Shameful Panties

Me, after an elementary school Halloween party

Me, after an elementary school Halloween party

That pre-adolescent time is so awkward and ignorant. As a female, before you understand what’s happening to your body or ever know it’s changing at all, your vagina secretes discharge. Healthy, hormonal discharge of a young girl anywhere between maybe 9 and 13 depending on how early your body changes.

I didn’t notice that.  I was somewhere around 9. It’s not as though your panties are actually wet. It’s just a little bit of moisture that gets into your panties. So, you throw your panties into the dirty laundry like usual. You just toss them in there, clueless that you’ve done anything wrong…clueless that your body has gotten you in trouble. Clueless until Saturday morning when you’re in your room reading and suddenly you hear your mother scream your name all the way from the basement. You still don’t know you’re in trouble…you’re not sure why she’s screaming so angrily. Still ignorant and innocent, you zip downstairs to see what she needs or what you’ve done this time, feeling fairly confident it can’t be too bad because you know you’ve not done anything wrong or broken any rules. So at this point, you’re mostly curious and maybe the hateful scream of your name was merely to reach the volume level to get your attention.

But as you stand half the size of your 5’2 raging mother, while she shoves your dirty panties in your face screaming, “I’M NOT STUPID! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” you realize you’ve certainly done something wrong or shameful or disgraceful or broken the rules somehow. You know you didn’t pee your pants or anything(you’re very proud of the fact that you’ve not done THAT in a LONG time!), so what could be possibly be wrong with your dirty panties? Then she shows you the tiny spot in your panties that have been sitting in the dirty clothes for a few days now, and that delicate smudge of moisture that your changing body discharged while you were swinging on the maypoles at recess has become the tiniest little dried off-white crusty smudge. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THE BOYS, YOU LITTLE SLUT?” And you don’t know what you’ve done or what a “slut” even is. You just know that boys are wayyyyy yukky…and you DO know you’re in serious trouble by your mom’s expression. You’re not sure why your panties did that yet (that knowledge won’t come for another 3 or 4 years)…you only know that those are your panties (you can’t possibly deny that – you’re the only 9 year old girl in the house) and your body did something disgustingly wrong in them. Your body betrayed you. It got you in trouble. And it’s so embarrassing and humiliating that your dirty panties are so disgustingly unacceptable and apparently tell stories you don’t even know, that all you can do is cry and plead “I’m sorry Mommy” and silently vow to have a LONG talk with God about this horrifying indiscretion later after you’ve tucked all your stuffed animals safely in your bed.

Only later that night, after you tuck all your stuffed animals carefully under your covers, God doesn’t tell you. He doesn’t answer your pleads to understand why your body did something so disgusting and shameful against your will. He doesn’t even tell you what “boys” had to do with it! Mr. Bananas doesn’t know either or he’s not talking if he does. So the best you know to do is beg God to stop your body from ever doing THAT again.

But God doesn’t stop it. So, further punishment will come. You aren’t going to be allowed to play neighborhood football outside or go sledding with them when it snows with the neighbors for a while…a REALLY long while. And all you can do then is pray that God sends your daddy and maybe your daddy will know why your body is doing that disgusting horrible “slutty” thing and understand that you’re not doing it on purpose.

After all, your daddy loves you. You know it.

Complete culpability

Thank you for loving me, Daddy.

Thank you for loving me, Daddy.

It’s pity party time. I’ve officially spent my second birthday and the second anniversary of my dad’s death alone. Without one single phone call on either day…not a “checking in to see how you are”, not a “hey, I’m thinkin of you”…not a single friend or family member thought of me on the two most significant days of my life: my birth and the day I lost the only love I was ever going to know.

After 44 years of life, millions of friends, several boyfriends, one husband, and two children of my own, I now realize what I feared most from my earliest days is literally true. My mother, my sister and all those other people over 44 years couldn’t ALL be wrong about me; I’m not someone who can be loved. I’m just not…
I suppose I could write of how it’s my mother’s fault. How being raised by a narcissistic sociopathic woman damaged me so cruelly, left me with huge holes in my soul that can’t be filled, making me so desperate and needy for the one thing that scared me most, love. I found it crazy ironic to discover at 26 that I have a flap in my heart which doesn’t close properly. What a perfect description of me…it was almost an explanation at last for what I am that I can’t seem to help or change. The pieces of me that are so just wrong that they’ll never be right finally made literal, physical sense when the doctors told me that back when I was pregnant with Savannah Grace.

