Suki Jones 

As I sit here, looking back on the past year, it still feels surreal—like I’m watching someone else’s life fall apart in slow motion. I know the decisions I made. I know the moments that caused everything to crumble. Yet, here I am, picking through the debris, trying to make sense of how I got here. It’s hard to believe how much has changed in just twelve months. It feels like my entire life has been turned upside down. Ever since my ex found those texts on my phone, it’s been chaos. There’s no other way to describe it.

I’ve moved four times since then. I’ve gone from seeing my kids every day to hardly ever. I’ve seen my ex, the woman I once shared a life with, turn into someone I barely recognize, and I know she probably feels the same about me. And then there’s the affair—that recklessness that threw fuel on the fire. It’s hard to explain the mess of emotions that come with watching two people you care about discuss your betrayal. I still can’t forget how it happened.

For nearly four months after she found those texts, my ex and my girlfriend didn’t speak. I thought I was safe. I thought I could manage the situation, keep things separate, keep the truth from fully blowing up. But one night, drunk and not thinking straight, I handed my girlfriend my phone to respond to my ex. It was a mistake—one that unraveled everything I had tried to control. In that moment, they started talking, and before I knew it, they were comparing notes, sharing intimate details, and dissecting everything I had hidden from both of them.

It was a nightmare. They weren’t just talking about the affair—they were talking about everything. Our sex lives, my lies, the web I’d spun between them. It felt like my entire life had been laid bare, and there was nowhere left to hide. I remember walking out of my apartment, checking into a hotel for a few days, just trying to disappear. It didn’t work. No amount of hiding could change what I had done, and the guilt of it sat like a weight on my chest. I stayed in that hotel room, spiraling. My girlfriend came to check on me, furious, betrayed, but still worried. I don’t know why she bothered. I was unreachable, lost in my own self-loathing.

In my darkest moments, I said things I wish I hadn’t. I told people close to me that I wanted it all to end, that I didn’t see a way out. It was probably the lowest point of my life. And then, one Friday night, I made another impulsive decision. I was drunk—again—and desperate to prove to my girlfriend that I wanted her, that I was serious. So I filed for divorce. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t thought out. It was a desperate, drunken act, and once I hit send, there was no turning back. The next morning, I woke up sober and saw the confirmation email. It was real. I had filed for divorce, and my marriage was over.

Looking back, do I regret filing for divorce? No, not really. It was inevitable, and in some ways, doing it in that moment forced me to move forward. If I hadn’t filed, I might’ve just continued dragging things out, clinging to a life that no longer existed. It was messy, painful, and chaotic, but at least it was a step toward something new. Ten days later, I checked into rehab. That was the day my ex accepted the divorce. I had officially entered the process, and at the same time, I was trying to get sober, trying to claw my way out of the pit I had fallen into.

Rehab helped in some ways. It gave me the tools to cope with the emotional wreckage, but it didn’t erase the guilt I felt for what I had put my ex through. She didn’t deserve any of this. She had been loyal, good, and supportive, and I had betrayed her in the worst possible way. There are still moments when I wonder how she’s doing. I know she’s angry. I know she feels hurt, but beyond the legal battles and the arguments, I still care about her. I hate that I’ve caused her so much pain. That’s something I have to live with every day.

What’s strange, though, is that when we talk on the phone about the kids, everything feels… normal. It’s like we’re two people who can laugh, joke, and be civil, but underneath it all, there’s this tension, this war going on in the background. We’re fighting through solicitors, battling over finances, over custody, but on the surface, it feels like we’re just two parents trying to make it work. It’s surreal, honestly. One moment we’re discussing our children’s school schedules, and the next, we’re at each other’s throats through legal letters. It’s a weird dynamic, almost like we’ve compartmentalized the conflict so deeply that we can still act like everything’s fine when it’s not.

The divorce process itself feels designed to turn us against each other. It’s like the system wants us to hate each other, to fight over every penny, every moment with the kids. And I get it. I understand why she’s angry. I understand why she’s hurt. But I don’t want to fight anymore. I don’t care about material things like I used to. There was a time when I wanted it all—the house, the cars, the success—but now? Now I just want peace. I don’t care if I lose everything in the divorce. Let her have it. At the end of the day, I just want to move forward, to find some sense of calm in all this chaos.

I used to be driven by the idea of success, of having it all. But after everything that’s happened, those things seem meaningless. What’s the point of having material wealth if you’ve destroyed everything that truly matters along the way? I lost my marriage, nearly lost my relationship with my kids, and almost lost myself to alcohol. All I want now is to rebuild, to be a better dad, to be a better person. I just want peace—something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Even though the legal battles rage on, even though we’re still at war in the background, I don’t hate her. I can’t. She’s the mother of my children, and at one point, she was my best friend. I still care about her, even if the process is trying to turn us into enemies. It’s strange to feel that way—to be in the middle of a divorce and still feel a sense of responsibility for her, for her well-being. I hate seeing her spend all this money on solicitors, dragging out the process. Sometimes I feel like her lawyers are taking advantage of her, milking the situation for all it’s worth. And part of me wants to protect her from that, even though we’re supposed to be on opposite sides.

This entire process has shown me just how much I’ve changed. I’m not the same person I was a year ago. I don’t crave the same things. I don’t care about the house, the money, the image. I just want a quiet, peaceful life. I want to be there for my kids, to show them that I’m working on being better, even if it’s a slow and painful process. I’m trying to rebuild from the ashes of what I destroyed. One step at a time.