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He sat down at the dinner table and told me to my face on April 3,that he did not want me to go to Vacaville sluts in hell with him. Needless to say, I was shocked and infuriated! That much was true. We had just barely built this beautiful home together, I had a good though demanding job and we were doing well with our band. However, I also knew what it meant to be a military wife and I was ready to lose money on our house and walk away from my career to be with him, just like every other time. I immediately went into detective mode. I started to dig through his belongings and found buried deep in the bottom of a duffel bag a journal.
I called him out on it and his excuse was that it was just a birthday gift. I told him I was not born yesterday and that an elaborate, leather journal was not just a gift from a friend … It was from someone who was more than a friend or at least wanted to be. He denied it and even defended her! He told me, days later, that I was going to have to file for divorce or he was going to throw me out of my house and take away my car. He continued his threats and I remained calm, cool and collected. I was sweeter to him than anyone in their right mind would have been.
I pulled into the driveway after work one evening and hit the garage door opener, to find a new car in my parking spot. He had bought a car. The next week, he bought a brand new motorcycle to reward himself for his recent promotion. At this point, I knew he was certifiably delusional. He would spend nights away from home and told me that he was camping in his car. Yeah, right. He even moved into the spare bedroom. He refused to kiss me, touch me, hug me and told me it made him sick to be near me and see the pain I was going through. I visited lawyers, because he demanded that I had to file for divorce or face his wrath. I learned what I was entitled to, despite his efforts to make me feel completely helpless, control and demean me.
I even had something special sent to him during his TDY the first of his birthdays that we had not spent together. I prayed like I had never prayed before and one day on my hour drive to work, I felt a sense of peace come over me. I decided I was going to kill him with kindness and love. What a shining example of a mother to invite a strange man into your home. What a great Mom she must be. He decided he wanted to take some time to gather his thoughts on what we should do. So he decided he was going to go on a motorcycle trip and camp. To make me feel better about him taking his time to think, he threw in my face this question.
He asked what I was going to do about his masturbation and porn issue, because he was still doing it. A complete smack in the face for me. He left for his time to think and the bastard took Trish with him. He would even call me while he was on his fling weekend to check in. Still I did not know this was going on, yet. I managed to talk him into going to our favorite place to eat on May 25,and it became a yelling match the whole way there. He pulled the car over and admitted it. Then came the questioning, when, where, how could he do this to us. Did he at least have protected sex? Should I be tested? He admitted they had unprotected sex because she told him her tubes were tied.
It took everything in me to not kill him. I reminded him that he could have still gotten a disease that he would have passed to me, because we had been intimate. I also reminded him that adultery was crime in the military. That was when he went ballistic. He peeled out of the street we were pulled over on and proceeded to take me home. He said he was done. It was the first time in our relationship that I feared for my life. As calmly as I could, I demanded that he pull over. I thanked him for finally being honest with me and told him that I forgave him.
Even though, he made no attempt to apologize. Needless to say, it was an awkward dinner. At dinner, I demanded that he be tested immediately and I made my appointment. Thankfully, there were no diseases, but a bout of bacterial vaginitis for me. I was not pleased. However, it was miracle there were no STDs. He told me that he wanted nothing to with Trish, and that he should have listened to all of the warnings. Prior to all of this, we had planned a vacation on the East Coast. I was going to New Jersey for a business trip and he was supposed to meet me on the East Coast. He had cancelled his ticket during all of the mess, but decided at the last minute he wanted to go. I thought we were getting it together again, but was very hesitant, because I knew my husband did not know he was a sex addict.
He seemed to really listen and consider my advice. I told him, he had to get himself under control. He even admitted to having used his military issue laptop for porn. During my time in New Jersey, he made a trip to Colorado to see his best friend, wife and their new baby. We met up in Virginia and we had what I thought was the best vacation and time together that we had had in a long time. However, when it came time to renew our vows, he avoided it like the plague. When I confronted him, he said we would do it the next time we came back. I knew I was fighting alone for our marriage, but I made my vows for better or worse, sick or poor — and I meant to fight.
We got back to California and he had taken me shopping to buy me a set of wedding rings to compliment my engagement ring. He picked two beautiful pink sapphire bands to go on either side of my engagement ring. This was June. Shortly after him having purchasing the rings, he was about to leave on a TDY. I was concerned about it, because he would always act out, somehow, whenever he was away. We had spoken about my concerns and he assured me if he felt that he was going to act out, he would tell me immediately. I felt sure he would, because there had been a previous TDY, in which he got drunk and looked at porn.
He immediately called me and told me. It was the day before he was leaving to go on his TDY and I sat him down to tell him my own news. I was pregnant. He could tell from the immediate tears and the look on my face, that this was not good news for me. I told him that he had a very serious problem … He was a sex addict. I had done my research and spoken with my therapist and we both agreed he was a sex addict — in denial.
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I was not about to bring a child into the home of a sex addict. It was going to be an extremely high risk pregnancy for me. At this point, from April through July I had already lost 30 pounds. I was battling colitis. I had extreme anxiety. He left for his TDY. Maybe he was finally starting to realize the hell he created for me and himself? He was present in body, when he returned from his TDY, but not there for me. After consulting with my physician and therapist, I was told that the baby would not have much of a chance and I might not either — given my health.
I chose to terminate the pregnancy and had full support from my family, who could not be present, but were there through our many phone calls. My husband was present for the procedure, but only in body — not in any other capacity. I was and am still devastated to this very day. I needed him emotionally and he was only a body to carry me to my appointments. I had never felt so alone in my life. We had a show on July 16, and after our show — he immediately had to be at work.
