More lies were revealed today (lies upon lies upon lies, I tell you!) and honestly I’m more furious than I am hurt, but there’s no use even getting into it or confronting anyone. Anger never solved anything, and certainly it won’t help the process of trying to heal from all of the betrayal of the past few weeks—heck, of the past two years—by dredging up new arguments.
More relevant is that I’m feeling something tonight that I haven’t felt since July 3, 2009, the night I found out Jack had been drinking on the sly for several weeks. What I learned tonight was something I’d long suspected I would hear sooner rather than later, because I’m many things but one thing I’m not is a stupid person, just as learning Jack was drinking allowed me to be honest about what my lizard brain had suspected was true. I’d smelled liquor on his breath weeks before July 3, 2009, but when he insisted it was from using Listerine, I gave him the benefit of the doubt, saying, “You may want to change your mouthwash lest someone think you’ve relapsed.” And the instances when he wouldn’t answer his phone, claiming his ringer was off or his battery had gone dead—though he was normally meticulous about having his phone both on and charged—I took him at his word.
The thing is: I have excellent instincts. They are never wrong. Ever. Any time I have suspected something is true, it has been. Any time a man has ever accused me of being paranoid or jealous or insecure because I have voiced my suspicions out loud and I have allowed that man to make me feel smaller or less-than or otherwise belittled as a result, in the end it has turned out that my suspicions were spot-on all along. And their turning my concerns back around on me was a way of deflecting attention away from their own behavior. Go figure.
Jack did it when he relapsed. And I loved him so much I let him do it. I let him convince me that my intuition about what was going on—he drank not only while I was with him but while my children were with him and while he was driving me and my children around—was awry, that somehow my assessment of the situation was off. And I remember that when his relapse became apparent, I felt as though he had betrayed me in the worst possible way, as though he had cheated on me with the ugliest, most disease-ridden woman he could possibly have found in the entire world.
Recent events haven’t found me in competition with any ugly, disease-ridden women (well, as far as I know), but they have left me in a situation in which—once again—someone convinced me my intuition wasn’t to be believed. Tonight, I learned my intuition was actually correct on every single point. Every single one.
And this makes me angry. Really angry. Livid, in fact. But not at anyone else (ok, mostly not at anyone else). I am primarily angry at myself for not listening to my intuition, which I have known for a fact to be flawless for at least the past 20 years. But not all of this is in vain. In fact, none of this is in vain: it is all a learning process, and what I have learned without question is to trust my intuition even if someone who says he loves me tells me that my intuition is wrong. And, also, I have learned that anyone who tells me my intuition is wrong is probably lying to me in some way or another.
These are not insignificant lessons.
In fact, these are probably among the most important lessons I have learned in my adult life, and while I’d have preferred not to have gone through the past few weeks to learn them, I am grateful I have. Because next time, I will know better. Next time, I’ll know to listen to my intuition and not the man who wants me to listen to his lies.