And not only did writing satire serve as a steam vent to release all that pressure, but venting my snark served another more valuable purpose. The more lampooning I did, the more I found that I didn’t care enough about my ex or any of ‘those people’ to stay angry at them any longer.
Until I started writing, I’d existed in a place of terminal insult. Insulted by having been forced into a place where I had been circumstantially and preemptively silenced. I am certain this was my ex husband and his new woman’s colluded intention. No one will ever convince me otherwise.
However, by harnessing and using my creativity, I was able to finally get what I wanted … for my side to be ‘heard’ … even if it had to be by a faceless public. I then was able to put the gearshift in neutral and start to slow down, and finally coast to a stop. As far as I was concerned, I’d very effectively put the smack-down on my runaway ex using words, music, and graphics—and that was enough for me. In other words, it scratched an itch.
I came. I said. I conquered.
As an added benefit, so much time and water had gone under the bridge that I no longer cared enough to desire retribution or entertain fantasies of The Karma Bus pulling up at the addresses of any of the bad actors’ homes anymore. My only thought regarding any of them became an emphatic ‘Good riddance’.
Let The Record Show—Or Not
I also came to grips with the probability that the record will probably never be set straight on my behalf—at least not in this dimension or this astral plane. I may never be vindicated in this life—and that’s perfectly okay. Characterless people may always misjudge me based only on speculation, whisperings, and rumors curated and propagated for malignant purposes. But that’s what characterless people do, now isn’t it?
In just a few short months I was experienced a cornucopia of fun times. [I recommend everyone try it some time—not!] Not only did I lose my husband, but I also lost my job, career, livelihood, earning ability, home, most of my friends, selected family relationships, professional reputation, good credit rating, valued job references, and worst of all—my self-esteem.
That’s a pretty large excrement sandwich to be handed and expected to eat with no chaser to wash it down with. So until/unless any of the people who’ve been critical of me have faced equally harsh circumstances, I really don’t care about their opinions.
It’s true. I contributed to my own demise in that I succumbed to vulnerability and very publicly fell to pieces. I grieved unconsolably when I was blindsided. As a result, I was defamed and labeled as having become ‘nuckin’ futz!’ I am using Pig Latin here to clean this up a bit, but I’m sure you can intuit what was being said [verbatim quote.]
My last employer said this about me in front of other staff members who promptly came and told me about it. Left unchecked by my silence, these defamatory remarks spread like wildfire through my professional community and sphere of influence—destroying my career, valuable work references, and future earning ability. I challenge any of you to try to find another job after you’re rumored to have ‘driven off the reservation’.
Hark! The Sound Of The Train Pulling Into The Station
I understand that the flying monkeys who formed their coalition to purposely malign me all had their own dogs in the hunt, so that’s no surprise. The ones who flapped their gums the most, and the ones who did the most damage to my career and money-making ability, all had something to gain from it—namely, my position and/or a portion of my reabsorbed salary redistributed back to them upon my termination. Office politics 101. Judas and the 30 pieces of silver.
The reality is that these people were never my true friends to begin with, and I should have never expected them to be. Business is business. They were simply proximal opportunistic phagocytes—just like my runaway ex. But I finally reached the point and wised up to no longer care. That realization was a momentous and welcome end to my horrendous journey to wisdom.
I boarded the train in the Midwest to go to Atlanta, but I found that the Chump Train was arriving at the end of the tracks, dumping me off at my desired destination: The Land Of ‘Who cares?’