...And so it all started, in slow motion, a pattern of lies, ultimatums, and phoney promises, followed by emails and texts that almost felt designed to be stumbled on, so as to force me to make a decision that he was too much of a coward to face. I was furious. It wasn’t just the responsibility he was refusing to take; it was the person he had turned me into: his mother. We tried to save it. We were both in therapy and seeing a marriage counsellor, too. But it was like dealing with an addict who was unravelling, who couldn’t stop himself. He and I still slept in the same bed – it was a big bed – but in the mornings, we would get dressed and go downstairs and do our own thing. I could either put up with the humiliation, or I could end things.
Eventually, in August 2011, I asked him to move out of the house. I did feel some compassion for Thurston, and I still do. I was sorry for the way he had lost his marriage, his band, his daughter, his family, our life together – and himself. But that is a lot different from forgiveness
Sunday, 8 February 2015
From the fevered imagination of exilestreet at 08:43