Kampuniform3

When this first started, reaching the mythical 12-weeks to recovery seemed like an impossible task, and I was racked by my distress. 16-days after my last tirade, and you know what? I’m not angry anymore. I’m not overwrought. I don’t miss you anymore. I’m 2-weeks away from a point where the majority of people claim that the fallout from their breakup no longer interferes with their lives. They’re correct, and I can see the finishing line now. So, that day will soon be here. That day when I move past this forever. I’m so preoccupied with my life and future that it’s unlikely that I will even notice when you are no longer in my mind anymore. I doubt that I’ll be returning here, unless it will be a year or so later just to reflect on this awful period in my life. I’ll be in a better place then. I don’t hate you, despite my tirades here, and I do hope that you will have a happy life. I did love you dearly, and a small part of me will always miss you. It’s sad going through this thread, and seeing everyone working through their sorrow, then reaching the stage where they can see the sun rising in the morning again. I wonder how things worked out for them, and if they ever reflect on all the sorrow they left behind here. That’s the true tragic aspect to all of this: that you do recover, rendering all those years of investment meaningless. Take care of yourself, Sweetie.

I’m amazed by all this, as it’s been donkey’s years since I last went through this process. Eight weeks have now passed since our last terrible night. You know what? I’m over the worst of it, and am now on the final glide path to a soft landing. Oh yes, I still have the odd day when I feel like I’ve survived a B-52 carpet bombing, but overall, I no longer resemble that man who arrived on these Pacific shores in June. I used to wonder about how and what you were doing all the time, and there was never enough hours in the day to ruminate on those themes. I’d spend hours examining everything about our relationship down to the Planck level, but slowly fell out of the habit as life drew me away from the practice. Now I think about other things, far more alarming things. You see, I’m now encountering pockets of time during the day in which you no longer exist in my mind, like you never truly existed at all. You see, I went through this in my early forties when a decade-long relationship disappeared in a puff of smoke. Initially, it was emotionally crippling, but I survived, and just as in this instance, that former x followed the same path along the Ebbinghaus forgetting curve until she ceased to exist altogether. Just those two relationships alone represent 32% of my adult existence. That’s 32% of my life that is completely irrelevant, and two people whom I would have laid down my life for are essentially dead for all intents and purposes. Such a waste of precious life. It’s the equivalent of slowly starving to death whilst trapped alone on a South Pacific island for the equivalent number of years. There’s nothing to take away from the experience apart from a desire to never do it again. It’s the illusion of perspective, thinking that a South Pacific landfall will be the answer to someone adrift. You got a lot of traction from your cognitive dissonance at first, but as the months pass, and the seasons inexorably slide into winter, that tread will be worn away to nothing as you are forced to face the consequences of your impetuously vindictive decision. I know for a fact that the penny has already dropped. The knowledge that you took everything for granted is just starting to percolate up into your consciousness in the face of a pretty sharply delineated realty. Everything was being done for you, and I buffered you from everything. Get it now!? Pound to a penny, you do. This is the easy part, luv, when the weather is still cooperating. Ever been up on a roof in the late fall, with the rain thundering down, trying to locate the source of a leak? That’s small fry. It gets so much worse in a period property like ours that I had to leave just partially refurbished/repaired because you had the emotional fortitude of an infant. I grieve for you. I truly do. Your 62-year-old, personality disordered gorgon of a friend certainly won’t be able to fill my shoes, despite being Guinevere in a previous life. Sweet Jesus, of all the people to befriend! Just a notch up in quality from having a friend who’s a crackhead, or a child molester. Your “friend” was instrumental in fanning the flames. Imagine having a good friend going out of their way to do that. I can assure you that if you turned the tables, and tried to drive a wedge between her and her husband, you wouldn’t be treated as delicately. You’d be immolated in a second. However, in our instance you were just fine with it, glorying in the adulation of virtuous victimhood. Victims are always at the apex of the Karpman triangle, and you climbed up there on the back of your 62-year-old rescuer. Victims are never accountable either, so you were in your element. I lost count of the number of times you climbed up there over the years, ready to bawl your head off whenever anything went wrong. “Trust not a woman when she weeps, for it is her nature to weep when she wants her will.” My life is better. I’m exercising again after four years, and amazingly, my shoulder is finally healing. It’s beautiful where I live, and I never tire of my surroundings. The weather is infinitely better, and the people here are just as kind as they were on the east coast, despite the ridiculous “Maritimers are the friendliest people on the planet!” pretence. I wouldn’t return to that steaming pile of *** for love nor money. I’m happy to be away from all those pretentious east coast, banjo-plucking inbreds. It’s true what they say about the timelines of dumpers/dumpees. I’m truly healing and getting stronger in every sense, feeling happier and more confident. I’m looking forward to my new life. You are having the inverse experience. I know this for a fact. I remember what it was like being alone in that wretched place. Your nearest friendly face is 300 km away. Take that same number, multiply it by 21, add a forest fire 800 meters away, and no power, and that’s what you did to me. You’re a ***ing creep, and you deserve that hard landing you’re going to get. …but I still grieve for you nevertheless. One more month, and you’ll be gone forever.

