Sometimes The Truth Hurts…

…A lot. But it’s still better than stumbling along believing the lie.

I haven’t posted this week because I’ve been struggling to wrap my mind around something Steve told me last Saturday.

I should start off by mentioning that even though I don’t talk about it a whole lot, my faith is very important to me. It’s the foundation that I’ve tried to build my life on. I’ve always believed that if I just make good choices and try to do the right thing, God will take care of the rest.

Steve has always played rather heavily on that. If I can’t instantly forgive and forget some transgression of his, he tells me I’m being a bad Christian. Because he knows that being a good Christian is my biggest goal in life, he is quick to point out when I’m failing to live up to that perfect ideal.

Last Saturday he brought it up again, and I was angry enough (over the thing he’d just done that I was supposed to be instantly forgiving because once again he-was-sorry-and-it-would-never-happen-again) to turn it back around on him, which is something I generally don’t like to do. “What about you,” I asked him. “Do you see yourself as a good Christian?”

“No,” he shrugged. “Actually I consider myself to be nonreligious.”

This blew me away.

And explains freaking everything.

Now don’t get me wrong — I have atheist friends. It’s not a problem for me. But to PRETEND all these years to be Christian? To stand before God with me and speak holy vows that mean nothing to you, because you don’t believe in anything bigger than yourself? To use MY faith to manipulate me, while having no such standards for your own behavior or actions?

This was a bigger deal to me than finding out about all the adulteries. Which, just for the record, I did NOT know while we were still together that Steve had been cheating on me almost the whole time we were married. I found out about it MUCH later, and I was devastated.

But this was actually worse.

I made it clear to Steve that I didn’t want to see him again, and I haven’t. Probably because he wouldn’t get out of my house just because I told him to, so I illustrated the sincerity of my desire for him to Get The Fuck Out by taking a heavy flashlight outside and putting several good dings in the side of his beloved truck until he got the hint and left.

I spent the rest of the week just kind of dealing.

It’s been a fairly productive week, actually. I did a ton of cleanup around the property — it looks great. I went riding with Julie and took the kids to the library and the park.

Inside my head, I couldn’t stop shuddering. I couldn’t find any other, easier word for his deception besides “evil.”

My love for him…I would like to say it died, because that would have been much less painful than the way it curdled and twisted and remained lodged in my heart like a toxic thorn I couldn’t quite reach to pull out.

I think I’ve almost come to terms with it now. I don’t have to deal with him anymore except to send the kids down to his house most afternoons. He’s still mightily pissed off about his truck, so I don’t expect him to try and come back and try to bullshit his way back in again this time. I can focus on moving forward and building a healthy life for myself.

That’s the plan, anyway.

It’s good to finally know the truth: I keep reminding myself of that.

And any day now I’m going to actually mean it.