Cheater, Cheater, Revenge Is Sweeter

Howard Stern was interviewing Wendy Williams this morning and they were talking about her new book.  One of the topics she discusses is infidelity.  Her husband cheated on her when she was pregnant twelve years ago and she stayed with him.

"When you fight do you bring it up?  That he cheated," Howard asked.

She answered him very matter-of-factly. "No.  If you stay, you leave it alone."  It was like a response and advice all in one.

I remember the last time that she was on his show and they discussed this situation then as well.  I really wasn't sure what I thought about it.  She had been pregnant and was not allowed to have sex.  She was on bed rest the entire time since she had previously suffered two miscarriages, both at five months.  On her part, there was a lot of forgiveness, empathy, and selflessness.  On his part, he was a pathetically horney douche bag.  Just my personal opinon on that one.

This got me thinking.  I personally have developed a "public humiliation" stance on repsonding to cheating.  Not everyone feels this way.  I respect people who are able to work though it, alone or as a couple, and come out on the other end feeling like everything is going to be fine, regardless of the end result.   Private dealings are also impressive.  Couples who have survived infidelity and never let anyone know about it are just astonishing to me.

Why?

Because if my husband cheated on me, you and the rest of the world would know about it.  I would be in front of my house, pacing back and forth while wearing a "(My husband's full name), your neighbor, is a cheating whore and family wrecker" sandwich board, clanging some big ass bell to make sure I got everyone's attention.  This would be happening during high traffic hours, by the way.  I'd be napping at noon to get my energy up for the travellers that start filtering in around 5pm.

I would want the world to know that I had been scorned.  If he couldnt feel the pain of my humiliation, he would certainly feel his own kind of humiliation.  I have no idea why I feel this way.  Maybe it's immaturity on my part.   Or it could be that I love him so much and would be devastated to the point of displaying ridiculous behavior at a much higher level than my normal insane behavior.

To address the immaturity part, this is a much more scaled down version of my original plan of  retaliation.  My previous version involved acts such as dismantling his beloved car and mailing it back to him piece by piece....title last, and shaving his eyebrows off while he slept.  So, I suppose I am growing up.

Revenge aside, I couldnt stop thinking about how people are able to forgive and continue on with a happy marriage.  I heard what Wendy said about leaving it in the past, but I'm quite sure that during any arguement, the first thing out of my mouth for the rest of our lives would be "You fucking cheated on me when I trusted you, you bastard!  I'm right and you're wrong.  FOREVER!!!"  How do people stifle that?  How do they get past it?  Even if I wanted do, I don't know if my brain would let me.

Then I thought about the additional factor in the situation.  A child.  Maybe she forgave him because she wanted to finally have that family more than she wanted to punish him.  Her dream was stronger than her ego.  Her desire to give her child a home with two parents allowed her to forgive him (but you can bet your bippy she doesn't forget about his moment of douchbagism).  Apparently, he never strayed again.

There is someone very close to me who was equally selfless.  Unfortunately, her husband was too stupid to see how lucky he was to have someone who was willing to pardon him for the sake of their family.  She wanted her children to have a full time father and he took advantage of her forgiving nature.

She realized he wasn't going to "smarten up" when he decided to move out while she took her daughter college hunting in another state (so brave of him, right?)  Years later, he finally got a clue after he found himself on the other side of the cheating field.  He spent his last years mourning the life he could have had if he had appreciated his first wife and stopped screwing around.  Too little, too late.

I just don't know if I'm strong enough to be like either of those women.  I also don't think I have enough verbal restraint to make it happen.  After thinking about both examples, I realize that maybe I would need to be a bit more reserved and introspective for Allie's sake if I was in their positions.  I have no idea what that would entail.  I need to put a lot of thought into this.

Just maybe the sandwich board show in the neighborhood might not be what's best for Allie.  Can you imagine...."Aren't you the little girl whose mom had a revenge parade down the road before she divorced your dad?"

Oy.  I'd be paying for that during her teenage years for sure.  "Because of you, they made ME stand in traffic holding the sign to advertise our fund raiser!  Some lady stopped to hand me a bell!  I hate you!" Door slam.  Music blaring.  

While I'm revamping this plan that I PRAY I never have to put into action, I would like to leave you with some people who share my current thought process.  I present to you a collection of vengeful acts titled The Most Satisfying Examples of People Who Got Revenge on a Cheating Ex on a site fittingly called HappyPlace.com.

