I have chemically induced amnesia. It’s apparent in most of my posts that I dare stay awake after popping my pill for the night, that I am under the influence of something, but this medicine seems to have no mercy. No matter how long one has been on this medicine, it induces amnesia, there is no building up a tolerance, and the amnesia comes at irregular intervals.
Last night’s entry is the perfect example of that.
Part of me wishes that I had spent that time working on my new Theme because that was a fairly frustration for me. I’m trying to make a theme that matched my old MoveableType layout, but so far I have had no luck.
I also, apparently, ate a bag of potato chips and have no recollection of doing so. The positive side? I don’t have any guilt in inhaling a bag of potato chips, simply because I don’t remember doing so!
I’m planning on seeing my doctor at 4:30pm today. Happy thoughts for me? Warm thoughts? Prayers? I want to be healthy for a change!
The Warmth of the Sun
It was hot enough to run the air conditioner today. And we dyed Easter Eggs, in the part of the house that had no air conditioning. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Do something like cook hard boiled eggs in an already hot kitchen and then dye them. After all, tomorrow’s Easter, and we weren’t planning on celebrating, with my knocked up and due any day now (C’mon baby! I’m ready to meet ya!), we were going to do a small celebration, but now I don’t think we’re going to just have some toys and coloured hard boiled eggs around the table. I’m not that up for any hard boiled eggs. I can’t stand them when I’m not pregnant.
So I’m five days overdue today. I feel as though I am five years overdue. I feel like I have been pregnant forever. Worse, I feel like I am wasting everyone’s time with being pregnant, because nothing is happening.
I picked a bad time to try and blog. Dennis is due for his medication, and we’re going over double the dose, triple to be exact, and he’s just as scared as I am as to what this new dose is going to do. So here goes nothing. Happy Easter, in case I don’t get back to posting until Monday or so.
Did anyone else feel that? The world stopped turning! It’s all over! But it seems there’s internet access in Hell, and MacBook Pros, so it’s not all that bad. Plus instead of drinking from the polluted Styx River, I get an IV drip again. But Paradise wasn’t always so. I sleep more. More so than I should be. I am taken, every day, to that CT room, injected with something that makes me sit still, laying on that cold, sticky table, as I’m injected out and about a ring that I know I’m going to get stuck in. Tears pool out of the corners of my eyes, dripping onto a table where they will dry yellow. Yellow? I’m not crying piss, I promise.
My chosen one has chosen to go back to heavily drinking. Triggered, I requested a new, private room, not to be listed. Change my name if you have to, because when he starts drinking as much as he is, two full bottles of whiskey per sitting, he becomes violent, and having an IV tube so close to me, I’m a sitting duck. I might as well have my head in a noose and be standing on a three-legged chair.
The night nurse is gorgeous. I’ve been lusting for him since I met him on Monday evening after I was transferred to this specialty hospital. I’m the youngest on the Cardiac floor, and one of two patients of my night nurse. I have limited resources, just what I can pop on my phone. Someone sent me a shit load of music videos from the ’80s. I’m not too ungrateful, but I have to wonder why someone would send me Elton John videos along side hair band metal? Apple is probably scratching their heads over this. They must think that I’m some kind of a pervert. Ok, well, I am, but they don’t need to know that!
Last night I had my first shower in ever-so-long. Nurse Sexy said we were going to get in the shower together. I was a little disappointed that all that happened, somewhat, was that he helped me scrub down. I had my first six orgasms in that shower. *grins* He complimented my backside, then quickly corrected himself in saying he was talking about my tattoo. Sure you were, sure. I told him that I was dizzy from the temperature and pressure changes in the shower, so he told me to hold his hand. I grabbed a hold of something else, and he made it a point to tell me that wasn’t his hand, but he didn’t tell me to stop. Best single sided sex of my life.
I’ve been put on injectable insulin. We all knew it was going to happen sooner or later. Better now than never, huh? I don’t inject over four units at a time because my blood levels aren’t that high. Of course I’ve been chowing down on ice cream and Tootsie Pops and Life Savers since getting the news. No more Metformin for a while, we’re going to go straight to the insulin overdoses. Nurse Sexy came in and told me he had something for me to suck on, but not to suck on it too hard because the juice might come out too soon. He then gave me some kind of a medical lollipop, the outer part was to deaden my taste buds for the vile liquid center. And yes, my heart rate sky rocketed when he told me he had something for me to suck on that was going to explode in my mouth.