Nothing like backing up an argument with an anecdotal fallacy… Your personality is fully fledged by 7, not 24, so if you need to “find yourself” at that age, you have larger worries than just relational.

Women have an hypergamous instinct, as reflected by supportive comments by the women here. There’s also a subset of women who equate normalcy with “settling”. However, going forward, the odds work against finding someone whose positive attributes that match those of the person already in your life, without receiving a great deal of life experience beforehand. Adding hedonic adaptation to the mix means that this recipe usually progresses towards a state of soul-searching, and regret at some point. I would think long and hard about this before committing.

(Sighs) Attachment Theory “Following considerable empirical and research validation, it has become a pivotal consideration in the field of child protection and in care and protection proceedings in courts. Under the theory, the earliest bonds formed by children with their primary caregiver/s (particularly before 4 years of age) have a tremendous impact (affecting neurological, physical, cognitive, emotional and social development), which continues throughout life. The theory’s most important tenet is that an infant needs to establish a positive relationship with at least one primary caregiver for social and emotional development to occur normally, and that further relationships build on the patterns developed in these early experiences.”

Taken in context, it does look like suspicious behaviour. If it continues, and it’s certain without a doubt that an affair is taking place, then I would have a quiet chat with her. Having experienced infidelity, I wouldn’t wish that hell on anyone, and it’s far preferable having an embarrassing conversation that might help put her back on track, than to have people’s lives completely destroyed through infidelity.

As difficult as it may be to face, the explanation is actually quite simple. -If you ate the identical meal every day for an entire year, you’d quickly develop an aversion to that meal. Now multiply that by eight. It could be the most succulent meal on the planet, and the envy of every inhabitant on the earth, but it’s the interminable repetition that makes it unpalatable. There may be some men out there who operate differently, but they would definitely be outliers. Every relationship has distinct phases, and having the expectation at year 10 that you’ll ever be able to re experience the hormonal oxytocin rush with your partner (along with limerance, and everything else that accompanies the heady first few years of a relationship) just isn’t realistic. I do see this as a fundamental blind spot with women, and this is not a criticism, just noting how the sexes view the matter differently.

Well, it shouldn’t be at the top of the list if you’re thinking long-term, as men aren’t wired that way. Men don’t have sex for the same reason that women do. Every man that I’ve ever met sees it as a chore, like doing the dishes, after a few years, and can only sustain things with a very active imagination.

Porn and sex are at a wide variance to each other. If he’s been experiencing some health issues, the thought of a very strenuous activity might not be at the top of his list. He’s probably very self conscious of his health issues, and in particular how it relates to sex, and is undoubtedly very ashamed, as being fully functional is a core issue with men.

You’ll be alright, mate. When I read your post, I saw a lot of myself in there, and then you had to suffer the indignity of everyone’s vilification for just attempting to do the right thing when the odds were never in your favour. Pretty awful to have to endure that on a forum devoted to trying to recover from personal hardships. As you say, our former partners will always be miserable. That’s their fate. However, what you and I are going through is just temporary. A year from now, life will be a very different place to inhabit. You’ll/we’ll be okay.