Enjoy!  (And be glad none of those people are you!)

Actual For Sale sign shown in photo on the Happy Place link above

How Do You Stop An Excessiveschoolbusstopitis Outbreak??

There is a disease that I thought was indigenous to my area, but I recently discovered that it is speedily infecting other nearby towns and it actually may not have originated here.  It's called Excessiveschoolbusstopitis.

"AIIIIIGHHHHH!!!!"

That's me about once a day during my travels.  It's a mixture of awe and frustration and feeling trapped.  "How did I end up behind this bus?  Why did I take this road?  How long is this going to go on?  Why, sweet Jesus, WHY!?"

Now, I realize that I don't have school age children yet, so my opinion is a little biased.  However, I think I'm pretty good at identifying when people have taken a good thing too far.  Let me provide you with a little example of Excessiveschoolbusstopitis that's gone untreated.

On an average day I often find myself behind a bus, which is usually travelling at a nice speed of 45 mph on a county road.  I feel no stress because the bus is doing the speed limit and the driver is handling the twists and turns with ace precision.  Things are good.

Suddenly we slow down, the flashing lights go on, the bus crawls to a stop, the stop sign pops out next to the driver and we are at a school bus stop.  "Oh.  A stop.  Look how cute!  The mom is waiting at the end of the driveway for her!  And now they are hugging as her mom takes her backpack and they start up the driveway.  I can't wait until Allie is that age.  I want to be waiting for her when the bus stops."

All the world is lovely and blissful.  The stop sign flattens against the bus, the lights stop flashing and we're off.....for about 10 seconds.

Lights, sign, stop, parent waiting at the end of the driveway.  "Wow, there are a lot of parents meeting their kids when they get off the bus.  It must be nice to not have to work so you can be home.  What's taking this kid so long?  The bus isn't THAT long, buddy.  You're kids.....you run everywhere, so giddy up."

And for the record, I do say all of these things out loud and, yes, sometimes my window is open.  Fortunately, they almost never hear me.  Notice I said almost never.  I'm not proud of those other moments.

The boy is off the bus and his dad is talking to the driver, laughing.  "Guess what?  Being late isn't funny, Daddy-O, so let's get cracking here.  There are three cars behind me in case you hadn't noticed.  Save your funny shit for the morning stop."  I shoot them an annoyed look as we move forward and then.....

Lights, sign, stop, caregiver waiting. "Wha...???  We JUST stopped!  Like, fifty feet back!"  I'm flabbergasted every time.  The kid runs off the bus, past the caregiver and up the driveway.  My blood pressure is rising, but we are moving again, so I start to feel calm.  Until....

Lights, sign, stop, mom and little brother waiting.  "OH MY GAWD!  (Arms thrown up in exasperation) Are you fucking kidding me??  Really??  We JUST STOPPED!  We stopped back there. On the other side of the mailbox.  Like twenty feet ago!  Are you telling me your kid couldn't get off back there and hike his little ass across the twenty feet of lawn to YOUR driveway??  Better yet, why don't you two families get together and agree to meet at the freaking mailbox way back yonder?!!"

This continues forEVER.  Okay, not forever, but it feels like it.  They should have a "school bus"  button on every GPS so you can hit it when you get stuck behind one.  Your GPS will saucily say "Recalculating" and add an additional fifteen minutes to your arrival time.  Otherwise, you've got to watch your GPS adding minutes slowly and each time it goes up, you get more and more freaked out.

Well, at least I do.  I admire those of you who are completely unfazed by this type of situation.

To be fair, I should add at this point that I used to have a road rage problem.  (I'm sure you're shocked about this information, right?) Key word there is HAD.  I got better.

When I commuted from here to my previous job which was an hour away, I wanted to kill people when I got to my destination.  In the morning, they sent me to the shredder to take my frustrations out there.  In the evening, well....let's just say it's a wonder that my husband doesn't drink heavily.

Justin will tell you about my road rage issues (he loves to rat me out) AND he will also confirm that I have improved immensely (because he's not stupid and knows he should make me sound good or I'll shun him) AND he's proud of how far I've come since the police pulled me over to issue warnings (because he's good at being a suck up).