I suppose I could write how it’s other people’s fault, as well. How being so painfully insecure and desperately needy for love and approval for as long as I can remember being alive led me directly to the kinds of people who would manipulate and abuse that…furthering the unlovable clause I was born with. Seriously, WHO gets molested as a 6 year old by a teacher and a babysitter? And WHO is ridiculous enough to get raped *three* times in 44 years? And WHO is blessed enough to have had so many wonderful men profess the most beautiful depths of undying love and still ends up alone? What kind of idiot runs so fast and so often over a lifetime from the very thing she has been praying for since the tender age of 4? I certainly could never convince myself that it was all THEM…that there was something inadequate with every one of THEM. No, the common denominator there is me…and only me. I chased, pushed, argued, and crazied every one of them away from me, even the most tenacious of them. I could try to blame any one of a hundred girlfriends who shit on me, stabbed me in the back, devastated and used me…..but again, who’s the common denominator there? Me.

And what about my daddy? I was fortunate that my mother kicked me out with just a trash bag full of clothes at 16 for lying about smoking a cigarette. Thus, I spent the majority of my life, from 16 to 42, with a most amazing parent who demonstrated love, acceptance, kindness, honesty, integrity, and joy. So many children don’t have that kind of example or love in their life from ANY where growing up, at ANY age. Hell, I was fortunate that my daddy somehow always found the strength and ability to love me at all. Why didn’t that fix those fucking holes I was born and raised with? Not everyone who is unloved by her mother is blessed enough to be unconditionally loved by her father. If the cause of this unending and irreparable unlovability issue isn’t ME, at my very core, then that shower of my daddy’s true blessings would have repaired that. It should have, right?

Yes, it should have. It would have. If it wasn’t me, my fault, my issue, my fault, my inadequacy…mine, mine, MINE.

I’ve never felt good trying to blame any of this on other people anyway. Contrary to many people’s beliefs, I’ve just never been the person who could blame someone for anything at all really and feel confident it wasn’t really my fault. When the teacher molested me at 6, I even felt guilty when he got in trouble…even at that tender age; I felt it was me, my fault. After all, I had actually appreciated the special attention he had always given me, hadn’t I? I had looked forward to his smiles in the elementary school hallways that made his face beam whenever he saw me….it actually made me think of my daddy’s huge grin whenever I got to see HIM! And my favorite was the day he lifted me up to drink from the big drinking fountain. I had appreciated feeling special to a grown-up who saw me every day and still seemed to think I was someone special in this world. I would have never told on him intentionally. Not EVER! And I really didn’t want him to get in so much trouble either. Somehow, even way back then, at such a young and innocent age, I just knew it was my fault. Everything was my fault, so that had to be too. All three times I was raped, no matter how cruelly, I still felt deep down it was my fault…that I HAD gotten what I deserved. And I think I was always afraid to tell my mother because I knew she would be sure to bring that to my attention immediately and then all doubt of me “not deserving” to be raped would be totally eliminated. Hell, somehow I’ve been “asking for it” since the age of 6! I’m sure at 17 and older, I was REALLY asking for it. I just wanted to blame them because I never figured out HOW I “asked for it” and thus, couldn’t figure out how to stop “asking for it”. I only blamed them in my own mind out of frustration that I couldn’t fix what had always been wrong with me.