One thing that doesn’t help is that I have been put in isolation for so long that I feel worse being here. I question why I was admitted, but then I get a new medicine to try out, and my mind goes back to blank.
I’m hoping to get out before Christmas. Hoping. I know that hoping and looking at the actual statistical facts on hand are two different things, but I can dream.
We got a tiny snow storm while I slept last night. Nurse Sexy must have come directly to my room to check on me during the start of his shift; he had whole snowflakes in his hair. I asked how much longer I was going to be here. I actually want to be out in this snowy, wintery mix, amongst the dumbasses trying to drive on it, than be here, tethered to machines, my only escape is an iPhone with shit reception. I have a stack of forty or so unopened Christmas cards from people who just realised that I am not where I’m supposed to be. I want to go outside and play in the snow. Make a snowman and get some food colouring and really go to town.
While I want to leave the hospital, I fear where I am going to end up. Going home seems to be the right idea, but I don’t think I can go back there. I can’t live with a violent alcoholic, who refuses to get help. I can’t expose myself, my children, and the bun in the oven, to violence. At the same time, Chloe is bonded to her father. She loves him dearly, and after studying psychology for years, I know what may happen if I take him away from her. I have not asked why he started drinking again. Eight years sober, and now this. He came in to see me drunk. He said things, made remarks. I asked if Trevor was there, and he said no. When I expressed this to a mutual friend, they suggested that Trevor wouldn’t be honest, if he were in control, because he dislikes me. Trevor wants to sleep around, get high and wired, drive drunk, take swings at cops, then runs away, leaving Dennis holding the ball, getting in trouble. I’m not sure if I believe the Trevor Did It story anymore. There was a time when it made perfect sense, but now it just seems too convenient to be true. Dennis and Trevor have both hurt me. Trevor has never told me that he hates me, but Dennis has relayed to me that Trevor wishes I’d die, and that he never agreed to my marriage to Dennis. Dennis tells me that Trevor was the only one in the system who disliked me and did not wish to see me on a regular basis.
I’m rambling now. I should be trying to sleep, begging Nurse Sexy for another shower or at the very least some good pain medications.
And if the world ended, no one told me. So I’m still here, and apparently, so are you, so there.
Don’t forget to like my page here! You know you wanna, and that you can’t help yourself…
Officially Official
There’s been some changing brewing in my life. Not necessarily bad changes, but changes none the less.
It started about a week ago when I had a dream about a friend, someone I hadn’t seen in nearly ten years. Oddly enough, I was awakened from that dream to my phone ringing, and it was him. I feel that I have been dreaming of him for months now, the song he sang in my dreams, it was familiar. I ran the melody in my mind across some of Dennis’ recordings, and there has been nothing of the sorts that are familiar. It’s something that I wrote for my friend in my dreams. Freaky, huh? His phone call was simple: He wants to see me at the end of this month and the beginning of next, maybe over Christmas, like we did before. Before I could stop and think about it, I quickly replied, “That part’s over,” as I sat up in the bed. “What part?” he asked. “You know,” I replied. This wasn’t just a teenage fling that kept me busy when I was eighteen and nineteen years old. This was the man who introduced me to the world of heroine. This was the man who refused it himself, but had an endless supply for me. Me and the other woman.
The other woman was his other official girlfriend. We were both racing to get pregnant. Not me so much, since I knew I already was when I started fucking him, but I was more in it to fuck him every day, sometimes multiple times per day, just to keep him too exhausted to screw her when I left. He lived in the sam apartment building my mother and I lived in back in the Louisiana days, and I was still upset over losing Peter. Without a second thought, I started taking guitar lessons from him. His father had been famous in the 1970′s, and I was an eager student. I did what I could to tempt the lesson to be over so I could have that sweet poison and then sex. I wanted both endlessly, but had to stop at nine at night to scurry back to my apartment with my mother, before she got home from work. I never expected him to remember me, but he has. Ten years ago, we met up in his homeland, and yes, screwed again. I didn’t turn down the drugs or the sex, whenever he offers it, even though I know that I no longer need his “love” as a crutch. Needless to say that the other woman got pregnant. I was further along, and told him the baby was his, though I had slept with four other men before him, and knew I was pregnant before I met him.
