Toddler. in Phoenix

I’m afraid of behaving like an annoying child, tugging a sleeve or a pant leg and chanting, “Mommy. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mommy? Mommmmmmy!”

Is it because I was treated like an annoying child for years and years, perhaps? Because the person I loved, the man I wanted to give all of my attention and affections to, would often literally sigh, and sometimes even roll his eyes, at me whenever I attempted to get his attention? Who would snap, “What?!?” at me if I spoke out loud at the wrong moment? He would snap at me if I interrupted his “work.” He thought he was a music producer. He also thought he was a jeweler. He would snap at me if I interrupted his fucking video game playing that would often go on for 12 hour stretches, with a short pause to eat the dinner I cooked and served for him every day, and periodic bathroom and/or coffee breaks. If I made too much noise or said something at the wrong time and he got killed in his stupid video game, he would sigh, mutter shit under his breath, shoot daggers at me with his eyes.

When I would try to have sex with him, he would literally kiss me while pushing me away at the same time, say, “Love you, good night,” and roll over with his back to me. If I touched him at all in bed, tried to hold his hand, put my hand on his arm, whatever, he would jerk away, move to the far side of the bed… eventually he just stayed over there all the time, falling asleep right on the edge, so I couldn’t reach him.

He would tell me I had bad timing if I talked out of turn.

His favorite thing to say whenever I would confront him about the touching thing was, “I’m just not a tactile person.” Like, okay, that’s valid, guys, right? Some people just aren’t touchy, you know? But he was a tactile person before he moved here. And okay, maybe that was because we went, on average, 9 months between 2-week visits. A lot of build up in 9 months, right? So maybe when he actually lived here, 9 month intervals between fucking his wife was normal?

Jesus Christ on a fucking cracker, that shit broke me. I have made jokes about it in recent months, shit like, “He treated me like a standing lamp in the corner that no one liked and that never got turned on.” Har. Har. I made a joke of my fucking self, that’s what I did.

Fucking #2.

I have one public Facebook post. It’s a meme that says “The villain plays the victim so well.” Yes, it’s totally directed at that asshole. No, I don’t give a fuck if it’s petty. You don’t get to be a narcissistic fucking psychopath who wormed your way into my life and into my goddamn family and then play the fucking victim when I cut you out like the cancer you are.

A friend of his commented on it. Then messaged me. Oh, poor #2 is just heartbroken, posting all the sad shit on Facebook, I guess. I have him blocked so I wouldn’t know or even care, honestly. There is no way he’s heartbroken. That would require not being a sociopath with no heart. He’d have to not be a complete monster to be heartbroken. No. He’s not heartbroken, he’s egobroken. I ripped his narcissistic ego out and stomped it into the fucking dirt and then ran it over with my car a few times to be sure.

I am realizing that he did far more damage than I was previously aware of. It’s not irreparable damage, but it’s deep, so very deep. And now, it’s rising to the surface, slowly, inch by inch, poisoning as it goes.

The good news is that it has to get worse before it can get better, right? This too shall pass. I’m just afraid of how long it may take.

And I’m afraid of the scars it will leave behind.

Last updated May 12, 2019