It's been six years and I'm nearly recovered.  I'm mostly a happy driver now.  I just don't want you thinking I'm a complete maniac behind the wheel.

Back to my original subject.

Here's my thing....when I was a wee lass, we used to walk down to the bottom of the hill to wait for the bus.  Kids from a four house radius met there.  I'm sure the parents who lived within view of the bus stop probably kept an eye out for us as well.  None of us were kidnapped.  We were a group.  And we watched out for each other.  We gave a shit about each other and had a smidgen of street smarts to be on the look out for anything suspicious.  Plus, it was fun!

What in the hell happened since then?  Which parent was the first to say, "I want the bus to stop right at the bottom of my driveway."  Better yet, who was the trend setter that saw it and got all worked up about it and said, "If the bus is going to stop at THEIR driveway then I want it to stop at mine!  What makes their kid so damn special?"

You know that's where it all began.  Right there with that second call to the school.  Bitch.

It makes me sad that Allie will probably never get that feeling of hanging out at the bus stop with her peers, giggling with her little friends and complaining about boys and hearing the older kids say curse words for the first time.  The bus stop was training for what later would be water cooler talk when life was no longer fun, games and book lernin' from 9 to 5.  The training appears to be over now.

It's the little things like this bus stop situation that seem so wrong.  The kids lose that little independent experience and become lazy.  They think that they should get special treatment.  Wait until they get jobs in the city and find out that the subway doesn't stop at their office door.  Boy, will they be pissed!

And people like me shouldn't have to get fired up while driving and end up behind schedule due to skatey-eight gazillion stops.  It's just so unnecessary.  Bring back the group school bus stop, I say!

All of this is a symptom of Excessiveschoolbusstopitis.  I'm actively searching for a vaccine.

I probably should be looking for a Valium instead.

Wrapping Up The Anxiety Topic

I'm sorry for the delay in posting this final segment.  I appreciate how many of you have reached out to me while reading the first two parts.  I wish I had spoken out two and a half years ago!  Little did I know that so many people were out there, willing to share and sympathize.  

If only I knew then what I knew now.   How many times do we all find ourselves saying that?

So, I left off wondering how I was going to find help.  Clearly there wasn't any organization or doctor that was going to say, "Ah, yes!  This is very common.  We see it all of the time!  Read this book, take this medication, talk to this therapist and you will be back to normal in no time.  We have all of the answers!"  

Nope.  Nuttin.

One of my saving graces was a strange communication chain I had.  I had a relative that suffered with postpartum issues as well and from what I could tell, I was following the exact path she was on.  

We will call her Maya....as in My(a) Relative. Corny I know, but I over-thought finding a witty name for her and it's the best I could come up with.  Suddenly I think I'm someone's Italian grandmother.  

Unfortunately  I hadn't spoken to Maya  in years, so I didn't feel like I could just call.  I mean, what do you say?  "Well, hi there!!  Remember me from six years ago?!   I hear through the grapevine that  you're out of your mind and thinking freaky crap too.  What are the chances, huh?  So, what kind of scary, weird shit do you worry about?  What are YOU doing about it?"  If I was her I would think that my family is talking about what a nut job I am behind my back, amongst themselves and whoever else might listen.  

The truth is that the only people who knew were my mom and one of our mutual relatives.  We will call that person Aunt Herah.  As in Her (ah) Relative.  Yes, the Italian grandmother naming cycle continues.

My mom mentioned my situation to Aunt Herah, who said, "Guess what....Maya went thru that too!"  Suddenly, I felt like there was someone out there.  Life on another "planet"!  I literally felt like I found the only other person in the world who spoke my language.

This was my ONLY personal connection to information and help.  The chain gets a little confusing here, but here is how every question that I had was answered: I would ask my mom, who would call Aunt Herah, who would ask Maya, who would report back to Aunt Herah, who would call my mom, who would call me.  

Whew. It was like playing that game Telephone that we all played as kids.  The difference was that I was desperate so the information was received exactly as it was given.

I'd listen to the information Maya shared, review it with my mom, analyze the shit out of it, hang up and cry.  I was either relieved that I wasn't the only one thinking this craziness, or I had gained insight and now knew how I could proceed.  Regardless of what it was, I was not alone and that in itself was huge.

The only thing missing was the feeling of hopefulness.  I needed a sign.

