Jealousy- I Was Pretty Crushed
I can’t remember when the Amishishes sat me down, together, and asked me to start sleeping in the spare bedroom. I do remember when they sat me down and told me that I was no longer welcome to live with them.
Neither of them made eye contact.
He looked straight down into his lap. She sat with her hands crossed looking tortured and tormented. It must have been so hard on them.
There was nothing I could say. The decision had been made and I wasn’t a part of it. It was being delivered to me.
There was that same sense that had hung in the air when LaDaughter had visited. That sense that he knew this was wrong, and it was never going to matter. That sense that she was in control, even if she had lied, manipulated, and undermined everything.
I accepted it with grace. I thanked them for the experience. I cried by myself. I packed, and cried, and reminded myself that I was unlovable, and I should have known better.
Nothing had gotten better in my relationship with my mom. I called periodically and she would judge me from the other end of the phone line.
It was hard to process how much it hurt, because I was so panicked about losing my housing.
He said they were really sorry, and he said he felt responsible, and to not have any hard feelings toward her because she just couldn’t take having to share him.
I didn’t have a lot of options to explore. I had married them. We had a ceremony. I had written vows. It was not just supposed to be ending because someone hadn’t been honest about who she was, and that someone was NOT me.
I was disposable, and they were done using me.
The Old Witch came to my rescue, and offered to let me move into the one-bedroom cabin next to hers. It would take a week or so to fix up, and I’d have to clean it up myself. The Mr. would be tasked with bringing over a fridge from another cabin on the property, and installing a bathroom, because there wasn’t one. Until then, I would eat, pee, and shower at the Old Witch’s cabin.
I had to get the electricity in my name and learn how to order propane and get the tank filled. Propane heat sucks. Rent was $280/month and at least we lived close to the grocery store whose motto was “if they didn’t have it, you didn’t need it.”
I didn’t have telephone or television, but I did buy myself a stereo system with a 5 disc CD player, and my own water bed, which I put together all by myself, thank you.
The Fridge had thick growth of black mold, and a variety of other molds. It was like a little botanic garden of mold, mildew, and filth. The door of the fridge had the egg holder built into the shelf, and eggs had been broken in there at some point and abandoned that way. There were meats that had stayed in the freezer through the seasons it had sat unused.
I put my hair up in a ponytail covered with a bandana, and used a second bandana to cover my nose and mouth as I waged chemical war on that fridge to the smooth tones of George Strait.
The oven wasn’t much better, and I got very used to scrubbing. I didn’t dare light a match with the fumes in that place. Eventually, I even got the floors mopped. Feeling that gross made it particularly fun to not have my own bathroom.
In case you were wondering, periods also make that a blast.
Mr. Amishish would come over to work on the bathroom during the day while I was sleeping from working nights. I was emotionally exhausted by their betrayal. I was physically exhausted because I asked my workplace to give me as much overtime as humanly possible. I needed to be busy. I wanted to be numb. As if it all didn’t already suck enough, I had to weather the noise of the construction and his constant presence.
I was in my bedroom, and he was right there, on the other side of the wall. Every sound caused by his motions, his presence.
I had tried so hard to not let anyone see that I was destroyed by their decision.
I begged.
I begged him to love me. I begged him to pick me. I sobbed and I pleaded. I pointed out that I had meant everything I had said, and I had kept all of my promises.
I reminded him of the promises he had made to me, and everything that had been said to lure me in. I reminded him how connected we had felt, when we were allowed to touch, and pointed out that the person causing the torment wasn’t me. I reminded him how it had felt, before he stopped making eye contact with me.
I crawled out of bed, in something lacier than I would normally sleep in, and across the floor to force his eyes to meet mine while I implored him to love me back.
I begged with everything I had.
All he could say was “I’m sorry,” as I pleaded with him not to end it, and our eyes locked painfully. He looked like a prisoner inside of his own gaze, brokenhearted, remorseful, and powerless.
I was so angry at him for being such a coward.
What did I expect? Did I seriously ever think that if things went sideways I would come out on top?
I hadn’t ever wanted to think like that. I wanted to love with my whole heart and be loved like that in return, but I was unlovable.
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