Bossy fricking thing made me put a title here in Snowspangled

So, puzzling turns of events. No, still married to Dickface, and he’s still clueless. His latest thing is wandering around asking me what he DID. Because he treats me FINE. Because this used to be a happy marriage! Except…he did plenty, he does not, and no…it wasn’t. This is a very long exercise in what life looks like when you let other people define it for you. I didn’t ever have a burning desire to be this guy’s wife. Nope. Just liked regular sex, and even then, I was kind of hoping it would improve. You know? Except you don’t, because you’d never let this happen to you.

Fine, then: he told me everything was going to work out, and my dumb ass believed, and while it DID work out (kind of) it’s not because of anything he did on purpose. Let’s revisit his classic list of promises.

1. I could go back to school in Washington. Well, to be fair, he took me to the office of the community college I (eventually) went to later one time. But they needed records from the school I’d run away from when I eloped, so I couldn’t enroll right then. And that was the end of that. Never contacted the other school. Never got a ride back there til I found a friend to take me sixteen years or so later. He didn’t follow through. And of course, due to the next one…

2. I could get a license easy. Possibly true. I could drive. I was just terrified of doing things wrong. He promised he’d break it down step by step and I’d be driving really soon. Really soon, for the record, appears to be about twenty years later.

3. He was going to be a great, involved dad. Yeah…no. His idea of involved has always been couch centric. They get on the sofa, they have a dad. They aren’t there? Well he’s got no idea where they are or what they’re doing or anything. But great! Now…how long can you sit a child on a couch? Oh no, that’s too long, he’s gone to sleep.

4. Friends. We were going to get out and meet people and make friends. It’s…twenty years now, and if there are friends, they’re my friends, and I made them myself. I have lost friendships because I couldn’t get places reliably or return favors or much of anything. I miss some of those people. I can’t have them back until I have something worthwhile to offer.

5. Finances. We were going to budget, and save, and take vacations, and drive places, and do lots of stuff with the kids. The kids haven’t even ever been to the beach. Other than Portland, I don’t think they’ve ever been anywhere you could call touristy. And we don’t stop in Portland, because we only go there when we’re visiting my mother. And Seattle is right over there, but we never go, because you can’t park. No, why even bother looking up the light rail? Noooo. You want to sit right here. Stare at the wall. The couch. It needs you.

God. At this point I can’t think of a promise he’s kept. And I let him get away with all of this. And I still have a year plus to wait for it to be over. I am going to weep for months.

But not with loss. I am not losing anything. There was never anything here. Maybe my determination that I could make a marriage work, and his need for a caregiver? But that’s not enough. I am not happy.

Also, pretty sure I’m gay.

Tooth extraction is Tuesday. I can get a partial after it’s gone. All that’s in order, but it has to be fitted before it works, so there’s that.

Old RP friend had a surprise today when a new group didn’t want her. I didn’t have anything to do with that, and I’m mildly surprised, but a bit of me is weirdly happy. Just, she didn’t do to them what she’d done to me, so why are they being fussy? I’m thinking some wires got crossed somewhere. Or it’s true that the whole play by post rp community has gone Mean Girls and is gatekeeping the fuck out of itself, which is weird because that always ends up in abandonment and infighting. I find that rping is lovely…but the sites are fucking hell. We don’t mix, rpers. Even when you sit and bash out the plot, we don’t mix. Something is always off.

I miss rping, though. But the communities are unstable, the writing is unsatisfying, and uneven to boot, and it’s always feast or famine. At worst, it is constant output and a feeling that you are kind of a weird sex toy accessory (seriously, I once wrote over sixty dicks…)

At best, I don’t know. Deep collaboration? Surprise elements? Fun plot twists?

But those are also all drawbacks. Deep collaboration tends to puppet one author. Surprise elements can fuck up a plot. Plot twists…well, they can be like corkscrews to the brain. When you have one in mind and they do too? Shiiiiit.

I could once have all the fun all by myself and feel satisfied, but now I want an audience, and I don’t have one. That’s limiting my desire to sit in a corner and play by myself (and no I do not mean play with myself, because every sexual function in me is smashed like a funhouse mirror.)

Could be depression. Could be rage. Could be I should just drop dead.