This month marks the fifth anniversary of the very worst day of my life. Compared to most peoples’ worst day it’s kind of lame. My house didn’t burn down with my dog inside. My legs didn’t fall off. My mom wasn’t abducted by aliens. For the worst day of my life it could have been a lot worse.
In January, five years ago, my husband announced that he and my very best friend (of twenty years) had secretly fallen in love and were moving across the country two days later to start their new life together.* Never to be heard from again.
Needless to say it was a shock. I’m still shocked. In retrospect it all makes sense. I still don’t like it, but I get it. I’ve forgiven. Forget forgetting though. And moving on? It just hasn’t happened yet. Five years later. FIVE YEARS.
The average non-psychiatrically-challenged person would have a hard time getting over something like this. But for someone with borderline personality disorder it’s damn near impossible. I already have the abandonment issues, the extreme sensitivity, the tendency to live in the past.
I’ve done what I can to get over it. I do what I can. Hopefully one day I can lay the two of them to rest. Whoops, that sounds sinister. What I mean is that hopefully one day I can lay this pain to rest. And hopefully it won’t take another five years. Or the rest of my life.
*There’s a lot that I’m not saying here. There are definitely two sides to this story. Maybe one day I’ll write about all the fucked up things I did during my marriage. How it was already over way before he left. How I didn’t value what we had until it was too late. How I failed. But not right now.