Too much information

Whatever other problems I might have had in my life, my digestive tract has never been one of them. Every morning, like clockwork, and again every evening – unless I'm sick or otherwise stressed out in some major way, this has been my pattern for as long as I can remember. Until this week. I've spent the last two days doubled over with the wickedest intestinal cramps, feeling like a big handful of sharp gravel is trying to bully its way through – only it can't move, so it just keeps grinding around in there. Oy, it hurts.

Being a mostly pretty natural kind of gal I at first decided I would try to move things along by employing my cure for everything, which is to drink as much water as I can stand, and then drink a little more. It didn't help much, but at least I was feeling more hydrated. Finally, last night, after a day of shuffling around all hunched over as if I were carrying a bowling ball around in both hands, I broke down and bought a package of prunes and a box of senna leaf tea. These, along with three hours in a hot bath this morning and a gentle belly massage, seem to be doing the trick, though I'm still not quite back to my usual healthy self.

The only reason I'm even relating this sordid tale of woe is to set the stage for the real story I want to tell: the story of how I arrived at work half a day late, feebly waved off my coworkers' lukewarm exclamations of concern, arranged my poor little body in what I hoped would be a tolerable position, opened my email folder, and found a message from my ex-husband, letting me know that he is getting married again in June.

He sent pictures. Of her, and of her two spunky young sons and their adorable little dog, and of himself riding a scooter with them. Also, a picture of himself teaching a classroom full of darling little eleven year old boyscouts. Also, a picture of his dad (the only person in his family I ever really liked) standing in a grassy field, holding a bunch of wildflowers in his hand and wearing a yellow blossom above his ear.

The fact that he could think I would experience all this as anything but a knife twisting in my heart just shows how little he ever knew me. The fact that I already have, and have had for two days, a knife twisting in my guts just adds to the bitterness. The fact that I have still not let go of everything that happened with him enough to feel happy for him only indicates, I'm sure, what a shallow, selfish and unworthy person I am. These were my first thoughts.

I wish so much that I could somehow alter my personality so that the happy-for-him part would just automatically come first. But what actually does come first is the thought that the years I should have spent finding a new mate and having children, I spent instead trying to heal myself from all the injuries he inflicted on my soul when I was with him. These are injuries that are obviously still not completely healed, or I wouldn't be feeling this way. The result is that now I will never have a family. It's too late for me. But not for him.

How come he gets to fuck up my life so irrevocably, and then go on to enjoy, himself, every happiness I ever wanted? Or, to ask a more useful question, how come he has been able to get over his damage, and I haven't? Because I haven't, in a lot of ways. Not really.

And why does he have to TELL me about it? It's not like we're keeping in touch. We haven't spoken a word to each other since he moved back to Southern California almost two years ago, and rarely saw each other anymore even when he was still living here in town. On the other hand, would I really rather not know? And on the other hand, what do I care what he does? Why should I feel so angry?

I will be writing more about this.