I did not need one more day when 100% of my mascara was removed by my crying.

But, no joke, it happened, again.

See, we had a pretty level-headed weekend. I think my destructive and hateful spree on Thursday last week used some resource of energy I had. I couldn’t go the whole weekend maintaining the whole I’m-hurt-and-showing-it thing.

And I’ll be honest, I am getting more pissed by the day, because he now is ignoring me. Before, he would always text me at least once during the day. Now he’s not. I know if I bring it up he’ll just say he was “giving me my distance” but SO funny how giving me my distance coincides so goddamn perfectly with his inability to deal with his issues. In fact instead of dealing with them, he manages to make them worse. He makes things harder on himself. Like he’s one of those addicts whose his own worst enemy. And goddamn stupid dumbfuck moron Cassie fucking married him.

I was really nice, though, all weekend. Do you really think I still wanted to meal plan and grocery shop and launder his dirty clothes? But I fucking did. I did everything I normally would, house-cleaning wise. Because that’s just how I operate, even (or maybe especially) when I’m nearly crippled with depression in other aspects of my life. I was even nice yesterday, despite the fact that he worked until 8 then went to an AA meeting, so we saw one another for about an hour before I needed to go to bed. He’s stopped trying to come into contact with me when he says goodnight. He still says I love you at times, but I never respond.

Today, however, I decided I couldn’t deal with it anymore. I was at least going to fucking remind him how fucking upset I still am. And the deep insult on top of egregious injury, it’s just too much. So I was sure to be crying in our bedroom when he came home from work. He sat down near me on the bed, but didn’t touch me. He asked if I was okay, and I said No, I wasn’t, in an obvious tone. After awhile of sitting in silence I got up. I decided that if all else is fucking failing in my life, I still need to exercise and write every day, because that’s the key to fucking success (I think). Yesterday it was fiction. Either is fine, I guess. And the only exercise I’m willing to do is ride a stationary bike in front of my TV, but that’s better than nothing so whatever. I guess I always try to cling to any tendency I might have that involves not acting like a depressive loser. Because boy, have a known a few of those. If you’ve been following along at all, you just laughed darkly with me, because that’s all I seem to know.

Sometimes I wonder if all of my shit relationships with shit guys wouldn’t have always devastated me so much if I’d had a good, stable, normal relationship with my parents, especially my dad. But I mean, no matter how smart you are, or how strong, you’re still human. You still want that sort of security with someone in your life. It’s not fucking rocket science, you just have to think about what truly upsets you. Like I probably wouldn’t hate so much on my unbelievably generous in-laws if I didn’t have such an emotionally abrasive situation with my parents.

I still don’t know what to do. Like….should I have learned my lesson by now? But what if he does end up being somewhat successful and then some ungrateful twat marries him and has MY cushy life? If he lowered his standards, he’d do okay, but he probably wouldn’t and then he’d suffer the low self esteem cycle all beta-males have.

Also, I don’t know, maybe I wouldn’t be so goddamn furious if I didn’t actually love him. I mean it seems like I do. That’s the best I’ve got. I don’t have extraordinarily high standards or expectations. I want that made abundantly clear. I feel like it is abundantly clear. I can see why he did it, I guess, why he convinced himself it was okay, but I still like can’t believe he did it. Then, I mean, the fact that I NEVER NEVER NEVER would have found out, if the doctor’s office he went to hadn’t lied. Because he told me on Sunday that he specifically asked that he wouldn’t be charged anything, and they assured him insurance would cover it. And unfortunately in my anger I told him he only got caught because he was too stupid to go to Planned Parenthood, where they would’ve done that shit for free. But now he know that. So if it happened again….he wouldn’t get caught. I guess my plan of attack would have to be asking him routinely if he’d you know, fucked a stranger from a fucking gross classified ad website. Because he’s claiming he wouldn’t have lied if I had asked him. But WHY would I think to ask him when he so expertly hid it? I guess now I’ll think to ask. But, do I want to stick around and have to do so? I don’t know what to do.

This is a specifically sort of fucked situation, let me tell you. Doesn’t help I don’t have anyone to talk to, and I have to overcompensate with friendliness at work to keep anyone from suspecting the truth. It’s shockingly not difficult for me. Like I did it all the time as a kid or something. Why I always kind of bordered on annoying. There’s always been an energy to me, if you knew the public persona I adapt. But that’s all it is. I don’t know where the real me is, I don’t know where my real feelings are. It’s like I hid them so well I forgot where they were. So how can I expect anyone else to know what they are? The goal is to be as funny and impersonal as possible, without violating my ethics, which are complicated to say the least.

He’s been in our bedroom since he got home about two hours ago. I went in there to get fresh socks after working out and I’m pretty sure he’d been crying. I mean on one hand good he should fucking cry, but on the other it made me feel bad. But then if I’m conciliatory, later on I hate myself for YET AGAIN just taking glass shard coated shit and being NICE about it. But then I’ll feel bad for being mean or angry.

The only other guy I dated who saw even a sliver of the real me was a fucking Starbucks goon I dated for 8 months when I was 19. He saw me truly angry about three times. That’s what it took. It’s that stupid cliche Marilyn Monroe quote, but it’s the truth, I can’t be with someone who can’t handle how fucking deep and dark my shit gets. And he could NOT. I mean, anyone stupid enough not to appreciate how fucking amazing most of what I am capable of already baffles me, but this Sbux guy like…was almost annoyed by the fact that I didn’t like him partying with his friends 6-7 nights per week. This is one of those guys you’re only going to date when you’re very young. And I’d only had one other boyfriend besides him. And he was best friends with my best friend’s fiance (yeah, she was engaged at 17, it was a whole shitshow of a mess of a relationship by the end, but thank god it ended). I feel like no one is willing to conceded that that situation might drive someone to stay in a relationship, because it would suddenly mean spending a great deal less time with MY best friend from way back, even back then. And, lets be real, I didn’t expect that she and I would always go to the same college and live in the same city, so I wanted to spend as much time having an actual connection with another human being. I suspect it’s because she and I are fucked up in our own very special ways, that we’ve always connected so much, or maybe we just mean too much to each other because we’re the other’s oldest friendship not counting relatives. But still, I don’t know for sure but I feel like it’ll be a long time before I tell her about this. I just don’t want to. My eyelids are swollen again. It’s not fair all of this crying is accelerating the aging process.

It’s just not fair.

What do I do?



One Comment

  1. What do you do?
    If only there was a simple answer laid out to follow, but it doesn’t work that way. Take a deep breath and keep breathing. That’s it. That’s the only way to keep going until your mind and heart catch up to each other. You aren’t alone. There are people who understand and care.

    Liked by 1 person


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