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.”
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.
While I was growing up, the egg donor cooked roughly three different meals.
Lasagna, shepherd’s pie, and orange chicken.
The lasagna and shepherd’s pie, which she cooked occasionally, I loved.
More often, she’d make orange chicken. The smell made me nauseous. Those nights, a sneer would spread across her face as she told me to eat what she cooked or nothing and I’d go to bed hungry.
Most nights though, I was left to my own devices with a frozen dinner in the microwave.
She never taught me how to cook.
STBXH went to college for culinary arts. I’ll admit, he’s a damn good cook.
He set the bar so high that I believed I’d never be able to cook as well as him. When I’d hang around while he cooked to try to learn, he’d get aggravated and kick me out of the kitchen, fueling that belief even further. Why even bother trying? I’ll suck anyway.
Part of me thinks he did this on purpose in an attempt to make me dependent on him.
I still have no idea how to cook. I feel so much shame about not knowing how to cook as an adult woman.