I’ve never minded taking the blame for things, actually I usually prefer it. After all, if it’s MY fault, then I can fix it. If it’s not, then I’m powerless to ever get it right. And yet, in spite of years of therapy, and so many wonderful years with a loving father, a zillion self-help books and strategies, I’ve never been successful at fixing it. And I still don’t feel satisfied trying to put the blame on other people for anything really… It’s been my life problem as long as I can remember; therefore, it’s still MY problem. My ex-husband even said to me once, “NO one in this world has such chronic shitty luck as you. The shit that happens to you regularly, just doesn’t happen to anyone…not even one of then usually, much less a lifetime of them!?” He was so right. I’ve always known that deep inside too. It’s me…it’s GOT to be. There is no other logical explanation. Hell, my mother abused the hell out of me physically, mentally, and verbally for 26 years and I was STILL desperate for her to love me. I’ve counseled so many children whose parents were fiercely abusive and still, they loved them and would do anything for their love. Me? I have two children who tossed me AND my love in the garbage without a second thought or one single look back to just wave good-bye….just threw me in the trash like the worthless garbage I’ve always been. And in spite of all my mistakes and failings as a mother and a human being, I gave those two children the very best of anything good I have ever had inside me to give, which was still apparently utterly worthless.

And since it seems to get worse the harder I’ve tried to repair whatever this is I was born with, what does that even really mean? If I own it all, I still can’t fix it; if I blame everyone else, I can’t fix it either.
I have so many of my daddy’s amazing qualities…deep down I think, where most can’t see them, but I have them dammit! So, why don’t they make me and my life even a fraction as valuable as my daddy was in this world to almost everyone who ever met him? Why can’t I fix what’s wrong with me?

Why?

I realized recently that I’ve never really been afraid to die… Well, as a mom I was because I felt my children deserved to know the love and nurturing of a mother…the love I never knew and started my desperate journey toward a life of failure lacking. Other than that, I never was afraid to die though. Obviously, my greatest fear is living. And figuring out why I’ve been forced to do something for 44 years that I’m just not able to do well. I’d rather not do something at all, than try for 44 years just to get worse and worse at the effort.

I did always hope that someday, before he passed or I did, I’d have the opportunity to deserve to matter in this world by giving back to my daddy somehow. I always told him, “someday Daddy, I’m going to get myself together and do something REALLY amazing for you to repay all you’ve ben and done for me over my life time”. It still wouldn’t have ever been enough, but I really always hoped I’d have that opportunity and ability someday. I didn’t. He is gone and I’m still fucking alive and every bit as unworthy, useless, and unlovable as the day I was born.

I’m sorry Daddy. I’m sorry I didn’t get it together in time to return your wonderfulness to you even a little bit. I’m really sorry. I know it made no difference to you whatsoever, but it really would have made the world of difference to me.

It seems so cruel. So much death all around me over the last two years since my daddy passed. All these beloved people and children dying and leaving behind heartbroken masses of hurting folks who loved and admired them. Yet, on and on and on I go…. 44 years of nothing but worthless efforts to somehow give the world what I always dreamed of. A life of nothing; worth nothing, for nothing, meaning nothing. No one notices or cares I’m alive and who can blame them? I don’t. So, why does God take the cherished ones and leave the insignificant failures to continue being a burden.

