love with myself than ever, so it seemed plausible.

But, to be frank, I'm uncertain whether my son’s father is someone who indeed understands the magic and mechanics of genuinely loving someone—lust, he gets, but unconditional love, sadly, I don't think so.

Nevertheless, I'm grateful for the years I stood by him, and the times he stood by me. As a result, I'm no longer angry at myself for ignoring the many signs. See, I'm a fighter and hopeless romantic, and although I am intuitive, love is blind.

Josh likes to put up walls. I learned how to break many of them down. But there's this new wall now, not like one I've seen within him before. So cold and distant, my husband is not my husband anymore. This person is foreign to me. He speaks differently; he doesn't even look the same. In constructing this new wall, he must’ve had help; it has a woman's touch, if you know what I mean.

Thankfully, I've realized that demolition skills are no longer needed here. Those are not my walls. They never really were, to begin with, but boy, did I kick at them with enthusiasm.

"None of this is your fault," I tell my son to remind him that he is loved through all this falling out of love surrounding him. It's no one's fault, really. After all, the universe is unfolding as it should. Nothing happens in God's world by mistake.

So, yeah, I am disappointed—in him and me.

But, Josh, I don't blame you.

I don't blame you one bit.