Okay, so I haven’t posted today because I’ve been busy, busy, busy, doing absolutely nothing; and well…I got detained for over three hours talking to Pandora Patty on the phone about, well…absolutely nothing! Hell, I don’t remember half of our conversations when they’re over. Just that whatever it was she/I/we said, had me choking on my own laughter, and took my mind off my problems for a while. Could be the booze. We kinda made a pact when she had to leave her rotten-ass husband (and unfortunately, me too), and move far away from the damn stalker, that we would continue to get together for our cocktails, and make it a point of calling the other—usually weekly—and drinking together on the phone. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, but it works for us. Sometimes though, the calls come early, and well…
So here I am, five o’ clock straight-up, and literally a Loopty-Lou already (an inside joke). I told Pandora Patty before hanging up that I try not to miss a post, probably should put one out, and asked her honestly if my posting under the influence is the equivalent of drunk-calling. I don’t know if her drunken laughter meant yes or no, but I’ll take it as an… “Okay, if you really HAVE TO.” (In case there may still be some of you that don’t know what I mean by drunk-caller, let me enlighten you. That’s the idiot that’s had waaaay too much alcohol, who decides to call you at any given time—whether it be middle of the day or night—to tell you how much they love or hate you (matters little at the time to them). You’ll find yourself sitting there listening to them wail about regrets they have, laughing about good times they had with you, making apologies, singing your praises, or cussing you out, while you…the sober one…try to find a discreet way to tell them to “Fuck off!” in so many words, because you’re supposed to be their friend.) Consider me your friend today. Yeah, love you…mean it. Whatever!
Shit sandwiches…any of you been craving them lately? I got a few in my fridge I could spare if you’re hungry. I thought I’d finally consumed them all—like a bad, fruitcake you’re given at Christmas that you don’t want to lie about having ate—but alas, a few more found their way into my crisper, and at least one will be supper again tonight. I can’t stress to you how much I hate them, am tired of being force-fed them, but unfortunately have no other choice but to do so. My life has started consisting of one shit sandwich after another, my friends. Is it ever going to end?
Good news, bad news, all of which have to do with my incarcerated son; none of which I really want to talk about right now, but feel the need, nevertheless, to stress is the root of my unraveling. That, and sometimes I think I elaborate way too much on things I shouldn’t. My bad again. I was blessed with a big-mouth! Hindsight 20/20? Oh well…too late now, huh?
After writing and publishing yesterdays post, I began to have second thoughts and wondered if the content had been such a good idea. I was airing some dirty laundry my husband and I normally keep hampered, bringing to light a subject that is a very, touchy topic in our home, enlightening everyone and anyone to my husband’s controlling/selfish side, while painting a picture of myself as a seething-with-anger, bitter, and unforgiving, victim by my own hand. Should I have? I now don’t know. Is the description I’ve just given of us accurate? Absolutely.
I reread my previous post earlier, and felt the emotional rush that accompanies this unresolved issue wash over me again. I thought of many details I spared the reader, but I, am nevertheless privy to, that pain me each time I remember them. I remembered how I once was; all the little moments since that have exhausted and changed me forever, and how embarrassed I now am that I was so weak to let it happen.
Me weak? Me, who had survived nearly twelve years of mental and physical abuse at the hands of my first husband, who was a cheating, lying, good-for-nothing, can’t-hold-a-job-for-long-if-his-life-depended-upon-it, don’t-care-if-his-own-kids-are-taken-care-of, every-trash-can-with-a-pair-of-legs-chasing, drug-and-alcohol-addicted, better-looking-than-he-had-a-right-to-be, piece-of-shit-man…who I managed to walk away from relatively unscathed? Me? The one who stayed in a love-less relationship with my second husband for six years—married for four—who struggled to make it work, determined not to fail again, had a damn breakdown while trying; finally summoning up the courage from within to stand alone in front of friends and family and say, “No more! I don’t care what any of you think!” and washed my hands completely of the mess? Me? A woman who finally fell in love for the very first time after, who struggled to stay somewhat independent and separate from an obsessive love that threatened to consume me with my desire to keep this man at any cost—even at the expense of my own sanity—long after we proved to be ill-suited for one another; and by a strength I never knew I even possessed was able to put an end to this madness, even as my heart was shattering into a million pieces, I vowed never to love another as much, while watching him walk out the door that final time? Me? Are you fucking kidding? How could that happen?
Where did my Mo-Jo go? My cast-iron, set of balls? Why the hell am I still living like this after going through that?
Why am I? I’ve had the means to change things from the moment they first started going wrong and I became uncomfortable in my own skin. Nearly every piece of furniture in this house came with me when I arrived, or was purchased shortly after. I have a large house full of ‘shit’ I could’ve sold long ago—even before I started amassing my beloved antiques—Why didn’t I? Was I afraid if I did a decision about my future would be permanently made, and I was ill prepared? Was it fear? Or was it, God-forbid, that I actually love the man?
Yes, I love him. I’ve never tried to deny that, and couldn’t. Maybe I haven’t given myself enough credit in how much I actually do though. Could He—not the fear of the unknown—but actually He and my love for him, be what’s keeping me here? Have I actually been able to move on from the other?
I don’t know whether it was a good idea to allow others to peek into something that is so personal and painful for me, when I, myself, don’t even seem to have all the answers. I’m puzzled now as to what the hell is even going on in my own head. Could it be possible that I actually adore this man and that is why I find it so difficult to leave? If that were the case, then why does it seem easier and less shameful to just say that I may be afraid, weak, and this alone keeps me stuck? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?
Perhaps all of this is a good thing. The events, although I appear to be weakened by them have actually made me stronger and wiser. The personal insight I’ve gained from writing about them, pondering over my own words, and reflecting on what they may actually mean, have given me a glimpse into the crystal ball. The realization that I may have gotten over this past love, emotionally moved on, and to my shock and surprise been capable of loving again, gives me hope. And yes, even the ultimatum that I’ve given him, which I fully intend to stand behind if he fails to take action, is a good thing. How I may ‘feel’ about him is still irrelevant if he can’t prove to me that he’s behind me 100% in my establishing somewhat of an identity for myself that is separate from him; something we all need.
You know…I love this blog. It’s like having a friend you can talk to anytime day or night, that listens and never criticizes, nor chews your ass out for having too much to drink. Wait a second. I already have that, don’t I? Umm…sorry Pandora Patty. Love you! Kisses!! Mean it!!! Who loves you more than me?