Weeks went by, and my mother soon found out. I was shipped away to live with my father for the baby’s birth, and lost my friend in the shuffle of the bigger city life. My days were spent grabbing up college credits and fixing computers in a local high school where my father taught during the day, and I soon forgot my friend. When I threw out half of my life two years ago, I chucked the letters and photos I had that been sent from him. He believed the baby I had had was his. He had called me several times when I married Dennis six years ago, and I always was too busy to take the call. The Biz is really a small network, when you think about it, and subtract the fans. When your crack whore gets married to another crack whore, and has a couple of kids, while wanting just one more, word gets around. This man was no exception. He tried to get into our wedding, once with an invitation and once without, and he was refused at the door. Realising what a mistake I had made in inviting him and his wife, I put him on the banned list, that he shared only with Billy, and we had a smooth wedding, living happily ever after.
Only that’s not the way it’s been.
When he called me that sunny Sunday morning, it was to ask not only if I was coming to see him this year, but for his forgiveness. He said he knew what he was doing when he made me into an addict. He said he was lonesome and scared of dying alone, so he reeled in two women to live with him and compete for pregnancy. He asked how his “first born” was. I bluntly told him that she had died some three years ago of cancer, and she wasn’t his daughter. While he had Scandinavian good looks, she was more Greek-ish, with brown hair, brown eyes and olive skin. I often wonder if the wrong twin got me knocked up. Dennis and his brother were famous for that, switching women with each other. I often wonder if my boys will do the same thing when they start dating.
We chatted for some time, and he left me with that trail that I hate: “Sorry that I ruined your life and made you hate me.” The line was then dead. Um, fuck you? You didn’t ruin my life, I did. I knew what could happen when I took that first hit. I knew I was going to become a slave to the injections of the hot liquid (he had a glass syringe he melted everything in), to the feelings of being incredibly sexy and having a male not only go all the way with me, but want me more than once, and what I assumed was crave me. I didn’t mind the other woman, she was merely a competition. Someone I knew that I could beat because I had the upper hand before the game had already started. He told me that he had every intention of marrying me, but that I slipped away, and he had to marry her because she was pregnant with his child. My turn to snort. “You don’t have to marry someone because you knocked them up,” I replied, already perched at my perpetual place, googling as fast as my fingers could type and my computer process.
One of the plus points of having well-known friends is that there is almost always something about them on the web. Reading through his page, I read that he had several (aka: a dozen or so) kids with the other woman and she had left him. Hmm. Wonder why. When I questioned him about this, he said it was because he wanted to make up for that mistake he made years ago. “She wasn’t a mistake,” I replied. “Oh no, I meant losing you,” he quickly replied. I’m sure that was his original intention.
We talked for a few more minutes, and then Chloe came into the room asking if we could go outside, and I agreed. I told him that I was going to have to go for now, but that I would talk to him again. He mumbled his “you hate me” speech, and that irritated me. I’ve felt that I need to call him or otherwise get in touch with him, if nothing more than to drill it into his head that I am not a hating person. Doesn’t matter what mistakes people have made that have caused me severe life changing events, I can’t hate the person. I can hate the situation, that is fine. People weren’t meant to be hated.
For the past week I’ve wondered if he was suicidal. I made excuses for what went down years ago, and then I metaphorically kicked myself for thinking that way. I thought about bringing this up in group therapy, family therapy, or one-on-one, but I can’t do it. I just can’t vilify someone I once cared about.
Coming home from another Premiere with Dennis, I told him that I was happy that our life turned out the way it has. I don’t know where that came from, but I really meant it. At least we’re not my ex, calling a desperate fling in hopes that someone will still talk to them. Dennis has been severely depressed since before our anniversary. I think my getting upset caused some of that. I apologised for it almost immediately when I went back over my notes from therapy. I can’t vilify Dennis either. He has his moments, but it’s me that chooses to be hurt or to harp on things. Let them go. Just let them go. The words I whisper to myself several times during the day, as I’m scribbling in my notebooks, or when I am conversing with someone whom I have unresolved conflict with. I wonder if they remember the conflict they have with me? I know it’s not so easy to let things such as that go, but I can hope that no one hangs onto things as I do. Perhaps that is why my mind is never clear. I used to celebrate meaningless anniversaries when I was a child and a teenager all the time. They mean nothing to me now, but then they were my entire week.
Watching the celestial sky for the Leonids, I silently hoped that my ex was not suffering, physically or mentally, where ever he was. I hoped that Dennis could kick the depression that he was going through and that he did not dwell on the words that I spoke so carelessly just a month ago. I thought of the offer he had run past me, and I really wished I could go back and agree. I wanted to do this now. I wanted to go out there and face the shore wall, just one more time before it washed away the last places that I thought I’d always be able to see again. I wanted to do that so badly, but I had declined and now someone else has my place on the trip. Dennis is devastated that I am not going, as if those summers were just a waste of time to me then. They were not. They were not meaningless. I remember living out some of my happiest memories there.