Yet, on I go…

No words…a quietly violent death

when_there_is_no_words_to_say_any_more_by_delawer_omar-d6069cr

I want my voice back! I want…no, NEED…to write of these things. The breathless pain, the torturous injustice, the made-for-tv-movie drama filled bullshit, the nightmare I can’t wake from.
I need to tell my story and share my truth. I need to whine incessantly, bitch and moan annoyingly,…I am so desperate to write it…spew it all over the pages like filthy projectile vomit…throw it out there like a slab of disgusting rancid wretched meat into the cesspool of anonymous oblivion.
Why can I not? Why can’t I get it OUT?
It’s as though I was sucker punched in the gut taking all wind from my body and before I could breathe again to get that out on paper, I was sucker punched again in the head this time so I couldn’t breathe OR think to tell about it…and as I tried to catch my breath and regain my senses this time, the blows just started pummeling me non-stop, chronic sucker punches from all directions…turning my already delicate world upside town like my earth became a blender and I the sole lonely contents…viciously being grinded, smacked, punched, kicked, ripped, shredded into a puddle where there once was at least the shell of a human being with a soul, a heart, and internal organs floating aimlessly inside. Now a puddle of nothing… what would I even be a puddle of now? Tears, blood, scar tissue, liquefied brain mass, and picked scabs? ….all inside this skin of a shell holding the random, chaotic leftovers of the human blender. Deceptively with no signs of the inner sheer pandemonium from the outside.
But where is my voice? The dust has settled a bit. The desperate reaches of my mind make daily attempts to reassemble in some sort of working order… They’ve not succeeded yet, but with some coaxing and reminding, I can take breaths here…and there….when my brain remembers to remind my body to breathe…. Breathe…. Take a breath. There you go. Deeper….release…repeat. but my voice is still feeble and my brain mass still too confused to write.
And dear Lord in heaven, I so desperately need to write of this! I’m suffocating and paralyzed with jumbled emotions, tragedies, and a chronic sense of sheer and dark doom. It’s choking me moment by moment…all right there…but so disorganized and outraged, bleeding and messy…that it shuts up my voice. My god damned voice. The only fucking thing I’ve ever ALWAYS had. My voice which when couldn’t speak, would write…and write…and write…til the wee hours of dawn or midnight candles burned into non-existence. When my mother choked me with fear and hatred, read my journals, and punished me for them, I wrote at school and saved them in my trusty old orange locker, tossing them in the garbage on the last day of school. Or, I wrote poetry, cleverly disguising truth with whimsically mysterious words that only I knew the meaning, rhyme, and reason… Pretending it was just a magical DisneyWorld of words
But I fucking spoke. I spoke with pen and paper, my passion for words and an inner fearless light that no one could shut me up from there. Not that place. Not my place; my only place in the universe where somehow the quiet horrors or indescribable pain came to life and existed. They existed like the thoughts running through your mind exist and skip and frolic fearlessly. And no one could deny them there or punish them or twist them into something they never were.
I had a fucking voice.
Now, I am wordless, voiceless, a scattered being tossing about on the wind like my daddy’s loving ashes…and yet I’m not emotionless.
I do not exist…and yet in the cruelest irony of them all, somehow I do still exist within that very blender of pummeled non-existence.
Without a voice, I don’t know how…or why… I’m forced to exist at all.

Why NOT play Kick-the-Carcass?

No consecutive hours of sleep for what seems like weeks, although I can easily remember not so long ago when it had been more like months, so I logically know I can pull through this “short stretch”.  However, when n the midst of the sleeplessness, it feels as though I’ll pass out, die, or just maybe snap into forgettable pieces.  I keep reminding myself that it’s been worse and try to be grateful for the little bits of sleep I do get blessed with.

Stressing the move, finances, the gossip and lies (of course, as usual), THE ex, the children, packing, moving across the entire country from everything I’ve ever known, living out of district for my kids’ school out west, my ex husband, and his motives and choices, and how they’re going to relate and affect our lives out there, so far from the only  home we’ve ever known.

With all of this, I’m struck hard with acute awareness of the severe alteration of my heart, my perspective,  my very essence…  Who I once was is gone, with all that’s happening now and all I am responsible to be and do, with all the fears that are hanging just over my head like a shark’s mouth ready to swallow me whole, I really just want to sit down and bawl myself sick.  Grief hangs all around me like buzzards and flies on a  carcass.  I know, I know…  This is nothing new…I’ve been a barely-breathing carcass for years now, my only traceable movement being the slight shakes and involuntary shuffles and slides  of a dead body that’s being kicked a few extra times for good measure.  Big thanks to Dave and friends for that lovely prompt..without it, the buzzards might literally begin to feast on my mourning flesh, not just the metaphorical feastings of Dave and friends on the leftover remnants of my heart, my soul, my reputation, my freaking character!  After all, at this point, the pickings are so slim and meager that I genuinely can’t understand the interest…surely there’s not enough there to satisfy even a starving soul?

