Reservations. in Phoenix

I was going to call this entry “Fears” but that didn’t seem quite right. I don’t believe that it’s fear that I’m feeling, exactly. I think I’m just having reservations. Uncertainties. Yes, uncertainties.

EDIT: Coming back to add this after I finished the entry… Yeah, I was wrong. It’s fear. Lots and lots of fear. And other stuff.

Maybe it’s just that I’ve never really felt 100% certain about anything or anyone. Never, not that I can remember. I’ve never let myself get too confident about anything. I’ve always been aware of the idea that I’m perfectly expendable in pretty much every relationship (personal, professional, whatever) I’ve ever had. And yes, I’m aware that the idea that I’m expendable is purely my own and that I don’t get to decide if I’m expendable to someone else. I understand this now… I guess…?

So, yeah, #2 really did a number on me. Purging my home of things that remind me of him is one thing, but purging my mind is another matter. The things he believed about me, the things he said… looking back now, I can see almost how I was indoctrinated to believe some pretty negative things about myself. Things that I don’t necessarily still believe. But indoctrination is a powerful tool.

The idea that someone loves me, wants me, desires me… nope. That’s crazy talk right there. I’m not loved, I’m not desirable. I’m annoying and boring and over-expressive and hyper and “all over the place.” I have fucking ADHD. Of course I’m annoying and over-expressive and hyper and all over the place. I also have bipolar disorder and PTSD and those make me boring, apparently, because I go through long periods of self-inflicted isolation due to extreme bouts social anxiety.

Except I’m not having anxiety anymore. I’m a zero on the anxiety meter almost every day. So I guess I’m not boring anymore? Because I don’t isolate like I used to, because I put on cute outfits sometimes and go out and have alcoholic beverages? That was a thing for #2. I was no fun. “We never do anything.” Of course, getting him to leave the house was impossible unless a lot of alcohol was involved. He literally never wanted to do anything else. I asked him to start taking walks with me. We live in this beautiful place, right? And we aren’t getting any younger. Maybe walks should be a thing. Nope. Didn’t wanna do that. It was like he didn’t want to do anything unless it involved me spending money, preferably on beer and pool, but mostly just beer. Only now do I realize the level to which I was being taken advantage of.

He never cooked. He “couldn’t” cook, didn’t know how, didn’t know what to make, whatever. Like, dude. What would you do if I wasn’t here? He said he’d feed himself, he could take care of himself just fine, he lived alone before, blahblahblah. But I was here and I have 2 kids to feed and so why should he bother being the one to make dinner when I’m obviously going to cook anyway… you know, because… not like he was part of the fucking family, step-father to my kids, or anything. He lived here for almost 4 years and literally never once made dinner. There were times I didn’t cook, sure, and my kids would fend for themselves as I raised them to do (because who wants a bunch of little momma’s boys who can’t wipe their own asses?), and I would have snacks or a sandwich or something, and he would (grudgingly) make himself a sandwich. I can remember maybe 3 times he actually fed himself when I didn’t cook. All the other times? He’d snack on chips or eat nothing at all. The man would literally go hungry rather than make himself something to eat.

I had two surgeries while he was living here. Carpal tunnel surgery and a partial hysterectomy. I cooked dinner the nights of both of those surgeries. No, I’m not kidding. He didn’t offer or make any effort to, I don’t know, plan a meal he knows how to make so he could cook for me while I recovered. Something. Anything. Nope, nothing.

We never had sex, #2 and I. I mean, we did, but after he moved here permanently (thankfully it turned out not to be permanently), he stopped showing any interest at all in sex within about 3 months. That’s probably being generous. It feels to me that it was almost instantaneous. He moved in and immediately decided to not have sex with me any more often than once a month if I was lucky. Once, it was over 6 months. And it was always something, headache, stomachache, too tired, blahblahblah. By the time he’d been here maybe 3 months, I can remember crying myself to sleep. I cried myself to sleep many nights over the first couple of years. His rejections were epic. I remember the first time I cried myself to sleep, I’d been kissing him and touching him and he literally turned his face aside, said, “Good night,” and rolled over, pulling his you know right out of my hand. Not that I was getting any reaction, anyway, but still…

All I could ever think was that something was wrong with me. I’d put on weight. I was having extreme anxiety and depression, so I wasn’t feeling particularly cute or like dressing up and going out for a night on the town - and obviously that was something wrong with me and who could blame him for being annoyed with that, right? I didn’t have a good enough job, I was broke all the time. Who wants to be with someone who can’t afford to go out and have a good time? I had terribly low self-esteem and I began to let myself go. He wasn’t looking at me, anyway, so what difference? Why should I care if I’m thin or pretty or if my hair is done or my outfit is cute? He doesn’t care, why should I? (That is a slippery slope, boys and girls.)

