A Bitter Pill

“Well, as someone who’s never done drugs, how could you possibly know he was doing drugs?” Jen, my no-nonsense red-headed therapist asked, rather matter-of-factly. That was how she asked questions – firmly, yet kindly. Self-guided therapy at its finest.

I kept it – my account – brief. An hour session couldn’t even begin to scratch the surface of the sordid details of my past relationship. Also, I was anxious to get to the meat of the issue: Why did I torture myself for six years?

Between my chronic illness and my quest to figure out what’s “wrong” with me, my life had become a series of doctors’ offices – particularly this one with its “calm your clients” blue walls – and traffic-cone orange bottles containing pills of all shapes and sizes. On this week’s menu is a pill that’s pea-soup green and slightly larger than the head of one of the colorful thumbtacks that held up pictures of her smiling, toothless toddler.

I note that the green pill seems to be working because I’m feeling less despondent and more normal (whatever that means). However, I had to take the oblong white pill on Easter to prevent an impending panic attack. That happens a lot these days.

Anyway, I considered that what she said was very logical. But something was still gnawing at me, like a lion to a raw, bloody steak… How could you be with someone for six years and not realize they have a drug habit? It was maddening.

At twenty-eight, I’m happily married to another man and we have a daughter. I have a house, a job as a writer, I’m a licensed foster parent, and I do lots of volunteer work. I’m generally happy.

It’s been seven years since I’ve seen or spoken to my ex-boyfriend, but here I am – seven years later – trying to make sense of this. Whatever this was.

See, most people have it wrong.

They believe that infidelity begins with a look from across a room, a smile… an innocent introduction. Often, that’s true. Infidelity doesn’t have to be physical, though; I’ve realized that over the years.

It doesn’t have to start with a look in your direction, a shy smile, or seemingly harmless flirting over text while your spouse is asleep next to you. (It never is innocent, by the way).

Infidelity can come in the form of porn, video games, or Facebook. Infidelity can come in the form of a needle, powder, or liquid (a $200 per weekend bar tab while your laughably naive girlfriend is away at college believing you got a second job and were working on going back to school).

Maybe she believed that you could have had a life together – get married and live happily ever after. Maybe she trusted you. Maybe she didn’t feel like she needed to question your every move because she was living out of state and wanted so badly to believe you. But you were seeing someone else.

The mistress doesn’t always have blonde hair and fake tits.

Sometimes, there’s no look across a crowded room.

No… Sometimes, she’s behind a screen and will like you more for a few dollars, at the bottom of a bottle, or can be snorted through a rolled-up dollar bill.

So, I finally reply. “I guess you’re right. I just feel like I should have known… but he kept the drugs, drinking, and parties secret from me.”

And secrets hurt – physically like you’ve been punched in the gut.

I continued with my story – about that night when I was alone in my college dorm’s bathroom. I just sat there and cried. When I called to tell him what happened, there were accusations, arguing. Deflection, probably.

Then, the following morning, I found out about her. An actual woman – barely nineteen with dark hair and brown eyes. In an ironic twist of – whatever – her name was Hope.

Infidelity is usually a person. In my case, there was always another person. Why was I surprised?

How long has this been going on? Oh, right… I should be more specific. How long have you been “dating” Hope? Was she the “other woman” or was I? I the better part of six years of my life to you. How could you do this to me?

“How long was that going on?” she asked, tapping her pen on the clipboard.

Two months. At least, this time. In hindsight, there were others – I know there were. I always knew.

The last time we spoke, I told him that I could continue this cycle a million times over because I loved him, but I wasn’t going to anymore.

And to rot in hell. (This was the nice thing to say considering the lying, cheating, secrets, and mental and emotional abuse).

Then, I met my husband two months later. He truly picked up my pieces and I helped put me back together. Most of the time, I don’t even think about my ex-boyfriend.

My therapist commended me on my resilience (since she knows more about me than almost anyone) and some other things – I wasn’t really listening. As I left, I asked if I should contact him and apologize for how things were left.

“What good would that do? What would that accomplish?”

She’s right.

Wherever he is I just Hope he found help or what he was looking for.

I Hope he’s happy in hell.