One afternoon when Allie was about 2 months old, we were standing in my front yard enjoying the sun.  I was feeling really anxious and couldn't seem to "get good air".  Anyone who suffers from anxiety or panic attacks will tell you that sometimes they feel like they can't get a good, deep breath of air no matter how hard they try.   I call that not being able to "get good air".   Those big deep breaths that you take when people tell you to calm down don't exist.  It's as if you're laying down with a brick on your chest.

Anyway, my neighbor, who I've always respected and admired, drove by.  She stopped and rolled her window down.  She had been the first friend to visit me when Allie was born so she had seen the happy, elated person I had been during that first week.   I guess I didn't look the same.

"Hey, neighbor!  How are ya doing?" she called out.

"Okay!"  I tried to fake it with a smile and a bouncy nod.

"You know, it's gonna get better!  Somewhere like around eight or twelve weeks, you'll feel more normal.  Trust me."

I remember thinking, 'Where did that come from?'  It was as if God knew I needed something, so in the immortal words of Bill Engvall, He said

Somehow she had picked up right away that I wasn't really okay.  She kind of knew what I was going through.  I can still see her smiling at me from behind the wheel.   I can hear her yelling over that I was going to be fine.   She had two kids and she was doing great, so she had to know!  That was my first glimmer of hope.

Sign, check!

I started seeing a doctor who put me back on medication and I have a trusty, ole therapist who was trying to help me control my wacky thoughts in the process.  To this day its still difficult to stop my mind from going off on a horrible tangent, but at least now I can stop it early instead of waiting until I'm a total mess.  

There is no perfect,  Hollywood movie ending to this little story.  That's part of the reason why it has taken me so long to finish this.  I've been searching for something that will leave you saying, "Well, that was a feel-good, happy story!"  Here's the best I can offer:

It's two and a half years later and I feel like I'm 80% back to being me, which is a lot better than it sounds.  I'm less claustrophobic and can hold my husband's hand without feeling weirdly restrained.  I don't have to keep Allie in arms reach at night while we sleep.  No more hysterical screaming in my car.  And I don't look like Janet Leigh in Psycho while I'm showering anymore.

I no longer let my mind torture me about my daughter.  That dark and evil thing is almost gone.  On rare occasions, I'll hear that he's at my brain's door.  When I look thru that peep hole, I see him standing there holding a sign about something new for me to get totally freaked out about.  When it happens, it pisses me off.  So, I fight it.

My advice to anyone going through this, or something similar, is this:

• Reach out to everyone and anyone.  If your family and friends can't help, look for strangers who might have even the tiniest of potential to help.  
• Don't be afraid of what people will think of you because in the grand scheme of things, what people think isn't going to make you happy or unhappy in life.  What you DO will accomplish that.  
• Be prepared to be surprised by how many other people are keeping something similar to themselves, only to reveal it to you when you open yourself to them.  
• Call a doctor and tell them you need help.  They will try.
• Don't call Tom Cruise.  He will tell you that you're crazy.  This coming from a man who jumps on couches because he's in love on national television.  Hello, Pot!  This is The Kettle.  You're black.

And if none of that helps, I'm right here.  I understand.  I can't fix you or save you, but maybe I can help you find a direction to go in.  That's all I was ever looking for.  The truth is that YOU will save you.  Sometimes you just need someone to say that you CAN and WILL do it.  

That Bigger Topic I Mentioned

When I was in the hospital, there were signs EVERYWHERE for Postpartum Depression.  One was on the wall across from my door.  I remember standing in the door, holding Allie, looking at the sign and thinking, 'Those poor people.  How could someone be depressed during such a happy time?'

I don't know about you, but when I thought of those postpartum problems I thought of three things; Brooke Shields, Tom Cruise saying she was weak, and new mothers being a threat to their babies lives.  The Andrea Yates story made it all very taboo.  If you had postpartum issues, you had the potential to be a murderer.  That was the most that I knew.   And I had only heard of Postpartum Depression.  I didn't know that there was other Postpartum crap that could happen to you.

Justin had installed a TV in Allie's room so I could watch TV when I fed her.  Our first week home was the week that the CBS TV show The Doctors decided to run an entire series on drug addicted babies.  I never saw one single episode, but the commercials completely slayed me.  I would lunge for the remote to turn the channel within a second of the commercial starting.

