bearable—but it also makes me have to pee.
On the way to the bathroom, I pass an honest-to-God dinosaur. Okay—not like scaly massive reptiles from B.C. times, but something archaic nonetheless. A pay phone. I haven’t seen one of them in forever.
I snap a pic because it amuses me and send it to my favorite adult. He enjoys it as much as I do.
He told me the other night that his favorite thing in the world is cookies. What he doesn’t know is my plan to send him some. I happen to be a top-notch cookie maker.
I let him know I have to get back to work. He’s at work too, so we decide to talk later. I wash up and get back to it.
The following week…
I get back from the post office with a grin on my face. Package is out. I hope my favorite adult likes chocolate chip cookies…I should’ve asked his favorite kind…
Oh, well—it’s the thought that counts, right?
My close friend Judy and I always refer to those mean voices in our head as demons—and fuck are mine screaming lately. Part of me knows that this is exactly what he wants. I’ve done the research. He breaks me down so I’m malleable and compliant to his desires. Only I’m not malleable lately, despite the demons and his best efforts. I’m a rigid bitch, a fucking single Lego on the carpet at night that you step on.
At least, I like to think I am.
Even if I’m way tougher inside my head than in real life, I have been holding my own. I refuse to compromise my values for him anymore.
I refuse to compromise my fucking values for anyone ever again.
The longer this purgatory continues, the more I realize how contorted my relationship with this man is. This isn’t love. He doesn’t know what that is. There’s no caring, no support—nothing but daily emotional warfare. Warfare designed to fester.
Most people love the weekends, but not me anymore. The weekends are when he’s around and they seem to last forever. There’s no escape, no room to breathe, nothing.
There’s hardly any happy left in life. The kids, but they’re either off at school or playing outside. There’s always plenty to do, though. In this house work-from-home translates to oh-you’re-here-you-do-it. So I do, because I’m an asshole—maid and personal assistant to four grown-ups and two children.
And they wonder why I pull all-nighters.
My phone goes off and I stifle an eye roll.
“Hey.” I answer, trying to keep the deadpan out of my voice so I don’t make him mad.
“Hey. I got stung by a bunch of wasps. I need you to take me to the emergency room. I’m on my way home now.”
I glance down at myself. “How far away are you? I was going to take a shower, but it can wait.”
“Go ahead, I’ll be a little bit. Plus I’ve been working on it, it’s just really swollen.”
“Okay, see you soon.”
Usually showers and I take our time together. Being a girl sucks sometimes, I’ll tell you what. I rush through this one. It’s not until I get out that I overhear it.
“She had to take a shower first? She’s such a spoiled bitch sometimes.”
Ouch.
It’s at that moment—that painful moment—I realize that nobody’s going to save me.
No. Fuck that. I don’t want anybody to save me.
I’m going to save my fucking selfish, spoiled-ass self.
11½ months ago
“You. I heart you.” The message reads.
“Yay! Sorry they took so long to get there.”
“No idea why—and they got beat to hell—but they still taste good.”
I grin.
My favorite adult likes my cookies.
A car pulls into the driveway and my grin falls fast.
“Talk to you later.”
“K.”
I sigh more loudly than I intend to. My stomach ties itself in knots. This is the reaction I have every time I see him now. Anticipation of being ignored, belittled, or screamed at.
Because that’s my reality.
11 months ago…
There are certain aspects in life that I excel at. For example, procrastinating when I don’t want to do something? I can procrastinate like a fucking
On the way to the bathroom, I pass an honest-to-God dinosaur. Okay—not like scaly massive reptiles from B.C. times, but something archaic nonetheless. A pay phone. I haven’t seen one of them in forever.
I snap a pic because it amuses me and send it to my favorite adult. He enjoys it as much as I do.
He told me the other night that his favorite thing in the world is cookies. What he doesn’t know is my plan to send him some. I happen to be a top-notch cookie maker.
I let him know I have to get back to work. He’s at work too, so we decide to talk later. I wash up and get back to it.
The following week…
I get back from the post office with a grin on my face. Package is out. I hope my favorite adult likes chocolate chip cookies…I should’ve asked his favorite kind…
Oh, well—it’s the thought that counts, right?
My close friend Judy and I always refer to those mean voices in our head as demons—and fuck are mine screaming lately. Part of me knows that this is exactly what he wants. I’ve done the research. He breaks me down so I’m malleable and compliant to his desires. Only I’m not malleable lately, despite the demons and his best efforts. I’m a rigid bitch, a fucking single Lego on the carpet at night that you step on.
At least, I like to think I am.
Even if I’m way tougher inside my head than in real life, I have been holding my own. I refuse to compromise my values for him anymore.
I refuse to compromise my fucking values for anyone ever again.
The longer this purgatory continues, the more I realize how contorted my relationship with this man is. This isn’t love. He doesn’t know what that is. There’s no caring, no support—nothing but daily emotional warfare. Warfare designed to fester.
Most people love the weekends, but not me anymore. The weekends are when he’s around and they seem to last forever. There’s no escape, no room to breathe, nothing.
There’s hardly any happy left in life. The kids, but they’re either off at school or playing outside. There’s always plenty to do, though. In this house work-from-home translates to oh-you’re-here-you-do-it. So I do, because I’m an asshole—maid and personal assistant to four grown-ups and two children.
And they wonder why I pull all-nighters.
My phone goes off and I stifle an eye roll.
“Hey.” I answer, trying to keep the deadpan out of my voice so I don’t make him mad.
“Hey. I got stung by a bunch of wasps. I need you to take me to the emergency room. I’m on my way home now.”
I glance down at myself. “How far away are you? I was going to take a shower, but it can wait.”
“Go ahead, I’ll be a little bit. Plus I’ve been working on it, it’s just really swollen.”
“Okay, see you soon.”
Usually showers and I take our time together. Being a girl sucks sometimes, I’ll tell you what. I rush through this one. It’s not until I get out that I overhear it.
“She had to take a shower first? She’s such a spoiled bitch sometimes.”
Ouch.
It’s at that moment—that painful moment—I realize that nobody’s going to save me.
No. Fuck that. I don’t want anybody to save me.
I’m going to save my fucking selfish, spoiled-ass self.
11½ months ago
“You. I heart you.” The message reads.
“Yay! Sorry they took so long to get there.”
“No idea why—and they got beat to hell—but they still taste good.”
I grin.
My favorite adult likes my cookies.
A car pulls into the driveway and my grin falls fast.
“Talk to you later.”
“K.”
I sigh more loudly than I intend to. My stomach ties itself in knots. This is the reaction I have every time I see him now. Anticipation of being ignored, belittled, or screamed at.
Because that’s my reality.
11 months ago…
There are certain aspects in life that I excel at. For example, procrastinating when I don’t want to do something? I can procrastinate like a fucking
Similar Books