When I spoke coming home, Dennis was reading a paper from Geoff. He barely looked at me when I spoke. I was driving. I said I wanted to make it up, and he replied that my place had already been taken. My first thought was to threaten to run off with my ex to some exotic place up north for the winter, but I realised how foolish that would be. Did I really want to be the mother who abandoned her children because their father was driving me up a wall? Did I really want to be the wife that turned her back on her husband and rushed back into the arms of an abusive ex, whose intentions may just to be to get me close and inject me with poison and lies once again? Since when do I run from my problems?
After the Premiere, Dennis said we had to take one of his friends home. I was glad for that, since most of his friends and I do not get along. He handed me a paper bag of my medicine that we had picked up from the pharmacy before the Premiere, and gave me a long, tight hug. It felt as though the hug was fueled by despair, sadness. I started to ask what that was for, when he pulled away and said, “Please don’t be fucked up on those pills when I get back. Please?” He wasn’t asking me. He wasn’t telling me. He was begging me. I gently pulled away and walked into the house. I’m sure he watched me go. Dumping the medicine bottles out on my desk, I saw what was in the mix. My old poisons. I put them on the shelf with my other medicines.
It was after nine at night before Dennis came home. I heard him walk down the hall and check the bedrooms, when I was sitting in the living room; he had walked right past me. Upon finding me, he just stared for a few seconds. “All the pills are in their bottles. I didn’t take any,” I said. He immediately smiled and once again, I got that long hug. This time, though, it seemed that the hug was fueled by something different. Relief, happiness. Love, perhaps.
The Hardest Part
Sleep. Something that I feel I haven’t gotten enough these days. I want to sleep all day, all night, no matter how much caffeine I guzzle down, I seem to not gain energy, but discoloured teeth. Blah.
I would chalk this up to working extra hours, though I’m not. My hours haven’t changed, and I have double vision. Dennis says it’s because I’m glued to my phone texting and playing games twenty hours out of the day. Ha ha. Very funny. I suppose that is causing my head and neck pain as well?
I haven’t gotten my blood test results back yet, and they’re late in getting them back to me. Usually that is not good news.
At home I am on strike. If Dennis and his dad want their laundry washed, the rooms vacuumed, or home-cooked meals, they can do it themselves. I’m too tired to get anything done, even raking a brush across my head spikes wears my arms out. I felt like I had just done forty minutes on the rings, not detangled one inch spikes.
As usual, I’m behind in my paperwork. I sat trying to finish yesterday’s paperwork, and my loving mother said she was going to clean the shelves in my bedroom off. Turns out that she had given my entire artisan make up collection to some one she works at at her white-trash job, and they jumped at the chance to get high-dollar cosmetics. *sigh* Into the locked trunk with them! She already gave away my stereo because I didn’t use it enough. I have to remind her on almost a daily basis that I am not ten years old anymore. If I have a slightly cluttered bedroom, it’s not up to her, it’s none of her business.
My doctor was a little bit pleased with my weight loss: 16 lbs since May. He wants me in the 110′s by November. My weight was 151 lbs when I got weighed the last time. Again, I don’t think someone who is 6′ 1″ needs to weigh so little. He said if my “frame” was larger, he’d recommend it. “Frame?” What the hell’s that? And, as I predicted, he said my “weight” was the cause of my neck pain. But I was given some more groovy muscle relaxers, and had some fun having hallucinations at night after taking them. Well, it was fun until I realised what I was doing, and then I just quietly and quickly hurried back to my bedroom and got in bed. I sometimes never remember what I am doing in that weird state of mind. Not until people inform me that I made an idiot of myself hours before.
I wanted sex tonight. I begged Dennis to send his friends home, and begged my father-in-law to watch the boys and Chloe for about an hour. When Dennis finally got around to come see what I wanted, my mother was in our bathroom, why she can’t use the kids’ bathroom is beyond me, and asking me if I had saw parts of a TV show that we watched together less than fifteen minutes ago. Needless to say, we didn’t get it on. Too bad, too, I was in an oral mood. Maybe tomorrow night.
