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this is an attempt to scourge the demons in my head. What a loaded word demon. That's what I called the part of my husband that ignored my health then beat me when I lost my mind. I still think of that scenario. Wouldn't yew if your life was fucked in a day. I bang around and ponder the indignity and all the ways it and I could have been different. The nice thing in therapy yesterday was a tiny bit of absolvement. She said "you weren't in control of yourself. you probably couldn't have done anything differently." It was a shamefest in our convos yesterday. She mentioned 'stigma', and I thought well yeah, I'm fucked... I'm crazy. the only reason I even hope is carrie fisher seemed a nice person. I appreciate that she wrote her book "wishful drinking". It made me cry. So much does.
And I'm talking to you because I don't have anyone to talk to and after I die, it would be fun to have anonymous immortality via the inter webs. I have been told that I'll be wise. I've been told that by an expensive astrologer. I'm a late bloomer - tick tock. tick tock.
and I keep thinking of that pat on my back and the hug and the "you're a good person" that my second ex-husband did. It's jarring to recall that he said it as kind of the last kind thing he said to me and also the same exact thing and gesture was done eight years prior when my cat died pat pat pat "You're a good person." My thought is someone must have done it to him at one point and it felt good? I certainly appreciated it both times although in retrospect, it's a bit ... insincere. What would I have done if I hadn't married Andrew and why do I still get so angry at him for not living up to the love he so profusely espoused? It's because I thought that was the deal: I tolerated a snobby, entitled, tall, architect white man who thought everyone got the same privileges as him and homeless people were all lazy. The deal was, I was in it until one of us died. I had made my bed, and I was going to lie in it while performing beautiful therapy. At this very moment, I should have ten clients who I see in my training for my work. Instead, I kill the days. Even this one, only four more hours to go then sleep then wake up and do it again. It's been months of mere survival. My constant worry: money money money.
Before it was money, I'm pretty certain it was "fucking Andrew sucks". I recall constantly believing that I was in the wrong marriage, but I wasn't going to do anything about it. Then, after finding out that my dad was a fucking evil fucking monster more than I ever fucking knew (that was the "you're a good person" pat pat pat response) I said "so, I'm going to be a little nuts right now. this is huge." and kept it under control while the step kids were there yet after they left there was a part of me going "TAKE CARE OF ME!!!!!!!!!", but I said it I guess in the meanest most rude way more like "you're an asshole who is just sitting there while I'm in the biggest pain of my recalled life currently. get behind me satan." And the dude flipped. "take it back you bitch whore who I've hated for a long time and finally get to jettison."
and I have debt that's a college tuition to pay off. It's massive, yet it's the bed I fucking made. The hard part? "you look so good"... "you should date again. he is." ... "have you had botox"... and I'm like this is called poverty. I can't eat or drink or I'll go into the hole more.
and as I write this to no one I go goddammit like anyone gives a fuck Kristen. shut the fuck up forever.
but I won't.
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