Apparently so, as I can’t even plan my pathetic, late-as-hell “escape” without a kick every once in a while for good measure.  I’m struggling and fighting this damned sense of victimization which I hate so much it makes me sick even to write of these things any more.  Or maybe it’s that burning sense of injustice and flood of unkindness and continued crucification which keeps me from withering up and dying completely.  It’s almost cost me a great degree of my voice and I do not know what I could even be after he’s fully taken my voice and my ability to write.  It just might be my lingering indignance which is holding the shell of my existence together at all, keeping it from crumbling quietly into dust. Perhaps I should stop fighting this victimized-feeling and embrace it, allow it to strengthen me out of my hopeless feeling of being powerless, beaten, and small?   Hmm….

I have comprised a plan of revenge.  In my circumstances, I have no way in which to actually carry it through, but it’s a lovely fantasy nonetheless.  I imagine that many people love me and know the truth of these past five years…the whole down-n-dirty, humiliating truth and they are so outraged and angry they begin a letter-writing campaign on my behalf – no, on the behalf of all people who have gone through emotional and mental abuse.  Upon me leaving my home, he receives hundreds of letters from people who know the truth, faceless people who are not afraid to stand up against this man’s cruel persecution of my spirit.  Each day or week he receives lovely pieces of mail from people who know what he has done and refuse to buy into his lies and bullshit, as a regular reminder that he did not just “get away with it”.  And he, like me, has no chance, opportunity, or method by which to combat the attack.  He would just have to sit in it, regularly reminded of his cruelty, its effects, and his powerlessness!  Then he might have to spend some time in paranoia, looking at every stranger who meets his eye and wondering, does he know?  Does she?  Just as I still worry with every person I meet or pass, “Did he tell them I was crazy?  Did he tell that person I’m a psycho?  A slut?  A lying cheater?  Wonder what story  that person heard?”

For it seems, just when I’ve let the worries go and have convinced myself anyone who believes his garbage at this point is merely a victim of sorts themselves and is entitled to my sympathy, when I finally get to the “I don’t give a damn what he’s said to anyone”, another lovely twisted story of his finds its way to me…piling on top of the huge pile of garbage he’s dumped on me that I’m already trying to climb out from underneath.  And the exhaustion revives itself in me.  The sense of powerlessness and damned victimization I hate SO much, gathers al around my soul to begin feasting again.

I sent him a message asking him just to please SHUT UP.  Leave me alone.   Reminding him he has not a single reason at this point in his game to speak my name even, let alone tarnish it further.  He has won by yards and miles already. The damage done is irreversible even now.  I’m leaving and his story will always stand in my place of absence; not mine, not the truth, but his sick and twisted deviation of my person. I can’t imagine any greater victory for him?  So why continue beating this broken and beaten thing?  Does he really still get that much pleasure and self-satisfaction from it…even NOW?  Why not just SHUT UP?   No, go above and beyond to make everyone always, think the person you’ve victimized is psycho crazy, then you never have to worry about being held accountable for the cruelty you perpetually heaped upon her…  After all, she’s just “crazy”.  Nothing she says will ever account to anything after you’ve told that to enough people ad nauseum.

Why am I so surprised anyway?  Why wouldn’t anyone want to continue kicking and beating the person they’ve already slaughtered?  After all, she’s dead already…. It’s not like anyone will ever find out the truth now…or believe it coming from a crazy-psycho dead girl even if they did!                                 

Ohhh it would be Christmas every day to just imagine this letter-campaign of outraged people, addressing the truth to him which he feels he has sufficiently buried beneath his heavily placed offensive-tactic accusations and insults. He could just laugh away a few letters, but if hundreds came to him long after I’m gone, that would have to make him think maybe he wasn’t really fooling everyone after all.  His mailbox becoming the screaming, lingering Tell-Tale Heart of an Edgar Allen Poe story!  It’s a harmless, but juicy thought in my weak state of stress, fatigue, and hopeless indignation…

(insert evil cackle here)

WTF!?!! thoughts (or How on Earth did I get so lucky?)

After some reflection from Wednesday evening’s events, I’ve formulated some thoughts and questions…

1.  On what planet does a married professional woman who gives blow jobs in bar parking lots to men she’s just met feel righteous in judging others as parents or even human beings in general?