He told me that he’d probably feel better about me, more attracted to me, more in the mood, if I dressed up more, and we got out of the house more. He didn’t mean dress up fancy. He mostly meant wear a short skirt, show some cleavage. You know, make good arm candy. He didn’t say arm candy, but really… He was bothered by my style, which is kind of eclectic bohemian hippy, I guess? I’m the most comfortable with myself when I wear shit that turns heads because of its bright colors and clashing patterns, not because it shows off my tits and ass. I prefer to draw positive attention to myself rather than negative, and that’s what dressing in the kind of clothes he wanted me to dress in would draw - if someone is looking at my tits or legs or ass, they aren’t looking at me, are they? They’re looking at a piece of meat. It does not make me feel good to be looked at like a nice steak in the butcher’s case. But, if they’re looking at my bright-ass skirt, and then my face because there’s nothing else for them to look at, they’re seeing me. Whatever, that’s how I feel about it. I don’t feel any need to show off my body to anyone other than the person(s) closest to me. I could give zero fucks if a random stranger (or the town drunk) at a bar thinks I have a nice ass. I know I have a nice ass and I don’t need lecherous men to validate that for me.

What I do need is the person(s) closest to me to show me I have a nice ass. No, wait, that came out wrong. I don’t need validation from anyone at all, but receiving it from a person I love definitely has value in my journey to well-being. And really, if you’re going to be with someone, marry them, shouldn’t you be prepared to show them how much you love them? I mean, isn’t love both a noun and a verb? Shouldn’t love be an action? Words are pretty and all, but actions, well… they really speak, don’t they?

He told me he loved me all the time. He would kiss me. Small touches here and there, little butt pinches and whatnot. But his kisses were only kisses, mostly. No body touching, just lips. Never tongue. Pecks. Forceful little pecks as if he were using his lips to push me away. The only time I could tell whether or not I was going to get laid was when he would kiss me with tongue. (God, this all feels so graphic right now.) I never knew, it was always a surprise. One day, he kissed me in the kitchen and there was a hint of tongue and I almost passed out. It was so shocking, middle of the day, in the kitchen?! I remember he seemed surprised with my reaction and I told him that the only time he ever kissed me with his tongue was when he was about to have sex with me. “Huh. Really? I never noticed.” And it never happened again.

Through all of it, 4 years of neglect, verbal abuse, gaslighting, implied physical threat, I pretty much believed it was me, I was the problem, it was my own fault for thinking I could actually be loved in the way he professed to love me. How silly of me. I thought I was getting exactly what I deserved for leaving Sperm Donor, tearing our family apart… doesn’t matter that he abused me so much worse (although, in different ways, so “worse” may not apply, exactly) than #2 did because, you know, he hit me and #2 didn’t hit me, so… (“At least he doesn’t hit me.”) Sperm Donor was so very much more amorous towards me than #2 ever was. He desired me so much that it drove me up a wall, I couldn’t stand it anymore, I was smothered, suffocating, withering, dying. He used his desire for me to indoctrinate me into believing that I should just accept all of the bad because at least he still loves and wants me and no one else ever would.

So, I had the words with #2 but not the actions, and the actions with Sperm Donor but not the words… No, wait. I had it all with Sperm Donor. He showered me with love and affection. He just also showered me with gaslighting and verbal, mental, and physical abuse. #2 could only be bothered with the words portion 99% of the time. The actions part, the showing affection part… on those so very rare occasions we had sex, it was clearly a chore for him. I could see it in his eyes, feel it in his robotic touches. It was a thing he had to get through every now and then to keep me at least somewhat compliant. I had to keep him in dinners and clean clothes and money for all the garbage he “needed” to start his own jewelry business that he just couldn’t seem to manage on his own. It was literally the only thing he had to manage and he just couldn’t do it. It was always, “If I just had one of these, I would be set to make this thing.” So, I would buy him the thing, whatever the thing was, and then, inevitably, he’d need another thing, just this one more thing, and oh, just this one more thing, and just this and this and this… And he wanted me to be doing marketing and accounting and shit for him, too, all while I was being a full-time wife and mother and working a full-time job. And let’s not even get into the ridiculous amount I put into his computer because shit kept going wrong with it because he’s often like a toddler when things don’t go his way and tries to force them… Whatever, I think he fucked up his computer on his own most of the time, but I was left with the bill because OMG he can’t function without a computer. Meanwhile, I was using a dinosaur that was 10 years old and gasping its dying breaths, and he’d say, “You should really just get yourself a new graphics card,” or whatever was fucking up on any given day. Sorry, bro, can’t afford to get myself any fucking thing because I spend every extra bit on you.

