Letter To A Dead Ex-Wife

[Wisher]

It's now been 46 years since we met, 41 years since we got married, nearly 40 years since you left and pursued a divorce, 25 years since we tried again (and failed again) and 7 years since you died.

We could have had it all. Tall, stunning blonde with legs to dream of. Lingerie model doing live shows in the skimpiest possible outfits. Dating others, doing all the things I dreamed of. Instead of a dream, it was a nightmare. I didn't know about the drinking or the hooking. Funny thing is, I would have supported the second regardless of the first.

When we'd get together in bed, you'd complain to the point I really didn't even want to. Then you'd complain about that.

My first indication of severe trouble was the day I came home from work and found you had bought two pairs of 'secretary shoes'. While they were a very nice style of open toed heels, your demeanor was more than a little frightening. The manner of speech, the lack of movement, the odd tone in your voice. I should have heeded the warning right then and there. I passed it off and we carried on.

You wouldn't support me in disputes I had with others and you wouldn't accept my help in disputes you had with others. We lived a charade. A farce.

The pictures were wonderful. The bikini shots, the glamorous gowns, the auto shows, the photo shoots with then Miss Universe. The coldness in your eyes and words was not. What should have been some of our best days and nights were some of my worst. In all these years, I haven't forgotten. I sometimes lay still looking up at the ceiling recalling them in vivid detail, as if I was watching a movie of it all. The form fitting pink sweater dress and raspberry heels. The dalmation bikini. The day I walked into one of your shows and found you seated in a booth with two guys. Instead of inviting me to join, you told me coldly to go away. The day I found the address of the motel you'd sometimes meet men at. The day you told me 'I've learned to do new things with my body' and the day years later when you told me 'men used to pay me to fuck me in the ass'.

Any talks of what you were doing were met with anger and coldness. Instead of letting me participate, you'd throw it up in my face.

You told me you had a date for a Halloween party. We went shopping for a costume and lingerie. We talked for days about what you would wear and do. I planned on helping you dress that night. Two days later all hell broke loose and I found myself wondering where I'd be living next. Weeks later and in a bitter tone, you told me you gone to the party and dressed the way we planned, but wouldn't tell me more.

I also remember the day you all but froze in a K-Mart and I had to lead you out to the car because you would not move. It wasn't that you were mad at me, it's because you were someone else, a small child speaking with a high child's voice. The night while we were traveling out west when we stopped for gas. I came back from paying and found you gone, only to find you walking alone down a street and it took me an hour to convince you to get back in the car because you really did know me. Then a few days later on the aircraft heading home when I had to convince the flight attendants you were safe and not a threat despite your distant stare, empty eyes, uncommon manner of speech and again acting like you didn't know me.

There were dozens more incidents, far too many to detail here. At some point I began to be aware of at least four different personalities in you. The small child, the turn of the century Cajun hooker and others I could never pin down. I'd watch you talking normally one moment, then suddenly begin to change. Many times I witnessed a complete change of speech pattern, tone of voice, vocabulary and cadence of speaking as well as a change in the way you walked and moved in general.

On our second try, I'd come home and was almost afraid to come in the house, not knowing what, or who (which one of you), I'd find. Or maybe not at all. There was the time you weren't there and we had police, rescue services and media searching for you for days, only to find you living in the back of an adult book store type place doing live one-on-one striptease encounters for anyone who paid.

Then there was the shoplifting and drunk driving and who knows what else.

The one thing you taught me was to never trust anyone, ever, for anything. Everything you told me was a lie. Every question I asked was answered with a lie. The problem was, I didn't know it at the time. Nor did I know why. Was it the multiple personalities? The drinking? Something else?

The day I was told you had died, I was almost relieved. Your demons were gone. You were at peace. It had been several years since we talked. I had no idea how ill you were, or the squalor you lived in those last years, three houses down the road.

I still think of you almost every day. Your demons may be gone, but mine have lived on. I see you in my dreams. And nightmares. I hold your pictures and remember the conversations we had, and the ones I wish we'd had. You were my dream. We could have had it all. Everything most people can only imagine and fantasize about. We had nothing. I have nothing but bitterness. I cannot have anything but bitterness. I have no interest in even trying to see anyone. I learned that was not possible. You taught me that. You took what little hope I ever had. You turned heaven in to hell.

I live alone in near total isolation. I hate people. I cannot be around them for more than the few hours twice a month when I run errands for supplies. This is what you did. This is what you taught me.

You taught me to love and to hate the same person at the same time.

I'll never forget you. I can't. I'm unable to.

But I'll never forgive you either.

[Tire_Kicker]

I hope it helped to get that out there...

[subtoall]

I'm so sorry you've had such a rough go of it. The pain in your letter is palpable. I want you to know that there is relief for your suffering if you're able and willing to reach out for help. I hope you'll take the risk to do so, for your sake.