soapboxdiner

Ain't That a Shame?

You know what a girl misses the most when she enters into the kind of relationship I have? I can tell you - only briefly though - as I sit here stealthfully awaiting the homecoming of Mr. T. It's autonomy. Sovreignty of self. Take the simple act of setting my thoughts down in written form, done for my own amusement mostly - safely in the confines of near anonimity. I haven't done this very simple thing that had been prior to his arrival into my life an integral funtction of my evening unwinding. Well, sweet Diaryland, no more. I shall come here at MY discretion and write what comes to my fingertips almost more quickly than than to my brain.

It's the little moments that eat and wear on a person. It's the "break-ups" or the threats thereof. It's the ultimatums. It's lying down next to a person and being cradled in their arms as he (the one you've invested years with) tells you about his other women, despite the fact that just a handfuls of hours earlier you were the girl who was his Ms. Ladybug. Other women who could potentially become the possessor (temporary or otherwise) of the endearment which had heretofore been your own.

It's that same moment, naked in all the ways grown people who share a life together can be with each other, hearing about the other, nameless and faceless woman who welcomed YOUR man into her home and into her bedroom on that particular night months ago. The night you let YOUR MAN drive your car, only to have it returned reeking of foreign perfume, littered with carelessly disposed of girly parafernalia, on empty. The night he asked to borrow $100 that somehow without your knowledge quadrupled because you trusted him with your ATM rather than telling him NO.

Mostly though, it's the fact that only the night before you'd been out with YOUR man and he, apparently quite sincerely, mentioned yet again that he is going to put a band of gold around your left ring finger. That is the little moment you share, only a few, wee hours later, that drops the napalm inside your gullet. It's the knowing that it is all a farce; an insincere, hopeless farce that he tells you both to your face and in your naked, cradled ear early in the morning following his proposal of marriage.

And you say to yourself, "Who between the two of us is the most stupid?" Is it you for denying what should have been abundantly obvious months ago? Is it him for sharing all these lurid and revealing details on this particular occasion to a woman who has heard it all before with other men and dumped their sorry, double-dealing asses out in the street? Or is it you again, for making yourself and your child financially dependent on such a . . . man.

And these are the thoughts that ping around in one's noggin as they attempt to mire through the innumerable quandries they've allowed into their life. These are the barbs that scrape and draw blood. The inner havoc that implodes and explodes at one and the same instant. The evil thoughts necessitated by familial, parental survival instincts. The hate and loathing of yourself, your partner, your situation. The sigh that knows it's his "fault", but in all actuality, if YOU had been prepared, aware, guarded and exhibiting the full function of all the intelligence you claim to possess, you yourself are ultimately the responsible party and you yourself are the only one who can or will take the coveted yet unwilling steps to exit the situation as unscathed as possible, despite the unlikely situation. YOU. And that's it. And at 33 years of age - a fully conscious and responsible adult, want your mommy.

Damn shame your "principles" in maintaining this unhealthy relationship created and fostered a rift in that relationship, huh?

6:39 pm - 11.29.06
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