I Hope He Hurts in Phoenix

Does that make me a terrible person? I kind of feel like it does but I also kind of feel like I don’t really care. I just hope he hurts. You know. He. Him. Them. Whatever.

I’m a really wonderful person, you know. I do everything within my power to help and be a friend and be there for people when they need me. I loan bits of money or I make extra-large meals for the boys and I so we have leftovers and sometimes I deliver those leftovers before they’re leftovers, while they’re still warm, to random people. Once it was a Thanksgiving dinner to the guy at the gas station who was stuck working a double and wasn’t going to have a meal with his family. Other times to co-workers when it’s my night off or to my single guy friends who live in a bachelor pad built from pizza boxes and stiff socks. I don’t really know about the socks thing, actually, but… yeah. Poster children bachelors. Today I visited a friend at work and bought a drink and some food from him so I could tip him because it’s Monday and he works in the slowest bar in town. Random acts of kindness, you know? Because I care about people and the people I care about care about me, too, and show me kindness in their own little ways.

I’m also a painfully insecure person. I have very low self-esteem. About half the time, my mind is consumed with the idea that I’m actually unlovable. It’s just not meant to be, not for me, not ever. Whenever I think something is good, I’m wrong. Whenever I trust a man with my heart, with my secrets and my greatest weaknesses, they’ve played me, preyed on my weaknesses and on my kindness and low self-esteem to make themselves feel better. At least they aren’t as pathetic as me, hmm? Just look at her, the poor sad little thing, nobody loves her.

And yeah, it’s probably the guys I pick. I can take responsibility for my part in it all. Obviously I pick all wrong. I know that’s because I’ve believed such rotten things about myself for so long that I just kept picking these people that I think I knew subconsciously would treat me like garbage eventually. I knew 2nd husband was a drinker when we first got together. Hell, I knew he was a drunk. But I wouldn’t admit it to myself, I couldn’t. Oh, he just really likes beer, he’s Irish, of course he likes beer. I made excuses. I made excuses for him and his behavior and the way he treated me and the terrible things he said to me because, deep down inside, I thought I deserved it. Or, at least, that I deserved no better.

I seriously wouldn’t know what to do with a nice man. I would have no idea how to behave. I have no idea how to be around someone who doesn’t want to oppress or dominate me in some way. I don’t feel like I even know any men secure enough in themselves to handle being around someone like me in a romantic way. I always get this vibe like I’m a threat of some kind, something that needs to be stepped on, squashed, cut down to size. I’m intelligent and somewhat well-spoken… okay, no, I’m not well-spoken. I can write good (har har) but talking is hard for me because ADHD. Focus is a thing I do not possess most of the time. Also, anxiety. I stutter sometimes and I’m not a powerful speaker to begin with so I have a tendency of letting my own voice fade away into the background. Also, anxiety because I don’t know how to handle attention most of the time. I freak out internally when people look me in the eye.

But goddamn I’m a good person. I try, I never stop trying, I never give up. I persevere. And I love oh my goodness do I love so strong and hard and it’s probably too heavy a burden for weak people to shoulder. I love passionately, with my whole being, in my every word and every action every day. And I still get shit on. Isn’t that weird? Like, I feel like that should be weird, like I’m actually in the Twilight Zone and this shouldn’t be the norm, right? But maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m just too much for anyone to handle. I certainly feel like too much for myself most days, so I guess I can’t blame them.

But for real, husband number 2… I’m a suicide survivor, okay? I’ve lived with suicidal thoughts almost every day of my life, for as long as I can remember. Even as a little girl, I would wish not to wake up in the morning sometimes. I let the dude get to me tonight. I’m probably mostly angry at myself for letting him do it, but there was a moment when he said a thing (in Facebook chat, so typed a thing…) and the first thought that popped in my mind was, “Oh my gawd, just do the world a favor and…” Yeah. I’m not real proud of that thought. I didn’t say it but I wanted to. Because the fact of the matter is, he hurt me. He hurt me so fucking much for so many years and all I did was love him and love him and love him and never give up and never stop trying and he just treated me like I was a goddamn thing, a nothing, an invisible, inconsequential thing. Occasionally he made me feel like an annoyance. I like to joke that I’m like a lamp off in the corner of the room that no one needs so I never got turned on. And yeah, take that as you will. That’s how I felt. Ugly and unloved and undesirable and awful. And he knew. He knew all along. I told him for years, time after time, “Hey! This is how I feel right now! Can’t you help me?” and he ignored me for years, time after time.

And now? Now I don’t know what the fuck to do. Is it so terrible to wish for someone to be nice to me? To wish for someone who wants to spend time with me and hold my hand and listen to me ramble on about random ADHD shit and laugh with me and at me because I’m goddamn ridiculous sometimes? Is that so horrible? Because I look at myself objectively and I’m like, “Huh, I’m pretty cool. I would like to meet me.” But I feel like people don’t really even try to know each other anymore. It’s like… hookup culture. I got on a dating thing and, within minutes of uploading my picture and writing a short “about me” thing, I was getting messages from dudes in Egypt, Australia, the UK, California… Why you talking to me, bros? You gonna come take me out to dinner and a movie? Fuck off outta here with your “hey beautiful” shit. I’m not beautiful, so fucking save it. I’m… okay. I’m also 41 years old, I’ve birthed 2 1/2 children (one was a c-section so I have an awesome scar!), I have wrinkles and gray hairs and I’m cranky, alright? I’m sick of games and I’m not interested in another long-distance asshole who just wants to get off free with a girl on a webcam instead of paying for it on some website.

Fuck me sideways, do I look like I was born yesterday?! I still occasionally get carded for alcohol, so I guess I can trick some people into thinking I look young, but jeez. Guys, you really gotta step up your game, this shit is pathetic. How about, instead of telling me I’m beautiful, you ask me what I do for a living or if I have a college degree or what my political or religious stance is, and then tell me I’m intelligent, I’m kind, I’m giving and loving and friendly. Tell me I have a nice smile or compassionate eyes. Don’t blanket statement me, I’m not some 21-year-old attention whore and I’m certainly not your sugar momma, my little Egyptians. No green cards here, move it along. Unless you want to be my next husband who gets deported, eh?

I shouldn’t have had that white Russian tonight. Dude always makes them the best, though, and strong, and now I’m all full of a righteous fury and I want to burn something to the ground. This is an odd drunk mood for me.

Oh well.