April 17, 2011

Jilted Schmilted Part One

I am going to assume something here. At some stage in your life you have been dumped. Or hurt. Or totally fucked over.

My friend SawHole was fucked over in spectacular fashion. And today she shares Part One of her story about her own toad.


Mrs Woog is requesting I take you for a hop down Jilted Schmilted Road. Many of my friends and myself included have dined out on this story for years. So I am happy to pass it on to the Woogsworld community.

This post is based on a blog I started in 2005 called, funnily enough, Jilted Schmilted. At the time I was bitter, now I am just glad I am not freezing my tits off at a Roosters game.


There are two things, however, that still irk me:


1. How I gave my power away to undeserving men in my 20s and 30s (The Blacksmith and Rex Mossop not included here).


2. How The Philanderer, my ex, stayed with me for so long, when even by his own account I did not love him the way he 'deserved to be loved'.


Towards the end, he did not even like me, so he should have turned the tap off long before the day of reckoning.


I am not the clean skin in this. Our relationship coincided with the start of my mental illness. At the time, my friends anxiety and depression were kicking my arse, so I did some things I am not proud of during this relationship.


I also lied a lot about my smoking and shopping.


He may be a better person now. The Philanderer married his affair partner.


A fact revealed to me by Mrs Woog when she saw their wedding photo in the newspaper: "Fuck her in her boring strapless dress from fucking Wetherill Park." Perhaps it was all meant to be.


Anyway as Robbie Williams, my celebrity shag, would say - I have found a better man.


Now ladies and gentlemen - my tale of humiliation:


“I just want the pain to go away,” I said as I took another drag of a cigarette. My friend's husband was visibly upset by my comment. He did not know what to say. He just patted my arm and walked off.

Less than 24 hours before, I had confirmed what I knew for months- The Philanderer was having an affair with The Office Junior.

My fiancé-turned-manipulative rat was so calm about everything. In his eyes, I had no right to ask the hard questions, I had to let him go to allow him to live his new life with the infant. I was an inconvenience. Yesterday’s rubbish.

It was enough to make me throw up. Which I did. Many times. As I sat on the floor of my friend's bathroom, I started to sob. They were heartwrenching tears of anger, disappointment and betrayal. At that point in time, I wanted to die. Anything was better than going through pain this great.

I then understood why they called it heartbreak, every muscle in your body aches, your head thumps, your stomach cramps and your hands shake uncontrollably. I rationalised that at least I would no longer have to spend $100-a-week on the counsellor we had been seeing for our ‘communication problems’.

Yes indeed there was a communication problem – he had forgotten to tell me about his new girlfriend. But don’t you see – the real problem was my ‘bad attitude’, my ‘awful’ friends and my ‘odd’ family.

According to The Philanderer, his sudden change of heart about our wedding had nothing to do with the fact he had been having an affair for three months. To link that incident with the breakdown of our relationship was nothing short of ridiculous. As he later said if it weren’t for my behaviour, he would never have been ‘forced’ to have the affair. It was my own doing, of my own making, all my fault. I had brought it all on myself because I had treated him so terribly.

The Philanderer was a bloody wanker.

I suppose I should have known this union was destined for failure. The fact the proposal came in a seedy Bangkok Hotel room should have been a sign. It happened just after I finally yielded to his request for me to go topless on the beach. Nick had always wanted me to go topless and on that day all his Christmases had come at once. I took my top off on the beach and walked down to the water, and he was in raptures.

After we returned to Sydney, we found a divine white gold and diamond engagement ring. The sight of the ring was enough to bring tears to my eyes; while he looked liked he had been slapped in the face by a wet fish. It was the same look he had when we bought the flat together, so I dismissed it as just nerves.

Big mistake, huge.

Nonetheless we put the ring on lay buy and set a date for the wedding – March 29. He insisted that we lay-buy the ring and he asked me not tell anyone that we were engaged until it was paid off. The only problem was that he could not seem to muster the energy to make the regular payments. Then he lost the lay-buy docket, claimed the jewellery store was closed for renovations and then tried to delay the process because it was Rugby League State of Origin week.

“How about I give you the ring when we go to Melbourne to watch the footie?” he asked.

I told Mrs Woog this and she went postal.

"What gives him the right to play all these games?" she asked.

Perhaps it was because I was too spineless to stop him from doing so. So six months after I became engaged, and two months before the big day, I had five Brideslaves, three ushers, two MCs, but seemingly no groom. We had the pink silk, the beaded wedding gown, the invites, and a gorgeous country manor booked for the reception, but a very reluctant groom.

A most unexpected fly in the ointment....

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