My girl parts smell ripe right now. Not in a bad way, I just smell like sex.
He would have liked that, or he said he would have. He said a lot of things.
I don’t stink because of anything fun. Just some coconut oil and toys.
Add a low grade depression that had me skip my shower yesterday and a low pressure system that dictated a few layers of clothes.
We haven’t seen the sun in days. Couldn’t tell you how many. 5 at least.
There was a thick blanket of fog that settled in over the weekend, but the winds came yesterday taking away the unseasonable warmth and the low lying clouds. That sense of security that I find in heavy mist went with it.
I do so love the fog. When I lived in the cabin in the woods it was easy to feel like I was the only girl in the world.
I was never the only girl in the world, and I most certainly wasn’t his.
I mentioned last week that someone had come to me seeking answers and comfort, and as the betrayed we started piecing together facts and timelines, words and selfies, patchwork held together with the common thread of lies and more lies.
This has got to be the ugliest quilt ever.
I finally admitted, drunkenly on Saturday night, that I am indeed a little depressed. Had a good whiskey cry on the porch at 3am. Had I been sober it might have been cathartic. I just woke up late on Sunday with my eyes swollen and sore.
It’s just a slight sadness, I have had worse. This is akin to a low grade fever that simply adds a small amount of pain to any movement and sucks ones energy and makes mundane tasks seem like mountains.
My son asked me what I wanted to do yesterday afternoon I replied ‘sleep till spring and win the lottery’.
I am exhausted. No drama, no exaggerations, I just can’t seem to get enough sleep.
I get through the days doing the bare minimum.
I should probably head to a tanning bed, get some artificial sunlight. I remember him saying I couldn’t shower for 24 hours after or the vitamin D wouldn’t sink in. I blindly believed him.
I blindly believed him about everything.
The only glasses I own are rose-coloured it seems and I see the good in everyone, even monsters masquerading as men.
I back slid. I used to go months without thinking about him and now little things are triggers and they are adding low-grade nausea to the low-grade sads.
Masturbating is usually enough to put me in a good mood but yesterday there was no joy in Mudville. All I could think about was all the sex I am not having. All the ones that left me unceremoniously and the granddaddy of them all who turns out to be an overweight, alcoholic narcissistic catfish with a cyber-harem of pretty, intelligent, talented women that he takes turns breaking for his amusement.
It’s one thing to have an inkling, it is another to have concrete proof.
Habibi said, upon hearing I was wandering down this road “this isn’t your fight, stay out of it.”
I didn’t listen. And I am paying the price.
It didn’t feel like a fight. I thought knowing would be better somehow. But when you exhume a body you never really know what you are going to get. This must be what zombies smell like. Like dust and rot and putrescence.
I am trying to finish the book and all I can see is a balcony littered with cigarette butts. All I can hear is ‘if you love me you will show me your pussy.’
That’s a bad romance.
I am trying to pleasure myself and my mind goes back to phone sex we had or pictures I sent to essentially just a dirty old man. And my body just goes ‘ew, nope.’
I am disgusted by how much he gave them and how little he gave me. Not because I want or need material things but because of the loyalty and depravity I showed for literal crumbs, a phone call, a message or being allowed for a few days here and there to be added as a friend on Facebook.
Nothing about me has changed, I am still the same dumb girl I was in high school. Loving someone who wouldn’t love me back or if he did he wasn’t brave enough to show it.
The same stupid girl that stayed with a habitual cheater, with another and another and another.
And so it goes.
This time I threw pearls before a chain smoking, plagiarist, couch potato. And I am scrambling to find the silver lining.
Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe all I can do is throw my head back and laugh. Do that thing that everyone says I have to do before I can be loved and just love myself.
My only love sprung from my only hate.
I don’t hate him. I feel sorry for him actually.
I know what it is like to be so insecure that all I could do was lie and lie and lie some more. So sad about a life gone wrong that I couldn’t get off the couch. Hating myself so much that I spewed hate.
I launched myself back into the grieving process and I am stuck in depression. Soon with come anger.
If love be rough with you, be rough with love.
Or we could just skip that part and go straight to the acceptance.
I can’t change what happened.
I was a fool following a fool.
If he knew me at all he would have realized that my body responds to kindness. I get wet from intellect. At no point did it matter what he looked like, just how he treated me. Which was the ugliest thing of all.
I have to forgive myself for not knowing what I could not possibly have known.
(Italics = Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet)