Dominoes of Dissolution
One week and one day after getting our couple’s tattoo, I received my semi-colon tattoo. A tattoo I could not get out of my mind, it is a symbol of strength, and integral to my being. I had been fighting the urge to cut myself for over a year. I had fought off the suicidal thoughts, and I had chosen to remain alive. It was essential to me to commemorate the moment, and I did. Girl’s night out was supposed to be a chance to let off steam, relax and forget all the drama of life. I simply wanted to feel unencumbered, free, wild. We went out bar hopping, laughing, joking, and dancing. Until I found out, undeniably, George was having an affair.
There was a campout with the charity group. I had decided not to go in favor of spending time with my two favorite people outside of my children. At the campout, one of my friends and another group Administrator was there. He was giving me text message play by play of the woman who had all of a sudden shown up. He had confirmed through her words, she and George were involved. She told him that she had been on her way to see him and changed her mind and stopped at the camp out instead.
I approached George immediately about it. George blew up on me, thankfully over text message as he was working that evening. He told me I was pathetic, worthless, listening to bullshit lies. He couldn’t believe that I would listen to anyone over him. The argument ended with George telling me, “I fucking hate you, Monica. I am not coming home tonight so don’t bother waiting for me. I never want to see you again. You’re pathetic and the worst thing to ever happen to me. I wish you were dead.”
I was a mess. It was the end of our marriage. I had been changing. I was not going to live this life with him anymore. The more I attempted to cling to false positivity about myself, the more the voice of George in my head screamed that I should kill myself. My sister dropped me off. Despite her insistence upon staying at the house, I sent her back to her apartment. “I’m fine. I just want to go to bed,” I said as I jumped out of her vehicle and went inside quickly. As soon as I closed the front door, I locked and deadbolted it, assuring she wasn’t able to follow me.
What she wasn’t aware of was the deluge of hatred and contempt coming toward me from George internally. His words cut me so deep I wasn’t able to breathe around the pain in my chest and the sick, twisted knot in my stomach. After locking up, I ran immediately to the bathroom and proceeded to throw up for nearly a half hour. My sister sent message after message. She knew the warning signs, saw where my thinking was, and didn’t feel right about leaving me alone after everything. I insisted that I was just going to go to bed, and I turned my phone off.
Sobbing uncontrollably, I lay down feeling as though there was no way out, no one for me to truly turn to, and everything I built my life around was falling apart. I was worthless, pathetic, and the world would be better off without someone this useless, better off without me. I sat down on the edge of my bed, a 1.75 of Fireball in one hand and a bottle of Aleve in the other. My mind soared back to when I was five years old in New Hampshire.