Fuck my life, I was a human doormat.

And I believed I deserved every bit of it. To the core of my being, I believed. I believed a hundred different terrible things about myself for years and years. And now I don’t know how to unbelieve those things. It’s not like I can just flip a switch, you know? Becoming aware that I didn’t deserve any of that has helped, of course. But whether I deserved it or not is a separate issue from the fact that I believed it. Of course I didn’t deserve it, duh. But that doesn’t just wipe out the indoctrination out over night.

And so. Now.

Accepting love is difficult for me. Accepting that someone loves me, believing it, is almost impossible. On one level of my brain, anyway. On another level, fireworks are going off and I believe in this thing that’s happening in an incredibly profound way. But on that one level, a battle is being fought. That one level is not programmed to believe in this kind of love. It is programmed to believe that love hurts, that love is a lie that people tell for personal gain, that it’s a weapon to be used for domination and control. That level fears love. That level just doesn’t know love or how to believe in it.

That level foments uncertainty. It’s like a virus or a cancer, growing, reaching out tendrils, infecting the healthy parts.

But.

Your love feels like the cure.

And that’s terrifying. I’ve been loved before. I’ve felt loved. And, yeah, it always turned out to be… well, sure as fuck not this. This is like nothing I’ve ever known. I’ve never felt loved in this way. I don’t know how to be loved like this, how to believe that I’m worthy of it. I’m afraid of the day that could (will, inevitably) come when I’m boring to you, or I have too many gray hairs, or I gain weight (again, inevitably…) or I… Well, what happens when the sparkly wears off, huh? What then? Because it will, won’t it? It certainly always has before. The novelty of me will wear off and then where will I be?

But they say that it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, don’t they? Oh, the clenching in my heart at the thought of losing you… but also the clenching in my heart that… well.

(like ripping off a bandaid)

I don’t really have you, anyway, and I never will.

There it is. There’s the thought. The one thought that is my undoing in all of this. The one and only thought that I can’t puzzle my way around.

And still. It is better to have loved and lost. I have no doubt of that in my mind, none whatsoever. I’ll have what you can give and that will always be more than I ever could have imagined, than I’d ever have dared to wish for. And, should I lose you someday, I will always have the greatest memories I’ve ever made with the man I’ve loved for over two-thirds of my life. I wouldn’t trade this for anything. You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You’ve been pivotal in my journey for wellness, and you continue to be the healthiest relationship I’ve ever had. You’ve already given me nearly everything I ever could have wanted from a man, and it’s only been happening for just over 5 weeks. FIVE WEEKS. That can’t be, can it? You are so good for me, so good to me.

I know how to be grateful. Now I just need to work on the being worthy. No, not being worthy, because I am worthy. I need to work on believing that I’m worthy. Not just saying it and thinking it, but actually believing it. Convincing that one rotten level of my brain that I’m worthy.

I’ve made such significant strides in shutting down negative self-thought. Clearly I still have a ways to go.

I’m trying so hard to be reserved, to stay calm and not get swept away. You know, keep my head on straight and be a mature, responsible adult with all of this. I keep so many thoughts and feelings to myself and yet it still feels like I openly pour my heart out daily to you. Part of me wants you to know me completely, but another part says, “He’ll hate you if you let him see.” Another random thought I have almost daily, “Don’t bother him, if he wanted to talk to you, he’d be talking to you.” Sometimes it takes me hours to work up the courage to message you. I have a hundred random thoughts throughout the day and I immediately want to share them with you but I don’t because I’m… well, I’m trying to play it cool, but if it comes across like that, it’s a lie. I’m not cool. I’m on fucking fire. Also, I always have to keep in mind that it very well could be a very inconvenient time to be bothering you.

And I think of you almost constantly and I want to share everything with you and that fucking terrifies me because I overwhelm myself regularly and…

Now I just have anxiety. Jesus. Way to go, girl. Give yourself anxiety.

I’m just going to cut this off here so I can go perform some self-care or something and bring myself back down a notch or two.

Last updated May 28, 2019