FUCK YOU SHUT UP

Boxes are packed and stacked. Renters insurance is paid for. Electric and internet will be on tomorrow. Water is billed with rent, so nothing to set up there. I hope I’m not forgetting anything. Oh! I need to change my address with… everything. Post office, bank, license, registration, on and on and on.

Tomorrow is the day.

He’s been crying on and off. I’ve been cycling between feeling empowered and feeling like a giant fucking failure.

I keep hearing the egg donor’s voice in my head. “You are such a nag. No wonder he doesn’t love you. How could you let your marriage fall apart? You’re pathetic! Now what will you do with your life?”

FUCKYOUSHUTUP.

Boundaries

I’m getting out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, about to get dressed for work.

All of a sudden, he’s standing right in front of my closet, preventing me from getting dressed.

“Excuse me. Boundaries.”

“I’m getting ready!” he exclaims.

“You need to respect my boundaries. I don’t want you watching me get dressed.”

“WELL, IT’S MY APARTMENT.”

I didn’t retort that I had paid the entire rent here this month (he didn’t pay a dime) and am moving out halfway through anyway, so really it’s my fucking apartment and you’re welcome for paying the rent.

I didn’t bring to his attention that he was standing in front of my closet, not his, and he was already fucking dressed, so no, you aren’t getting ready you fucking manipulating sack of shit.

I didn’t remind him that he was supposed to have already left for work, and I planned my morning routine around him.

I didn’t scream like I wanted to, that even if this were “his apartment,” it wouldn’t give him the right to disrespect my boundary of not seeing me naked.

Derailing the conversation to get me arguing and ignoring the extreme boundary crossing is exactly what he wanted.

“Boundaries. You seeing me naked is a boundary. Please move so I can get dressed.”

He storms off yelling incoherencies.

11 more days.

A Letter To My Narcissistic Mother

A Letter to my Narcissistic MotherDear Egg Donor,

Thank you.

Thanks for the anxiety.

Thanks for the depression.

Thanks for the self-loathing.

Thanks for making me question everyone’s motives.

Thanks for refusing to tell me who my father is.

Thanks for not believing me when I was in second grade and told you the man at my daycare was molesting me every day.

Thanks for treating me so shittily that I moved out of your house and into a physically abusive boyfriend’s house when I was 16 years old because the physical abuse he put me through was easier to deal with than the emotional abuse you put me through.

Thanks for following me across the country to humiliate me in front of my colleagues at a conference and scream at me that my marital issues are all my fault.

Thanks for cutting me out of your life when I asked for an apology.

Oh wait, those thank you’s were supposed to be fuck you’s. Except the last one. Seriously, thanks for cutting me out of your life. You don’t deserve to be in mine.

FUCK YOU.

2018 Goals

2018 is going to be a new chapter for me.

Fuck that, 2018 is going to be a whole new book.

Here is what I plan to accomplish in 2018:

  1. Move into my own apartment

    My move in date is January 28th. Exactly four weeks from today.

  2. Pay off my credit card

    This is getting paid off, and I am never racking up credit card debt ever again.

  3. Pay off my car

    A paid off car will be my 29th birthday present to myself.

  4. Finalize my divorce

    No more of this bullshit rollercoaster ride. I am finalizing this once and for all.

  5. Get a tattoo of Fawkes on my right arm

    The symbolism of this is incredibly important to me for celebrating my divorce. In Greek mythology, phoenixes are reborn from the ashes of their own destruction. In the Harry Potter world, Fawkes has healing powers and super strength.

What are your goals for 2018?

More Yelling

Today was overwhelming as fuck.

STBXH had agreed to continue helping me at work for a few hours each Saturday until the end of the year, which would have made today his last day.

On the way to work this morning, he was driving my car. He was coming up to an intersection where we had to make a right, but he didn’t signal. There was a car coming the other way waiting to turn left, assuming we were going straight because STBXH hadn’t signaled.

“Can you please signal so they don’t wait for no reason?”

THUD. He clipped the curb hard turning right and didn’t respond.

“Can you please pull over so we can check the tire?”

That question unleashed a fire-breathing dragon.

“STOP FUCKING YELLING AT ME. YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO TREAT ME THIS WAY!”

“Do you understand the irony of you screaming at me to stop yelling? I think you should go home. Take today off.”

Cue more rage and screaming about how I need him at work.

I calmly asked him to pull over again. This time he did. He walked the few miles home while I drove off to work. When I got there, before going inside, a panic attack took over my body. The shaking, dizziness, pounding head, and crippling nausea were overwhelming.

I texted one of my friends who helped me pull myself together enough to get through work. I was pretty certain I was going to either pass out or vomit on someone, but I made it through without doing either.

I headed to my friend’s house after work. She immediately gave me a hug, wrapped me in a soft blanket and a neck massager, fed me a good meal, gave me a few ibuprofen, packed me a bowl (yay for living in a legal state!) and gave me a cider. I am so grateful to have her as a friend.

Days Like Today

Days like today make me question everything.

Days like today make it easy to romanticize our entire marriage and pretend it’s always like today.

Days like today his embrace is home.

Days like today make me want to stay in this moment and forget everything else.

Days like today make me think leaving him might be the wrong decision.

Days like today I wish he were being a dick instead, because its easier to believe that leaving is the right decision when he is.