The greyness of the sky hits my eyes in the same way spending 14 hours under a fluorescent light in a windowless room does. I’m drained.
And then I remember it all. Heartbreak swirls its way up from my chest and grips my brain.
My thoughts are suddenly awash with the affair my husband had almost a year ago.
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He left me. For six days.
And then came home, and in a moment of pure vulnerability I told him how I felt about him, and that I didn’t think, despite everything, our marriage was beyond repair.
He came home that night. And together, we have shoveled our way out of the steaming pile of s**t the crisis of infidelity can bury a relationship under, using teaspoons. And like all good gardeners know, nothing is better for a blooming, beautiful garden than a mountain of manure.
But every now and then, I get swept in the undercurrent of thoughts.
My brain, I assume, is trying to protect me from the pain that stopped me eating and sleeping and snatched my life as I knew it away from me.
I made a mistake. When he came back.
I looked at everything. The text messages. The saucy pictures. The emails. The Spotify playlist they collaborated on.
I asked. All. The. Questions. I thought I was being smart. I questioned him for hours. And he told me everything.
I wanted to know what I was getting myself back into. But what I really did was put a bullet in the chamber and load the gun. I collected triggers. And now the things I know haunt me.