What a difference 10 days makes. 10 days since I last posted here, absolutely raging and hurting. My idee fixe with the relationship post mortem is dissipating like a fart in the wind. A friend offered that hoary old chestnut of it being a learning experience. Mate, I’m 57, not 27, and this lesson is one that everyone is already well acquainted with once they reach adulthood, and the lesson is as sophisticated an enterprise as a game of Old Maid. It goes against my core values not to be conscientious, and not to be fully committed. To suspect that my partner might be acting out of bad faith is not sustainable, and is a sure fire relationship killer. There is no lesson to be gleaned from this, as it would be indefensible to conduct oneself otherwise in a relationship. My mind keeps returning to that final week in that house. I was in such a state of shock that the forest fire’s roar, and the blood red sky at night, rarely slipped past my stupor. The liquor worked wonders, and I practically drank my weight in alcohol that week. That final week in our home. The home that I worked on endlessly. All that wasted effort. I spent a lot of my time in the evenings sitting in silence, drinking, and watching the flame from the hurricane lamp flicker, as the power was still cut to the house due to the fire. I thought about my father, and how sad he would have been for me if he was still alive. How dearly I wanted him to be present. I thought of all my friends who’ve passed on, and how much I missed their insights, and good humour. I thought about Dominic, Mike, and Peter, and remembered that I was looking forward to growing old with them. I don’t recollect ever feeling quite as alone as I did that week. The closest friend was 6252 kilometres away, the forest fire was steadily creeping its way towards the house, there was no way of communicating with the outside world, the entire district had been evacuated, and the person whom I placed all my earthy trust in had betrayed me in the worst way imaginable. Not a comfortable sensation. During the day, I would take breaks from packing/preparing to leave by going for walks, either through the woods, or by the sea. Neither provided me with a respite, as there was never a point during my time in Nova Scotia when I found the landscape to be anything other than alienating, dark, and thoroughly sinister, so my walks were usually counter productive. Still, they got me out of the confines of that wretched house, and my memories of us, so that was a small comfort. You never did bother going to the woods, or the beach, so there was no association with you there. Always the same question which will never yield to an answer: Why. All day every day for a month. And then it just stopped, even the hurt and anger, as the answer was obvious. You lacked my stamina. It’s well-documented that people greatly overestimate the sense of joy they will derive from a decision, and underestimate the sadness. I strongly suspect as the days turn into months, you will become familiar with this axiom. I do feel sorry for you, as even I couldn’t stand being alone in that house. What can I do? My hands are now tied by your decision, and I cannot return. If only you had taken some time to think, and weigh the consequences, instead of being told what to do by your personality disordered backpfeifengescht. Oh well, your bed… just 10 days later, and I’m feeling far better. A month ago I was a ***ing wreck. A month from now, and you’ll be gone from my soul. I’m getting my life sorted now, and I will finally be fulfilling my dreams that I was terrified that I’d never be able to achieve. They were simple dreams, but they were important to me, even though you couldn’t have given a *** if they disappeared forever. My friend is correct: I’m better off without you.

From my reading of the situation, the glow from her two-month alternate plan is beginning to subside in one form or another, and you’re the interim solution to distract her. Men typically require a reason for communicating, but women don’t, so I wouldn’t assign too much value to this less than fortuitous back-and-forth, particularly since most of it seems to be inane gibberish. Every contact is a setback for you. Gleaning for something hopeful to emerge from this exchange is not doing you any favours. Unless she specifically makes a declaration of wanting to pursue something wth you again, I would drop this matter like a bad penny.

Two words: Intermittent Fasting. Safe, and effective, and you will see results within two weeks. It has turned many people’s lives around. 15 years ago, I used to be 240, and intermittent fasting took me down to 170 within six months.

I did read what you wrote. If research states that there is a direct correlation, and there is a body of medical evidence in support of the correlation, the it doesn’t mean that I am barking up the wrong tree…by definition.

It’s directly correlated to the average age of menopause. Your supposition isn’t mathematically plausible, and might even suggest a personal bias.