This Lonely View
Things are hectic. Computer upgrades, going back to work full time, my host keeps going down. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to do this anymore. I know that sounds selfish, but it’s true. When it takes 45 minutes to be able to get to my blog login page, and then another 45 minutes to get it to accept my login, another 45 minutes to navigate to the Plugins page, another 45 minutes to, well, you get the point, I hope. I remember when having a way to express myself through my writing and photographs wasn’t this hard. Log in to Blogger.com, write a post, pray Blogger didn’t eat it, and within a second or two, check out your site, and there was the post! Even with the older software, Greymatter and MovableType, I didn’t have issues that took three hours a pop to fix. I remember the first time this happened, and I was waiting on the page to load, I went into hypoglycemia, and by the miracle of being able to drag myself away from the computer to the kitchen to eat something, in this case it was guzzle a can of cherry Coke, that I missed falling into a coma and risk having Dennis inject me with Glucagon. The only problem with that is that I know he can’t mix the stuff for shit, and there’s a high chance that he may inject me with air.
Needless to say I am still on the Starvation Diet, out of fear of spending the next five years of my life in a psychiatric hospital. For some reason, my mind has equated that with the days I spent with that horrific occult in San Francisco when I was deflowered….
Such is life.
But the other issue is, I have other sites, tester sites, on my DreamHost account, and they don’t magically fall apart when I’m not around to constantly babysit them. They’re running the same WordPress installation, the same Plugins and the same theme. They don’t mysteriously fall apart and I don’t have to spend hours trying to get them back together again. So when I express this to my hosts, they act as if I’m the crazy one. All I want is verification that it’s the server. Nothing is perfect, and I would rather the server was rejecting these Plugins than I am doing something wrong and stopping other people on the server from having sites that work properly.
Yes, I have communicated that to my hosts. No, they have never answered me about it.
That aside, the past couple of days were pretty upsetting for me. It’s the four year anniversary of the death of Jess and today is the birthday that was never had. We still have the decorations and cake supplies from 2008. I downloaded his two journals in PDF format and have them for anyone who wants to read them. Jess was pan, trans, and died of a barbiturate overdose on August 14, 2008 after battling cancer for three years. The cancer had gone into his bones and muscles and it made just laying somewhere soft extremely painful. His screams kept the entire family awake for three nights. On the fourth day, he found his grandfather’s phenobarbital and took seven of them to relieve his pain. He died an hour later, at the age of 19. To make me feel better, the woman at the morgue told me that he died of “heart failure brought on by decreased brain activity.” No shit. You take enough barbiturates, everything fails. As with his cousin, we accused each other. “Did you poison him?” “No, I thought you did it out of sympathy..?” “I didn’t do it.” “How did he get into his grandfather’s room? He couldn’t walk, let alone climb stairs..” There was no other explanation for it. When one is in extreme pain, they do crazy shit that seems super-human. I know that all too well.
I was put on a strange medication that has caused seizures and hallucinations late at night. Although I took it intentionally last night because my own pain and suffering was intolerable. I thought back to when I was sixteen, laying on that cold, wooden table, with the hard metal rods inside me, begging for deliverance, and compared the pain to that. I greatly accepted the morphine that was offered to me once I was released. I begged for more and more after the first dose. I pleaded for some the next morning. When I got home, the first thing I did was seek out more morphine. It was vicious. I had phantom pains from that for decades. Every once in a while, I’ll reach down and trace the scars he left me. I’ve never explained them to anyone, but they are there. Other people have saw them. No one questions me about them, really. By the time that I was able to pull myself together and lead a normal life, he had been dead for a while. It was then that I was able to love another man again. I was never questioned about the scars. I was never questioned about the abilities, or the force-fields that I had put up around me to prevent myself from ending up on a metaphor of that wooden table again. I had had yet to have a flash back of those days until recently. The seizures, the hallucinations, the pain, it all brought it back. Somehow, I was able to get up in the morning, get dressed and go to work like there was nothing wrong.
But there was something wrong.
I remembered it all. I scribbled it down in my notebook during breaks, at red lights, while waiting on a train, during Carl’s turn to lead the lecture. My pen, which I bought brand-new on Saturday, ran out of ink today. I had mainly used it to scribble my situation down, my thoughts, my feelings, explicit details of what had happened to me, thoughts that flowed through my mind, what it did to me. Coming home, I found another pen from the box and finished the notebook. The story wasn’t complete yet. I opened another notebook and scribbled more. It was over half full when I stopped. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with these notebooks, so I took out an envelope, scribbled my brother in law’s name and address on them, and took them to the post office and mailed them before I had a second thought. He deserved to know what happened more than anyone else, since I ran to him after the experience. I was too afraid and too ashamed to go home to my mother or anyone else. I knew everyone would know. He was the only person I didn’t care if they knew. Perhaps I’m opening up Pandora’s Box again, but I don’t care. He deserves the truth, too, even if he was close friends with that guy.
