The Other Woman

I’m sitting in an otherwise empty Five Guys, crying over fries, a burger and Coke Zero, following therapy. This is not what I usually do, hardly; but I found myself needing a place to be, somewhere to process, and well, I do like their superfattening food. I know part of what makes me so sad is exhaustion, extra high estrogen levels, and then there is the turmoil of my life such as it is.

The session itself went well, although I didn’t see one thing coming: our conversation about my spouse’s perspective. Seems only fair to reveal that I, Dawn, am “the other woman.” I take her place in his life. He spends time with me that he could spend with her or the kids. He buys me pretty things to wear and enjoy that she can’t have – or if offered, does not want, because they were bought for me, not her. He cheats on her everytime he shows me love that she used to get. I am slowly taking him away from her, forever, and what is most cruel is that I will be here, in his place, a constant reminder of what she has lost, forever. That is her perspective, and having heard it so often from my spouse it never hit me as hard as it did today, when my therapist said it, too. Ouch. My heart.

And now over the muzak speakers, Jimmy Buffet sings, on cue: “I Don’t Know.”

Now comes what I sense is the true test, and why I love my therapist: now that I know this, feel this, and can allow it to soak-in… Can I know it and feel it and STILL want to transition?  Is this the kind of person I am? We’ll see, right after these tear-sprinkled fries.

Next time I think I’ll go cry in a yogurt shoppe.