Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Petition for Dissolution of Marriage

I read thru the papers in their entirety several times before they were served.  I know what they say.  Getting hard copies in the mail today was a blow to the chest I did not expect.

"Petition for dissolution of marriage."
It feels so cold, and formal.  So sterile.  It feels like such a small, sharp phrase, and completely inadequate in describing the heartbreak of a divorce, or the twenty years I spent with him, both good and bad.

Two babies.  The death of beloved family members.  Vacations.  Inside jokes.  Heated arguments.  Lazy days, curled in a ball on the couch.  Violent disagreements.  All of that is over now.  Reduced to a stack of papers less than an inch thick.  Reduced to a few short meetings in a parking lot to exchange our daughter.  Reduced to a few more signatures, and a notarized stamp before the final deed is done.   

I did the right thing for all of us.  I was struggling.  He was struggling.  Our children were struggling.  This is better.  I am aware.

And my heart still contracts when I stop and consider the magnitude of what's happened in the past year.  Sometimes I look around and think I might still wake up, and find it's all been a nightmare.  That I will roll over at night, and he will be there, and he will wrap me up in his arms, and we will love each other the way we were supposed to.  Without the anger.  The fear.  The hate.

Instead, a pile of cold, emotionless papers occupies what used to be his side of the bed.
It's very real.

I am very glad.  This is nearly over, and it's a relief.  I can begin to focus on my therapy and my recovery.  I can surround myself with nothing but support and love.  I can begin to further build my neglected friendships, and find my way in the world the way I was meant.  This is a very, very positive change.

But in moments like these, my heart still breaks.  If only...

And because this is a depressing post, here is a picture of a cute critter.  He has a corm.

Monday, September 8, 2014

Porn Zoo

Some asshole followed me out of the grocery store today, and said "shakin' it, aren't ya?"

Dude.  Fucking stop that.  It's not flattering.  I don't giggle.  I get scared.  Because someone who makes sexual comments to a stranger is obviously not playing with a full deck, and I don't know whether you want to ask me out or rape me or make a lampshade out of my ample ass.

Which, by the way WAS, in fact, shakin'.  I'm fat.  Fat jiggles.  And even if it didn't, I have every right to make it jiggle without being made to feel like an exhibit in the porn zoo.

Is there a porn zoo?  There should be.

There.  I've solved the problem.  Porn zoos.   Enclosures where people come for the sole purpose of being ogled and cat-called.  Where we can press our asses to the glass just like the chimps, and you can snap pictures, high-five your bros, and post facebook updates about the hot-ass specimen in the "tramp" enclosure who jiggled her titties just for you.
Yes, that's the answer.  Take your creepy cat calls to the porn zoo, where they belong.  

Then women wouldn't have to be skeeved out by your weird behavior at the fucking grocery store.  Douche bag.

I live in a small town.  It's entirely possible that this asshole is someone I know, and if not, it's likely that we know the same people.  If you know a tall, bearded butthole with a ponytail down his back, tell him to keep it in his pants.  Or go to the porn zoo, and beat his chest with the rest of the gorillas.  

Wednesday, September 3, 2014


Possible triggers.  Read with caution.  
I am safe.  I love you.  

The weight is physically oppressive.  A heaviness that settles over my bones, making even the slightest movements a burden.  The racing thoughts have stopped completely, and left vacancy and darkness in their place.  Everything is still.  I am still.  I wish to remain still.
I am pessimism personified.  Every dreadful possibility now becomes immediate reality within the swirl of smoke that's filled my skull.  There is swill.  There is rot.  There is stagnation and filth. Every thought dark and disastrous.
My divorce will destroy me.
My children will resent me.
My family will tire of me.
My boyfriend will desert me.
I am helpless.
I am useless.
I deserve all of this.

Events present and past converge in the here and now, to confirm my fears.  They didn't love me.  They didn't protect me.  They didn't come to me.  Because this misery, this despair, this unquenchable torment is what I deserve.  This heartache, and nothing more.

And it's heavy.  My breathing is shallow.  Even the effort of drawing a breath seems colossal and fruitless.  I give in to it, and silently hope to suffocate under the weight of the sadness.

My veins feel full and sticky.  Clogged with the years of filth and sorrow that have been ignored, brushed aside, suppressed.  My blood feels old and tired.  I want to open my veins and tug out the threads and the barbs and the thickness.  Bleed out the old and make way for something fresh.  Drain the sickness.  Start again with new blood.

All this therapy and all this effort now seem like just another cruel trick; filling me with hope and promise of a new way of being, only to come crashing down around me in shards of failure, when I am reminded of just how deep I can sink.

Tomorrow is still there, and I will go on.  A little weaker, and a little less hopeful for any kind of recovery.  
I am still too stubborn, and too frightened to give up.
I miss him.