It has been requested of me by several folks that I write Part 2 of this story.
If you missed Part 1, please read this first. Otherwise, you'll be missing the context that makes this post make sense.
As you’ll recall from the original post, I had lost my marriage, my career in the Army, and custody of my son. After posting about this last week, I answered a lot of questions about this such as what my relationship with my son's mother is like now, what my relationship with my son is like now, etc. I won't go over any of that here as you can glean all that from the comments in Part 1.
What I will go into is my second marriage... because I was bad at learning lessons in those days. Enjoy.
I'd lost everything I cared about. All of it. My marriage, my career in the Army, and my son. I was feeling beaten. Beaten by her, beaten by the courts, beaten by the state of our society in general. Nevertheless, I was determined to “soldier on” despite having lost the ability to truly call myself a soldier anymore.
I had my own place since I was back on home soil in the US and was using the GI Bill to get an Associate's Degree in IT. I was seeing my son every other weekend and paying child support without fail. I also had a roommate. Let’s call him Frank.
Frank and I had been friends ever since we were stationed together in South Korea, even before I married my first wife. We would hop bars together and drink and talk about life and love and our aspirations. In fact, Frank even lived with me toward the end of my first marriage. He helped me get through what was easily the worst experience of my life. I didn't mention him in Part 1, but he was there when the divorce kicked off, helping me through it. I'd helped him get through some recent trouble in his own life (part of which ended with him being out of the Army now too) and his trouble had ended with him having nowhere to live. Hence why he was living with me. Frank was a damned good friend. A brother.
I began to miss female companionship while also having a bitter taste in my mouth for women in general based on my recent experiences. Therefore, I hopped on a hook-up website (in “the olden days” of the internet we found quick sex with hook-up websites, not this new-fangled Tinder you boys have) and within a week of surfing on one such site, I had met a young woman I was quickly infatuated with. Now gentlemen, I will tell you this: This woman was hot. I mean… just… whoa. Way out of what I perceived to be my “league” at that time. Yet, for whatever reason, she was interested. She was half-white and half-Chinese and she had effectively won the genetic lottery on both sides of her family. The perfect complexion and long, silky, dark hair that so many Chinese women are imbued with but with the DD tits and curvy hips and ass she’d inherited from her white mother. In short, she looked like every Anime fan’s wet dream. I myself was a good-looking lad. Well-built and lean from having been in the Army. But this woman was an absolute vision and she was interested in me. Many tingles were had by all.
So she flew out to visit me and we hit it off. We would have impressed a pair of rabbits. She was only going to be there for two weeks and we were determined to put that time to the best use we could. She was a freak too. Loved being tied up, choked, the whole bit. We fucked so damn always that after a week of her being there, I had some red markings on my manly bits and thought she’d given me something nasty. I nervously went to see the doc who told me that I’d simply rubbed it raw from fucking too damn much. This convinced us to take about 24 hours off before we couldn’t take it anymore and went right back to it.
After she had visited for 2 weeks, she had to head back home. She lived in another state and it was 12 hours away. We kept in touch after she got back and, within another 2 weeks, I had decided to spend what little money I had on a plane ticket to go visit her for 2 weeks this time. So I did and it was essentially a repeat of our first encounter with one exception. We had to be somewhat quieter with our rampant fuckfest because she was still living with her mother. Dad had died two years prior when she was 18 and had never really given her the attention she needed anyway. Mom attempted to compensate for this by letting her continue to live at home beyond high school and by showering her with whatever she wanted monetarily. Dad had owned a business that, upon his death, Mom sold and made an extremely lucrative profit from. Enough that she could retire on it and also easily support her daughter for as long as she wanted to stay. And why wouldn’t she want her daughter to stay home with her? She’d just lost her husband after all. So that’s how it had been for the two years prior to meeting her.
By the end of my 2 weeks visit with her, we were both “madly in love” as young people often are. On the night before I was to fly home, I proposed that she instead load everything of hers that she could into her car and that the two of us drive the 12 hours back to my home the next morning and that she come live with me so we could pursue a LTR. She agreed and the next morning we told Mom. Her mother was visibly distressed but ultimately told her that she could do as she liked. We piled her things into the car, said a tearful goodbye to her Mom and we were off, assured that our new passionate union would conquer all that lay before us.
When we got home, she met my roommate Frank and they seemed to like each other well enough. Frank couldn’t really protest at my bringing her to live with us since I was primarily paying the bills at that point so he simply shrugged his shoulders and life went onward with the three of us living together. We three grew close and it seemed that it was our weird little family unit against the world. However, it was not to last and Frank, who had ever been a wandering spirit and never stayed in one place long, eventually decided to move. We wished him well and then it was just the two of us.
After about a year, I popped the question and we got married. We went back to her Mom’s house and had the wedding in her backyard as neither of us were very religious. It was a hell of a party and, even to this day, is perhaps the most fun I’ve ever had in a single day with only a couple other days in my life being comparable. After it was all said and done, we went back home to live married life.
In these days, I was still in school full-time on the GI Bill. We weren’t starving but that was mostly because we were on food stamps. She worked as a hostess/server at a local Ruby Tuesday and often barely made the money it cost in gas to get her to work and back. In short, times were hard. They were harder still because, in addition to paying for our living expenses, I was also dutifully paying child support to my first wife for the maintenance of my son, who I still saw every other weekend. My new wife treated him well and, after some time, seemed to be forming a connection with him and he with her. While money was tight, we still had newly wedded bliss on our side.
