Looking Back on Crazy

I had to do a reverse number lookup today to ensure that I had written down a number correctly. And suddenly I was transported back to a few weeks past D-Day, when my days were spent feverishly looking for evidence of my husband's affair. In spite of the fact that he had admitted to it, I kept looking for more. I dug up his cell phone bills, his VISA statements. I scrounged through dresser drawers for incriminating receipts (which I promptly shredded! He was NOT going to benefit on his tax return for cheating on me with his assistant). In other words, for a brief while, I lost my mind. It's not that I didn't have other things to do. Things like work. Raising my kids. Making beds. Doing laundry. Walking dogs. Planning dinner. Exercising. Showering! All those things still needed doing. But I ignored them so I could relentlessly, masochistically undertake my detective work to find evidence of something my husband had already confessed, in fair detail, to doing.
What the hell was that all about, anyway.
It seems strange to me today. To imagine that person was me.
She seems like a stranger.
Yet I still remember her raw pain like it was yesterday. I still get a catch in my throat when I recall her ache. Her bewilderment. Her deep abiding pain that came in waves, washing over and over her until she could barely surface long enough to breathe.
Yep, that was me, all right.
I'm not sure what happened to me. I do know that betrayal makes lots of us a wee bit (or perhaps a WHOLE LOT) crazy. It made me do things that the pre-betrayal me would never have dreamed of doing. It turned black to white, night to day. And it left me panting and exhausted by the effort of trying to make sense out of nonsense.
I have little advice for those caught in that craziness. Except please try and find someone to talk to. Or post your thoughts here. We've been there. We know how strong those urges are to call the OW. Or post on her Facebook wall. Or dig through your husband's drawers, his pockets, his files in hopes (or fears!) of finding...what? Evidence that all of this is just a bad dream? Or that everything you suspected (or that he's admitted to) is true?
Crazy seems a standard phase for most of us. I envy the betrayed woman who skips right past it (unless she's in denial. Another common stage for many of us. "My husband? He wouldn't do that...").
When I think back to the time I wasted digging up little more than the knowledge that – yep – that was definitely her phone number he called on December 9, 2006, I recognize that I probably would have been better served by taking that long, overdue shower.