(NOTE:  I provided a link to the show above, however, I suggest that you prepare yourself before starting the video when you get there if you click.  It's can be very disturbing.  However, the show will help you see the topic in a clear light.)

I'm not saying that those commercials caused my problem, but they definitely lit a spark.  From that moment on, if I was alone in my head, I was bugging out. I could be holding Allie but if she was sleeping, I considered myself alone.

Here's the catch.  I wasn't alone....in my head.  I remember sitting at my Mom's kitchen table, crying, desperate, and terrified.  I was holding her hand, wishing that what was going on inside me could be explained to her by just holding onto her.  "I don't know where this is coming from.  It's like someone is in my head telling me horrible stories.  When I'm alone in the shower or driving my car, it just starts.  And it's awful.  It's so DARK.  It's like.....evil.  Just so dark."

I didn't understand what was causing these thoughts that were obsessively running through my brain.  To be honest, I was a little worried that maybe I was becoming schizophrenic.  These thoughts were not ME.  They were not who I am.  They represented someone who was a bad person.

No, I did not once think about hurting my daughter or killing her or plotting her demise.  I'm so grateful for that.   I feel that I was really lucky in that respect.

I had these ideas pop up in my head:  "Someone is going to climb up and kidnap her while you sleep." "Someone is going to break in, kill everyone but the baby and then steal her."  "Someone is going to kill her in a gruesome way and you wont be able to help her."  "You're a klutz and you will drop her or fall down and hurt her permanently." "If you get out of the car you better take her with you, even if you are pumping gas because someone will slam the door and she'll be trapped." "You will never see her ever again and always wonder where she is."

Those are just the thoughts that occurred most frequently.  There were plenty of other horror stories.  And once the thought was dropped in my brain, the situation started playing out.  I would imagine how it was going to happen and I couldn't stop it.  It was like someone turned on a horror movie and forced me to watch it no matter how hard I tried to close my eyes or think of something else.

I get choked up just thinking about it.  The emotional pain was horrible.  I would be in the shower in hysterics, or in my car, screaming with the radio turned up and banging on the steering wheel.  Make it stop, was my mantra.

I didn't want to be left alone at all.  If I could interact with Justin, Allie or my mom, I would get a break from the chaos.

Fortunately, I am blessed with a husband who loves to fix things.  Cars, ice makers, toilets, people, the list goes on.  He's also sensitive and blessedly adoring.  I knew he would help me through it.  After talking to my mom, and then getting some advice from his mom (who is a therapist), he called my doctor and got me on the path to getting better.

I was suffering from Postpartum Anxiety.

He took me to therapy and waited patiently until I agreed to stop trying to breastfeed and go back on medication.  In the meantime, I searched for other people who were going through this.  Sisters in this disorder.

Where were those people who were on the signs on the wall?  The major postpartum organizations did nothing to connect me with someone nearby.  I begged for responses to email and got nothing.  There were no therapists who specialized in postpartum disorders according to my fancy healthcare company. There were no groups nearby.  Nothing.

I was desperate for someone to talk to.  Even if they didn't have an answer, I knew I could find some sort of peace talking with someone who understood what I was going through.  My friends and family would look at me sympathetically and offer support, but everyone was clueless as to what to do.  If I desperately couldn't find answers, I couldn't expect them to find them either.

And I was embarrassed.  Happy, cheerful Vicki suffering from stupid postpartum crap?  I was faking normalcy with almost everyone.

I have this awesome friend who I meet with for coffee or lunch as often as we can coordinate it.  She's fun, hilarious and smart and I always enjoy spending time with her.  I also  looked forward to getting together with her because she didn't have kids and if we didn't get into "baby talk" then she was able to keep me distracted from my misery.  When we would say goodbye, I would hug her so hard because I was so grateful for the hour or so of relief from my brain.

There were two questions that taunted me for the remainder of the time:  Was this going to stop and where in the hell was HELP?

(continued in next post )

Intro Into A Bigger Topic

THE HEAT IS HERE! Just a little announcement in case you forgot or don't go outdoors. Call it public service if you like. It's my pleasure to pass on this information to you as I stand outside in the blazing heat with my 8000 SPF sunscreen on, wearing my dorky sun visor to try to protect my face from more freckles, and an ice pack jammed in my cleavage.

