I’ve always been compelled to write when life turns gray. Yes gray, not grey. Grey just looks wrong to me. There I go..bunny trailing with my thoughts. They’re all jumbled — my thoughts, and I hate it. Which is why I write. To smooth them out. Iron them, lay them down, sort them, arrange them. What a tedious thing it is to analyze my own thoughts. I want to hate him, but I don’t. I hate that he’s made horrible choices. Someone asked me today if I felt like hurting him as badly as he hurt me. Nope. I couldn’t care less than I do about the way he feels. He’s literally wasted years of my life not caring about me. I may be a ticking time bomb still, not sure yet. I sure was livid a few days ago. Felt the need to throw punches for the first time in my life. No wife should ever feel that way towards her husband. Ever. Yet over and over for years the lies and the cheating continued. Deception. It’s literally the biggest wrong in my book. He says he can’t help it, then says he won’t get help. In other words, he could help it, he just doesn’t want to. Yet he doesn’t want a divorce? What kind of fucked up mind game is that? And does he really think that I’ll just keep letting the same damn story play out time and time again? He seriously has me figured wrong. I warned him. More than once. I forgave him more times than I can count. He’s so disconnected, and I’m done trying to reach him or even to help him. He finalized my capacity for forgiveness this time by jeopardizing my sanity. It’s just over. God help me.

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