However, as the months wore on and we began our second year of marriage, I noticed a change in her. Her patience was thinner and she began to mention wanting things we couldn’t possibly pay for. Nights out at restaurants, new clothes, and so on. The ever dutiful provider, I struggled to keep up with her mounting demands. After all the terror of my first marriage, I’d been given a second chance at love and at a good life with a far more beautiful woman than I could have hoped for. I wasn’t going to let a little thing like money mess that up, was I? So I made it work as best as I could. However, eventually her “needs” outstripped my ability to provide. I discovered that, despite the fact that my GI Bill provided me with a complete college education, my status as a student afforded me the ability to take out student loans. Eureka! A solution! I took out student loans to continue to provide her with what she desired.
After we’d passed our 2nd year of marriage, I had finished college and got a BIG break. I’d spoken to an old friend of mine from High School who was working in the IT department at an international law firm in Nearby Big City. I gave him my resume and he submitted it. I got a phone interview and royally screwed it up. I was so nervous that when the lady doing the phone interview asked me how long I’d been working with computers, I replied “Well, my Dad always jokes that I was born with my testicles hooked up to one.” Within approximately 1.5 seconds, it occurred to me that this was perhaps not an appropriate thing to say in an interview. After another 2 seconds of silence, this was confirmed because the lady interviewing me very flatly and evenly told me that it wasn’t an appropriate thing to say in an interview. I apologized profusely and explained that I was simply nervous. I finished the call and collapsed on the couch in a puddle of self-loathing goo.
By some miracle I still don’t fully understand, I got a call back asking me to come in for an in-person interview. I was determined not to screw this up again. I thankfully did not, actually did quite well, and got the job. The amount that this job paid was nearly double what I’d ever been paid to prior to that. I was elated. As you can imagine, so was my wife. The job came with one caveat though. I would have to work from 11PM – 7:30AM. While this would be difficult, I still accepted gladly.
Within a year, my wife had grown distant. The opposing schedules had driven a wedge between us. I’d also developed a habit of solving all of her marital complaints by throwing money at them since I now had money to spare. This would work temporarily until the next complaint came up. Bedroom was dead because one of us was always too tired depending upon what time of day it was when the other one made an attempt.
One evening, I’d been playing video games on the couch for quite a while and decided I should get up and do something nice for her. I got up and made a bowl of ice cream. I went back to our bedroom to bring it to her and, as I opened the door, she snapped her laptop closed… I slowly approached her and set the bowl on the night stand next to her. It was dead silent. She simply looked up at me blankly. “This is for you,” I said. Pause. “Thank you,” she said. Another pause. I turned and walked out of the room slowly and sat back on the couch, the cogs and gears in my mind beginning to engage and whir to life. I waited until she fell asleep.
A few minutes with her laptop told the tale. There were hundreds of nude photos I’d never seen before so they clearly weren’t taken for me. Internet history revealed recent activity on exactly the same hook-up site we had met on over two years ago. My mouth filled with cotton and my blood ran cold. The beating of my own heart was deafening while also simultaneously sounding far away. Time itself felt as though it had folded inward. Suddenly, everything snapped back into place and there was nothing but a white hot rage. I left the living room and went to our bedroom where she lay sleeping. The door to our bedroom exploded off of its hinges. The laptop screen disintegrated and the remainder of the bottom portion of the laptop was sticking out of the bedroom wall at an almost comical angle. Drawers flew out of the dresser and hit the opposite wall with a deafening crash. The two mirrors in the room became a kind of glass confetti that decorated the destruction and made it all twinkle by the light of the sole remaining lightbulb in the fixture overhead. In the middle of it all, she sat calmly in our bed and simply looked at me, placid as a cow. I roared. I raged. I destroyed everything I could get my hands on that wasn’t her. She only stared at me with those cool, dead eyes. I should have known at that moment that she had already checked out. That it was over. But, even then, I didn’t know.
When I could destroy nothing else in our bedroom, she walked out, got in her car, and drove away. So I destroyed the remainder of our apartment. Very little of our possessions survived. I blamed myself. What did I expect from a whore who needed so much male attention that she was on such a website when I met her in the first place? I blamed myself for being blind and I blamed her for being... who she was. Within a few days, she had moved in with our old friend Frank.
Frank assured me he was only giving her somewhere to stay and that they were staying in separate rooms. I told him he didn’t need to assure me. He was one of my oldest friends and we were brothers. He was my best friend. I thanked him for taking her in and told him that I planned to try to salvage the situation. I was glad he’d taken her in because it meant she was still local instead of going back to her mother’s place 12 hours away. It meant there was still a chance to save my marriage. He told me that if there was anything he could do to help, to just ask him.
Feeling that the situation was at least relatively stable for the moment, I took some time and went out of state for a few weeks to visit my parents and decompress from recent events. On my way back home, I called Frank and asked how thing were with my wife. He was quiet for a moment. “Bro... umm… we need to talk.” We didn’t need to talk. He didn’t need to say it. I already knew. I stopped my car on the side of the highway. In front of God, nature, some confused birds, and several hundred passing motorists, I beat my chest and cursed the sky and wept. I’d already known that my wife was no good. If there were any tears to shed for her or our marriage, I had already shed them in the months prior.
No, I wept at the betrayal. I’d known Frank for years. He was my best friend. He’d helped me get through my first divorce, the most traumatic event of my life up to that point. We’d served our country together and shared military rations and memories beyond counting. Yet all of that was undone by only as little as a wink and a nod from my wife.
The story of my life continues on from this point of course, but I’m going to stop here because that’s all you really need to know -- As DailyManliness pointed out before, "When people ask why we need TRP. This is why." This is what being Blue Pill will get you. Young men often carry with them the arrogance and hubris that is so often inherent of youth. If you’re a young man reading this, please set aside your ego and your pride and know that when you think “it couldn’t happen to me,” that I once said the same, my friend.
I once said the same.
TL;DR - Didn't learn a damned thing from my first marriage. Had to blow up my life all over again to figure anything out. Don't be like me.