2.  A married woman claiming she’s desperate for friendship who sees nothing “all that” wrong in sleeping with her friends’ lover?   And then hanging her friend’s character out to dry, just for good measure? 

What is that? Is that okay?  Do the moral aspects of a person’s character or life even have any bearing at all on these questions?  Do we keep all of this stuff separate while we are wearing our judge’s robe and gossiping through our journalist’s megaphone?  When judging others should it be just about them, where the judge remains beyond reproach? 

Hey, I heard Susie has been cheating on her husband for years!   

Oh really, so have you…

Maybe so, but this is about Susie right now….

How do you sit and reflect in judgment on others’ lives, mistakes, rumors, choices, etc, etc, without your thoughts immediately turning to your own?  I am incapable.  My thoughts automatically go straight to “Oh…I once did that too”  or “Gosh…I’ve done something similar myself”….I do not get to pass Go and collect 200 justifications.  It seems the moment I try on the judge’s robe, my entire life is immediately suspect and under the microscope as well…..  Immediately!   Am I just overly self-aware compared to the typical person?  I’m wondering why so many seem to feel righteous in their judgements against others and I’ve noticed that it’s often the very people whose life choices could truly come into serious question, perhaps in direct defiance of the Ten Commandments, for example…?  I’m not religious in any way and yet it does seem to me that the Ten Commandments are, for the most part, pretty basic rules of morality.  It shouldn’t require a membership or devotion to an organized religion to comprehend them and agree that they are just pretty basic ideas of common decency in general, regardless of any doctrine of faith.  Religious rules are typically up for argument and interpretation….only beyond the basics though in my opinion.  It seems to me though that the majority of people I know who judge the most and often the most unfairly are the very people not living by the basic creed of respect for others and/or humanity, but living their lives in a hedonistic, “whatever is best for me”, however I have to get it type manner.  And these people so often feel justified in sitting around passing judgement on others?  And usually judging the loudest, as though they hope the world will hear and somehow deflect attention on their personal lives and choices?  Or do these people truly have themselves convinced that their behaviors are all excused and/or justified, while every one else’s should be placed under the microscope and broadcasted for the public masses?  I have to argue that this kind of thinking floats around in the box of similarity to sociopathic thinking.  Although I’m not saying all selfish hedonistic types (i.e. ‘MY pleasure, MY best interest at ANY cost is perfectly acceptable’) are sociopaths, but I do see a similar train of thought here. 

I once read a book called The Sociopath Next Door which claimed that one in ten (I believe it was? Or some similar statistic…)people are sociopaths. I thought that statistic was a reach, but in reflection on the depth of denial running amouk and society’s willingness to throw others under the bus so to speak in order to preserve themselves or defend some irrational fear that a defense tactic is needed although there is no attack in progress, or perhaps merely for the fun of it (?), puts me in a place of thought where I can clearly see the one in ten possibility.  Not all sociopaths are on the extreme end of the spectrum, like serial killers for example, but I can see a direct connection to the low-to-no-conscience behaviours of society and the personality traits of a sociopath.

When people spread ugly false rumors about another person, are they doing this because they’re trying to protect someone from harm?  Are they doing it because they really believe the information and feel obligated to society’s ‘right to kow” and a satisfaction in spreading the news?  Are they doing it because they get higher self satisfaction in the (possibility of) mistakes and/or misery of others which they figure as far worse than their own imperfections?  And what of the people who just flat-out lie about others?  Do they actually somehow convince themselves of these lies as truth or do they spread it around, in full realization that they are lying? To me, the first indicates the possibility of a serious mental issue and the second resembles the thought processes of a sociopath…

And how did I become a magnet for these types?  Is it true that birds of a feather flock together and I just can’t (or won’t?) see these traits in myself?  Or is it that these types have excellent radar for  attracting easy targets?  Or a combination of both possibly?

Are these people so sick that they are to be pitied?  There are so very many crimes against humanity far, FAR worse than these, yes I know, which go on every day all over the world.  And I feel nauseated and sick to think of them…but these small little crimes against the spirit are so common and so accepted (or so it seems to me) in my little world that I wonder if it is like this in most people’s lives?  Is this the current “norm”?  Or am I just the lucky one who attracts more than most?

