I have to choose me. My soul. My dignity. My self-worth. My heart. My life. Whatever is left of any of these. I have to.
Being the bigger person I took the grandson over last night. Per his request. It was fine. They played. I sat on the couch and spent my time. I then say it’s time to go…. Will you be back? No. Really? No, I have to mow, clean, do laundry. I’m mentally, emotionally exhausted. I work 50-60 hours a week. I picked up more hours tomorrow and work at 8. I won’t be back.
We had a deal. Yeah, I know. But your deal is killing me. No, no it isn’t. You don’t even fucking know. You like it. You like being here. I try to nicely tell him I can’t do it anymore. His “deal” is killing me. Well you know what that means…..
Yeah, it means you’re fighting me on the house. It means your contesting the divorce. It means this will be even more awful than it already is. But I don’t care. Burn the house down. Force me to sell it. Force me to move. I do not care. Seriously burn it down. Because every single day you’re burning down another piece of me. You’re killing me slowly. You make me wish I was dead.
He insisted it wasn’t that bad. I liked it. If I wouldn’t have made the deal things would have went different. I just remained steadfast I didn’t care about the house. He could ruin my life. Because right now. He’s ruining me. And that’s worse. I can remake my life. Right now I don’t know if I can remake me. And I’m too broken to care.
I left in silent tears with a happy two year old. How do I feel? More free I guess. I have to give up me. I have to take that control away from him. I have to.
I don’t like it. It’s awful. Every second is awful. I despise going there. I despise having to sit there. I despise the fake niceness. I despise pretending to be okay when I’m breaking inside. When I physically want to puke. I made a deal with the Devil to keep my house. I sold my already damaged soul to keep my house. It’s like I’m not even there. Physically I am. Mentally I’m so detached. It’s awful.
My therapist calls in disassociation. Every time he tells me I have to have sex with him to keep the house. It’s part of the deal. I just sit there. Counting down the seconds. It’s honestly like being raped over and over and over again. You can’t escape. He says he isn’t holding me hostage. It’s my choice. Yet it wasn’t. I had to. “Or I’ll take everything and you’ll sell the house and have nothing.” Over and over and over. It brings back awful memories. It’s like I just watch it happen. I remember being 14 and raped. Those memories had went away. They were better. Now they’re back. The awful unfinished drywall. The words. The smell of fall in the air. The smell of them. It’s like it’s all coming back with this. I remember then feeling like I was just watching it happen. Like I wasn’t in my own body. I wrote a poem after that but it’s lost. It started… “As I watch from the wall, I can see it all. They way my body shook, everything you took.” That’s what I remember. But it was like I was just watching. I never fully understood. I was a child. A confused, lost child who made awful choices to hang out with older men who proceeded to get me wasted with awful liquor. That’s what I compare this too. It’s brought up all these memories. And some.
In the end it’s awful and I just can’t do it for another second. Now I have to get to work.