Yup, you read that right. Chilly cleavage.  It's a little trick I learned when I was doing this same thing while eight months pregnant. If you stick an ice pack between (or under) your boobs, you feel a bit better. It cools your stuff right off. You learn something every day, dontcha? (Wink!)

I was pleasantly surprised to hear the responses to my last post, in that Im not alone with this whole bubble/worry/protection thing Ive got going on with Allie. Im not happy to hear that other people worry too, just that Im in good company. Some of you responded via Facebook directly to the link, thru Facebook Message, or in conversation. It inspired me to take a direction for the next few entries that is a little uncomfortable for me, but I get a good feeling about it.

The purpose of this blog is not to pontificate (that's my four star word usage for the week....I have to throw them in just to feel better about the FAT college loan that looms over us) (I'll link to the definition if you don't know it. Don't be shy. I didnt know what it meant at one time either.  Click on the word.) This purpose was two-fold:

1- To exercise my love of writing, silliness and sharing

2- A project to see how people connect via social media and the internet.  Social media is taking people down; but it's also bringing people together.  We share so many common ideas, interests and experiences; I want to see how those commonalities can bring us together in a positive way.

So, I'm taking a step toward a subject that I feel needs to be talked about amongst us regular peeps.  Celebrities have discussed it, but it still has a stigma.  I invite you to please respond directly in the comments field if you have something to say.

You don't have to give your real name. However, if you read along and something makes you go, "I KNOW what she's saying! This is what happened to me (or my relative).....this is what I did to get thru it......this is what I'm still suffering with" you have something valuable to share. Very valuable. In fact, two years ago I was begging to hear what people had to say. And I found silence.

This will be spread out over a few entries. If you make it through them all, I thank you for joining me on my journey. If you just peek out of curiosity, I'm thrilled that you stopped by.  I'll begin by giving you a little back history first.

Hey.  I think I'm quite nervous ......

I've suffered with anxiety and panic attacks since I was about 26. My first one occurred in a CVS. I walked thru the door and dropped. It's rather amusing because at the time I had a serious addiction to shopping for products as CVS. It's almost like I was coming home to the Mothership to die.

I thought I was having a heart attack and I wound up in the hospital getting Valium shot into my booter by a big fat needle. I cried for almost three days. Non-stop. I am not exaggerating. I have a witness.

I know why I was suddenly "blessed" with this disorder, but that's a story that can be saved for another should anyone gives a rat's ass.  I've had many more of those experiences since that day, but the last few years I have had a grip on it.  I've been on medication for anxiety and panic attacks ever since that first time.  Less people find me sprawled out on the floor because now I see it coming and have the skills to work through it and keep it low key.

When I found out I was pregnant with Allie I immediately stopped taking every bit of medication I had. It wasnt about me anymore. It was about her. For the next 9.5 months I would just have to deal with my own bullshit because my little girl was not going to have one stitch of medication in her body before she was even born.

This was MY choice. Other people have made different choices and I think neither is wrong and I see benefits to both.  For whatever reason I decided that I couldn't handle putting anything that wasn't natural or clean in my body during that time.

I had some WICKED withdrawals. And in true Vicki Form, they started in a courthouse while I was dealing with a traffic ticket. This couldn't begin at home while I was watching Survivor on the couch? Nooooo. In court with a hundred of my closest strangers.

This unpleasant event lasted about a week and a half (the withdrawals, not court). All I could think of was, 'This is nothing compared to what real drug addicts go through. How in the hell do they do it??' I had a person in my life who suffered with serious addiction and God allowed me to see a tiny bit of what he went through for so many years through different eyes. I guess that was a blessing that came out of it.

After Allie was born, I thought that I would just continue on my medication-free lifestyle. I was feeling good and I was learning to deal with my anxiety attacks quite well. Plus, I wanted to breastfeed (I didnt carry these damn things around all of these years without utilizing their purpose!). I told my family, "No more drugs. I'm done with medication!" and they supported my decision despite the fact that they weren't sure it was the right one.

It wasn't. That decision opened a door to what I tell people was the most dreadful experience of my life thus far. For two and a half months I lived in bliss with my new baby and my husband, and when alone I lived in terror. No exaggeration. Terror. And I felt alone.  Very, very alone.

(continued in next post)