I decided to go on a fact finding mission. I hacked every email account he had. Slut and behold, there was one email account that I found, of which I was unaware. After heol into the account, I found the whole Vaaville she-bang. As if that was not bad enough, I found about Whore 1 Alycia Lantagne. He even had the audacity to contact Trish Cardosi affectionately known as Whore 2 on his visit with his best friend, before he was to meet me for our vacation and renewal slutd vows that never happened. He even contacted Whore 1, while we were on our beach vacation.
He even had an Ashley Madison account. How classy. I understand the good tourism does, the Guatemmala it brings, Vacaville sluts in hell do. Guatemala girls fucking spring breakers had Guatemalz much right to be here as I did. Still, if Sputs had my way, this would be a place experienced in silence. These were already mid-rant about how horribly they were being fcuking, and so attached to their personal space they refused even to consider squishing together to make room for ficking. Semuc Champey had purged all resentment from me, devoured it. So I let it out. I blew up at them, cursing them roundly and at length in English for their stupid selfish refusal to consider even for a second what life might be like for anyone outside their own skins, while simultaneously apologizing in Spanish to the driver and ayudante on behalf of my countrymen and white people everywhere.
The ayudante smiled, thanked me, waved me off. This was his home; he dealt with this every day. And he was right. He held his ground a few minutes, tempers blew over, and impatience got the better of selfishness. The white kids made room. I told him no; I was just a little bit less awful a tourist. It was barely ten. I was the only foreigner at the highway crossing; I was the only foreigner on the bus. The only white person I saw other than myself the whole day in Rabinal was a crazy drunk sunburned homeless guy sweeping up trash in the streets for tips. No adorable child laborers accosted me trying to sell me scarves or bum a quetzal.
Nobody chased me down the street trying to get me into their cab or to buy an all-inclusive package tour to Tikal. I got stared at a little. But mostly I got ignored. At first, after everything that preceded it, this was an enormous relief. After a few hours, it became a lesson in humility. According to Tedlock, the play would be performed on the steps of the church at dusk. Girls fucking Guatemala I determined to be the least obnoxious Guafemala fanboy I could be.
I roiled Commentary Key a call. Did he at least have different sex?.
So I followed them birls, at a distance, into the back streets of Rabinal. The street turned from cobbles to dust. A snoozing pig blinked and snorted laughter at the sight of me. Five hours Guuatemala dusk, fourteen until the late-night bus left for the capital city and my flight home. What the hell was I supposed to do until then? I wandered back streets until the weird looks got so weird I turned back. I wandered the fair, gawking, until I got exhausted from carrying my heavy bag. I ferreted out an unobtrusive place to sit awhile—not so easy. I got bored and wandered the fair some more. I ate street food.
I walked all the way to the pastel-colored graveyard at the far end of town; I walked back. I thought about finding a bar to hide in, decided that would be a copout. I breathed wood smoke, incense, exhaust. And this is nuclear. Substance two days, I was incredibly inclined to cylinder some of these sites. My throat was dry. I drank Gautemala beer. A guy dressed as a coal miner, painted silver, pretending to be a statue. Live chickens for sale. Nearly every storefront had an armed security guard, most of whom looked like nervous high fuckin students.
Several people mentioned to me that inmore Guatemalan civilians fcking shot, stabbed or beaten to death than in the Iraq war zone. Ninety-seven percent of Guatemalaa murders in Guatemala go unsolved. I had asked Matt Stabile, the editor of this website, whether he was interested in a story from Guatemala, and he recommended I get in touch with Luke Maguire Armstrong, a russet-headed friend of his who also contributes to The Expeditioner. Luke put on his rounded helmet, looking like a dreamt-up spaceman from a bygone era, and we wobbled and swayed our way out of the busy, central part of Antigua. After Gutaemala through a few quieter streets, Guayemala eventually reached an empty dirt road flanked by dense tropical brush; the headlight illuminated flashes of atavistic hunter greens and impudent harlequins.
We reached a gated community and Luke spoke to an armed security guard in accented but competent Spanish. The guard wrote in a book quite deliberately for a few awkward minutes and then let us in. It had a stone fountain in the middle of the living room, a fireplace, big bedrooms and lots of reassuring bars on the windows, not to mention a couple of goofy-looking boxer puppies tromping around. I had to ask the inevitable question that New Yorkers ask everyone else in the world.
Did I mention that she had the muscle tone and firm personality of a capoeira bell At that point, I was finishing my first tall boy and feeling dreamily Vacaille. Luke had located two out-of-tune classical guitars and helk handed me one. Luke tuned his guitar first. I imagined him harnessing an airy melody from the mountains surrounding Antigua. Once he was tuned up, I followed suit, siphoning Vacaviloe low E note, and then tuning the other strings against that. I wondered if the rest of the party — los gemelos, the fit girl, Leta — were dreading the unknown sound that the two of us would generate with these crippled instruments.
All I wanted to do was play. Luke began with a gentle, finger-picked ballad, over which I played accompaniment. I was grateful that he had a repertoire of songs to drawn on. We played a few more like that — Luke strumming the rhythm and singing, me adding fill. I overheard Maggie gathering everyone to leave for a bar as Luke started strumming what I figured would be the last song. It sounded like an Irish pub song, and Luke sang some powerful vocals, the kind that are normally primed by years of drinking whiskey and not by a can and a half of Central American beer, but his voice sounded firm.