Tiny deaths of devotion

He showed up Friday around 2 am.  First time since the letters the girls sent.  I somehow knew he would or at least, had this sneaking hunch.  That’s rather typical, but more interesting is that Lexi somehow “knew” he was coming too.  Said she’d felt that all day long and instead of staying at a friends’ house as we had planned, actually decided to come home with me.  She told me the next day that she’d had the feeling he was coming all day the day before.  I think he intuition is far stronger than mine could ever be because she believes in herself and I’ve taught her to trust that voice inside.  So interesting to contemplate the similarities between us and the differences within those similarities due to vas environmental experiences.

So, I really felt he was coming.  We hung out for awhile debating whether he could stay or not.  I told him Lexi could not see him here under any circumstances.  That’s when he went into talking about Lexi’s letter and how he didn’t want to ever “damage” them, but that he’d only been here “once”.  For the love of God…are you kidding me??    I said, well, you might only remember once because you’re always drunk, but the girls and I are always sober and we remember 30 times easily.  What do you mean “once”??  It must be such a convenient gift to have memories only of our choosing.  I sure wish I were so blessed!!

So, after mild debate, I drove him straight home.  No sex..only a few kisses in the kitchen before we left and a few in the car in his driveway.  I felt really proud of myself for this, but sad too.  I would have loved to sleep and wake up next to him….but I chose not to regardless how much I would have loved that in the moment.

And here is where it gets  irrevocably disgusting:  Had lunch with my boss Monday.  She asks if he came over Friday.  I said “Yes, gosh how did you know?!”  She says she saw him out at the bar.  Hitting on everything there that has at least 2 teeth, stumbling around lost, and barely functioning while throwing himself at any female whose path he crossed intentionally or otherwise.  My boss said she was disgusted and desperately wanted to go up to him to say,”Sober up and go to her.  Stop this ridiculous garbage.  You have a wonderful girl who adores you and waits for you.  What the hell’s the matter with you?  Get over this and go to her.” 

Apparently his good buddies he was with just walked around laughing at him throughout this.  That makes me so mad!  My friends actually care more about his dignity and self respect than his own “good buddies”.  How sad!  And that’s only because they know of the man he once was.  My boss is now thoroughly disgusted in spite of all the wonderful things about him I’ve told her over the years and literally feels sorry that I love him at all.  She would now be about the 100th person to say to me directly, “You deserve SO much better than him.  You could way better than someone like that.”

And after he was rejected by every nasty and maybe-not-so-nasty(?) bar fly, he came straight to me.  He must have walked.  My boss said his friends were still there and suddenly he was gone.  He must’ve walked those few miles straight to my house.  I think of how sad I was that I didn’t hold him or make love to him or wake up with him.  …How it bothered me all weekend that I’d had to pass on one of the few deeply happy moments I can still experience (however pathetic it might be).  And then I think of the only reason he was here was because he was rejected by everything else and that it sure wasn’t for a lack of trying.  And I want to vomit that he comes to me and I struggle with the choice to reject him and I hurt for days afterward for making the “right” choice and not the choice I so want…  My daughter was the only reason I found the strength to succeed in making that choice.

Do I dare say that I felt the tinies bit of devotion to him die?  I’ve hesitated to even document this experience/information regarding him at all because if it doesn’t die at least a little…then I’m truly the most hopeless female that has ever walked the earth.  Yet, my fear that it won’t be enough lingers in my gut, surrounded by excuses and memories of the incredible human being he once was…tempting me to distort it all and color it inside my pink fluffy bubble of lasting love and devotion.  It’s not as though this is the first “unsavory” story I’ve heard in the past three years of this nonsense.  In fact, it’s one of the more typical.  Sadly, there are many far more disgusting.  I just feel the need to protect my love for him and not give them the validity of writing them down anywhere.