And yet, no one knows a thing.
My best friend, James, has always told me that if things got bad with my husband, he was just a phone call away, and we could live happily ever after, as soon as I left my problems in the dust. Today, I made that phone call. Unfortunately, James did not answer his phone, and by the time that he called me back, I was too chickenshit to go along with Plan B, that I made up some shit about my computer cord that I needed and that I wanted an expert opinion. In reality, I was begging for someone to relieve me from the darkness that was beginning to surround me, and tell me that this was not my fault. Nice thinking on my part, huh?
I didn’t bother to talk about what went wrong with our little Memorial Day vacation, just that I was not going on any more business trips with my husband, ever. I even threw in that he could sleep with whoever he wanted, and I was going to pretend everything was fine, all the while singing Silver Threads and Golden Needles. He remarked about S. Well, yes, something happened. But I made sure that when he’s fucking someone else, it’s me that he’s thinking about. Dennis informed me that I was spending “entirely too much” of the family funds on tinted moisturisers and lip stains, when I really knew that he wanted to hit below the belt. I gave him that option. I told him that I didn’t care if he made the remark, just be honest about it, like I was honest with him about my complaints.
He never did tell me what was on his mind. I never fully admitted to fucking S.
As some kind of weird punishment, I have not had my patches refilled, so I am here, suffering, and can only sit for a few minutes at a time. I cannot lay still in my bed because then I feel like I am jumping out of my skin. I cannot walk about, the only thing that calms my skin-jumping-feeling, because I hurt. Dennis tells me that he will fill my patches “when he can” or when he gets around to it. Sorry if I’m interfering with his watching A&E, but I’m suffering here!
On the fourth day of hearing that nonsense, I called James. Least the kids and I be living in Manhattan, with me doped up on Fentanyl, than to be living how we were. After six rings, I gave up and ended the connection. I couldn’t really see myself living in James’ apartment with his mother and three kids of his own. We’d be a modern day Brady Bunch, each partner bringing in their own three kids to make a huge family of six. Seven when counting his mother. I’ve always wondered what the hell Mrs. Brady did while Alice cleaned her house, anyway. She didn’t have a house to clean or a job to go to every day, so what in the world did she do? Hang around waiting to solve all her kids’ problems? These days, I’d go for having a full time house keeper. 
I would love to have nothing to do but twiddle with this site, and annoy Jess’ old friends and haunts, all day long.
I know there’s a reason why I didn’t get through to James. I know me living in Manhattan is just not to be. I know that some day Dennis is going to miss me when I’m gone, but I can’t get him to open his eyes to that now. Now he’s barely agreed to getting my medicine refilled so that I can live without suffering. I was grateful for the extra patch I found down behind the desk, but I don’t know how much longer I was going to be able to hang on. Even right now, after this short post, my arms are cramped, my back is aching, and I feel as though I have been bench-pressing a thousand pounds.
Communication is something we need help with, that I know for sure. I know more than anything that my heart is doomed. This relationship is pretty much over, it was doomed before it ever took off. I had to battle Dennis’ fan girls, floozies, and fat women he’d made friends with on the web, before he would pay proper attention to me. It wasn’t right, and I expressed that to him. But my words were ignored. There was nothing wrong with having these women and girls call us at all hours of the day and night, and our first real fight happened when I got his cell phone number changed and he lost the number forever. That really sent him over the edge.
I’ve never used the word “fear” to describe my life, because I don’t really fear Dennis. I fear myself. I am my own worst enemy, and I have known this for many years. I just wish that I didn’t have to rely on Dennis so much. Or any man, really. I want to be free, where the only person that I have to please is myself, and the only person I have to look out for is myself, and finally, the only person that I have to rely on would be myself. I knew all these things when I got married, and being a selfish person, I never said anything at the time. I never said anything at the family therapy sessions. I never said anything to anyone, just kept it as a dirty little secret in the back of my mind, next to that night I spent with S, pretending that no one would notice, and if they did notice, they wouldn’t care. Well, now I care. Now I have to suffer with my own decisions. Would life with James be oh-so-better? Not a chance! He’s just another man, right? I tend to not get along with men for very long. That’s why my marriage has shocked the shit out of me. It’s so unlike me to be in a relationship with a man for so long.
Nighty-night people. Oh, and it’s almost my birthday, so buy me something, huh?
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