Sitting in court last week I was accused of having a second affair with a mutual friend.
I’ll talk about any part of my shitheadery and fucketty but let’s not pretend it was all shitheadery and fucketty. And since Painter brought it up, and tried to leverage shame and humiliation, I took a few hours to dig through the archives to make sure I wasn’t crazy.
I’m not crazy…but I am angry about once more being accused of something that never happened, or at least didn’t happen in the way the experience is being retold. I really have had, as Pema Chodron writes, “enough.”
Frankly, I don’t have any shame about what happened between the three of us. We were all adults and we all knew the goal.
What I do have is regret and remorse.
Regret that Painter, Et Al and I didn’t talk and have the skills to navigate the sexual and emotional experiences better or discussing boundaries and agreements beforehand.
Remorse that afterwards I didn’t do the best job of talking to Painter about it one-on-one to reconnect.
None of us managed that well. We are all adults. We all showed up.
I can only own what is true about my experiences, intentions, and actions.
I’ve worked entirely too hard learning to sit in the discomfort to allow myself to have my life rewritten for someone else’s comfort.
I’m going to come back to this topic because it is important. Of all the friendships I lost in those chaotic first few months, the one I miss the most (besides Painter) is Et Al.
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