I do have enough hope this moment to almost believe that yes, a teeny-tiny piece of adoration for him has died.  Which I’m praying lasts long eough to give me the strength to see him without the deceptively loving and forgiving glasses I always wear.  Maybe even the deepest devotion can actually die incrementally in time with enough disappointment, deceit, disgust, and manipulation?  Have I knicked the surface even?  Do I dare completely give myself that possibility- that hope?

I desperately would like to think that if he came back to me this very second, begging and sober (too many times he’s done this drunk!), that I would be able to say with confidence and conviction, “I love you with everything in me that is pure and true Dave, but I do not choose to be with you again.”

That is my prayer.  To be able to say it and mean it…and not feel like  my heart is dead inside my chest as soon as the words come out and I watch him walk away….  If that is God’s will of course.

Heaven help me.  Thank you.

Knock

Was woken at 3:15 this morning to a firm knocking, as though someone knocked exactly three times on my window or door loud enough to wake me.  The sound was so clear and crisp that I got out of bed and went to the door.  No one was there.  So I checked at the windows in my room and my daughters room to see if someone was out there.  No one was there.

This happened a month or so ago…exactly the same…and I felt it was a warning that he was coming soon.  Sure enough, 2 or 3 days later, he showed up standing over my bed at around 2 AM, wanting to “talk”, telling me how much he loved me and couldn’t live without me.  Making up stories about my life to get me to defend myself and declare my undying love for him.  It worked in part, but I told him I was dating someone and would not ever have sex with him again.  He wanted to sleep on my sofa.  He was dropped off by a friend, so I allowed him my sofa.  He tried again to have sex with me and I refused.  Then he asked if I would just stay on the sofa with him.  I knew I shouldn’t, but I felt strong and confident and so I did.  We talked awhile and finally slept until I  had to get up to get my kids ready for school.  He stayed here all day. ..trying to get me to have sex with him.  I wouldn’t.  Then he started with the stories again…

Why were you at my sentencing?  Just to gloat? No Dave!  That’s ridiculous!  I went to support you.  I prayed nothing bad would happen to you and I wanted you to know although I changed my phone number that I supported you and cared. Well, someone heard you say when I was in front of the judge, “Every time I hear his name, I feel sick.” What???  Are you kidding me?  That’s absurd and hateful and if your stupid little friend said I said that, then he’s a lying troublemaker!  I prayed while you were up there.  I prayed that the best outcome for your life would happen.  I prayed with all my power.  I wished nothing bad for you and I certainly said nothing at all, much less something that horrible.  Hmmm…well, someone said they heard you say that.  I’m sorry your friend told you that.  I said no such thing.

Then I hugged him and told him that I loved him completely and wished nothing at all bad for him.  He held on to me as though his life depended on it and started kissing me.  This is about 1 in the afternoon, after his drunken night, so  I’m assuming he’s relatively sober at this point.  I just reassured him how much I loved him and told him I didn’t want to be used for sex anymore that it made me feel dirty and worthless.  He softly touched my face, brushed my hair back and told me, I’m not using you.  I never use you.  I love you.

Of course he was lying.  He’s very sick and I believe addicted to me in a horribly damaging way.  Perhaps as I am to him?  I am fighting this sickness though.  I do not want it in my life.  I don’t want to love him.  I don’t want to care about him.  I don’t want to fall for his tricks and manipulations.  I want him to go away from me forever.  I’ve changed my friends.   Moved three times.  Changed the places I go.  Stopped havng sex with him.  Started having sex with him.  Lock my doors every night.  Drive different ways to get places.  Other than moving to another state, I do not know what else to do to get away from him permanently.

After the warning knocks last night, I am afraid again.  I have no defenses left.  I do not understand the knocking and I’m hoping it’s not what I thought it was (and was!) the last time because I’m just in the tender beginnings of healing.  I am not strong enough to take him on again right now.  I wish I had answers!

Yesterday I threw the I Ching to try to get insight on what’s happening and received 31.  Influence/Attraction.  That was scary.  Then the knocking this morning….

I honestly am starting to think he might actually be the devil.  I still love him, even if he is the devil, but I do not want the devil in my life or in my house anymore.  Must triple check the locks each night before bed…as though that will keep him out…