I had this theory, that if I only had certain feelings on certain days, I could maintain them more successfully. Clearly I was drinking when I came up with this.
Actually, it wasn’t a conscious thought at all. I recently noticed that I do this. I hoard my little feelings until I think The Time is Right, let them out somewhat dramatically, and then skip merrily away, declaring myself cleansed. When my grandparents died, I didn’t cry at all between the initial finding out and the funerals, because it wasn’t time yet. When I think about them now, I only get upset on the anniversary of their deaths. There has to be times and places, or my emotions will just run wild. (Yes, this entire time I’m pretending like they don’t already control most every move I make. I lead a rich fantasy life.)
To help all these feels stay in their place, I build little walls to hide them behind. As long as the walls are not tampered with, everything works as it supposed to. Picture me here dusting off my hands triumphantly.
The biggest of all the walls is The Ex Wall. Reliving my second marriage is not my favorite. Mostly, because it wasn’t all bad. But a great deal of it was, and the betrayal that I feel because of that makes the good parts so much worse. So all of it gets tucked away, and I try to ignore the fact that he’s out there, continuing to exist. Ever so rudely.
Last week, someone scratched at the wall. I had to recount details and justify my choices to a complete stranger, because she was at risk of having that big ol’ wad of crazy aimed at her. One of my fears in doing so came true, and he found out that I had talked about him (and subsequently ruined his chances to bring his special brand of manipulative, narcissistic bullshit into someone else’s life .). He contacted me, and called me a liar. He said he’d never abused me, that I’d made it all up to get attention.
This week, I filed for divorce. The timing was purely coincidental, I was already on my way to doing so when this all happened. Though I should feel free, I don’t. Because it’s not done. He could still do… something. I don’t know what, kill more fish? Fake cry to make me feel guilty? Write more terrible Missed Connections submissions?
So here I was, trying to cram my wall back together while I wait for shizz to be finalized so I can tell someone about it. Weirdly enough, my containment plan turned out to be complete shit. Who knew?
When he text me to tell me I was wrong to call what he did abuse, there was a moment where I second guessed myself. I thought, “Well maybe I am overreacting. Maybe he didn’t really mean it the way I took it.” It’s been over a fucking year, and this shit STILL gets to me. Fuck that. Being told my opinions are shit, that I’m fucking stupid, that my friends don’t really like me, that if I get too confident he’ll knock me down a peg so I stay dependent on him, that’s abuse. Being kept away from those friends and family because he didn’t trust me to leave the house alone, also abuse. Being angrily accused of sleeping with every man I talked to (or looked at for any length of time) and called a liar when I said I wasn’t, hey guess what, more abuse. Being guilted into eating food I didn’t want, then passive-aggressively made fun of for my weight gain, ring-a-ding-ding, we’ve got a winner, and it’s abuse. Being told the he didn’t need to ask for sex, I was his wife, and “when he’s hungry, he eats”, that’s fucking creepy, and yes, another shining example of abuse. Oh, and then later being told that I must be gay or cheating because I wasn’t givin’ it up on the regular, well that’s just plain stupid. Guess what, dillhole, there’s a third option: I DON’T WANT YOUR STANK ASS NEAR ME.
Nope, he never hit me, never put his hands on me in any kind of violent way. But there’s still plenty of scars.
Because of them, this probably won’t be the last day that I rehash this incredible drama of absurdity. I won’t stop warning potential girlfriends when I get the opportunity, and I won’t cower in fear over what his crazy ass could do if he doesn’t like the things I say. I don’t give two shits if anyone believes me, I was there. I know what happened. (He could say the same, I suppose, but I’m also not a self-admitted sociopath. Points to me.)
So, Butt-Weasel, just in case you stumble upon this, and it’s still not clear, let me say this in parting: Fuck you, you insecure, controlling, self-serving, uneducated, weirdly racist, misogynistic, lying, conniving, completely fucking worthless piece of shit. You don’t deserve to live in the same hemisphere I do. Not because I’m so amazing, but because you’re so useless. Do what you want. Stalk me, fuck with my car, burn my shit down, attack me. It won’t change that at the end of the day, you’re still you.