Things Are Never Easy.

I’m pretty sure things are not going to be as smooth as I’m hoping.

Last Friday, I told the landlord about the bug problem. He was right next door, re-painting the apartment that my quiet neighbor had just vacated. And he immediately got me a phone number for an exterminator. I called the guy that night and we made plans for him to come over today to get the problem gone. However, as I’m talking with another friend of mine who has had this bug issue, she says that the methods the exterminator talked to me about aren’t going to be sufficient. He mentioned something about wrapping our beds in plastic, putting some kind of powder or whatever in those bags, and leaving it for a few hours to kill off the pests. Now, I will admit that I was purposely vague on the phone when talking to him – I’ve got bed bugs; woe, woe – but the problem is gigantic for an apartment this size.

I know they’re in my couches. When we accidentally pulled the siding off of the couch, GUESS WHAT WAS IN THERE. You can just see that they like to congregate in there. I’ve found them in the carpeting in our bedrooms. I’ve found them in the bathroom, in the tub in there, and all other manner of places leading into the bathroom. For fuck’s sake. TH has seen them COME OUT OF THE WOOD WORKING on the little islands that separate the nook where his computer equipment is from the living room. And I’ve seen them do the same thing from the little half wall that separates the dining room from the kitchen. (They’re not in the kitchen.) This place is a shit hole and not just because of the bugs – they half-assed the whole creation of the fucking place, not properly sealing things (thus why I have ants LIVING IN MY COUNTER TOPS), and I am the asshole that pays for the misery.

The guy is coming with a few rocks to fix the hole in the dyke, but he really needs a five-man team and cement.

I’m on the verge of tears. I cannot even convey how many of my things I’ve had to throw away. I’ve had to take down pictures and throw away the frames. I’ve had to take out shelving units with sentimental value and throw them away. I’ve had to freeze my books. I’m so freaking miserable and sad about this whole thing that I want to set fire to everything in my apartment and start all over. Even with the exterminator coming in to “do the job,” I still want to get rid of most of my furniture. I want to get rid of the couches, which weren’t the greatest in the first place anyway. I want to get rid of my bed. Our son is rapidly outgrowing his bed anyway so he needs a new one – and a whole new furniture set, really, since he destroyed EVERYTHING in his room. I want to get rid of the entertainment center and its accoutrement since I don’t plan on setting it up ever again, not with the wooden pieces that go above the shelving units BENEATH MY BED as I type this. I want to get rid of everything and just start dogging it all over again.

I can’t do that.

I can’t start over anywhere.

I just want to cry as I watch everything fall into shambles.

The Weekend Came And Went, And I Owned That Bitch.

I am not a big person when it comes to travel. I’ve managed to travel across half the country half a dozen times, on my own and with passengers as well as a passenger. I’ve gone all over Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Vermont on a whim. I’ve got into Rhode Island and Connecticut half a dozen times. However, when I have places to be and certain times to be there, I tend to freak the fuck out. It’s not that, you know, I can’t handle whatever may get thrown all over me but the fact that I have to plot the route and this is where I come undone. I can plot the route and I can follow the directions to a T, but I obsess about fucking it up and getting monumentally lost. It’s ridiculous. If I can plot out the trip to TX and make that, then driving to Newport, RI this weekend shouldn’t have put me in such a tizzy. However, I think it was a triple whammy in conjunction with the having to pick TH up from Rutland on Friday, make the Newport trip on my own Sunday morning, and then come back from there only to pretty much turn around and head back out to Rutland today.

My ass has been in my car more this weekend than it has been in weeks.

The worst part about driving to Newport on my own, besides the fact that after hitting 95 I wasn’t quite sure where I was heading (all those night trips to Providence finally paid off for something other than visiting old friends). And the worst part was that the routes I had to take were the most boring scenic routes I have ever been on. I guess all of my trips up to Photobucket Rutland have really, really babied me when it comes to the scenery. There are houses that pop out of nowhere, interesting tree formations, fields upon fields of wild growth, cows and horse farms, plants for as far as the eye can see and then you come upon a picturesque town center before heading back into “country.” It’s fucking beautiful, even if it is taxing on me in some way or another. However, once I hit RI route 4, I was bored out of my mind. There was nothing but the sweltering heat in front of me to stare at there. Grass was dead along the median and on either side of the route, as well. I realize the country is pretty much in a drought right now, so I wasn’t expecting sparkling green grass as far as the eye could see. But, I was thinking that I would see some trees, some wildlife, or just some spectacular views. Apparently, the only thing that RI has to offer the entire nation is that it is almost entirely coastline and the beaches are expensive fun, fun, fun.

I got to “rest” for a bit before the wedding and then had to get my ass in gear to get ready. The dress I chose to wear was slinky and white. You could see my paunch. It was incredibly degrading, but what else is a fat girl going to do when she was shit out of options? The wedding itself was beautiful. They got Uploaded from the Photobucket Android App married at the Newport Shipyard. And every boat there was fucking money. They were all huge and full of gadgets. The amount of money people spend on boats is beyond ridiculous. Can you imagine how many homeless people could be fed from the profits of the sale of those boats? It really makes you think about what is and is not important. But, even though we were surrounded by snobs, the wedding itself was pretty spectacular… even though it started to rain.

We ended up dancing and eating and drinking until late. My son was pretty much asleep on my lap by the time we left and my nephew had taken a pit-stop nap at one point or another. I danced with TH once (he’s not a dancer) and his brother once, as well. That was a little awkward. I think I danced more with my kid and with HLB’s kid than anything else. I would post pictures but like a dumbass, I thought it would be awesome to leave my camera at home before leaving Sunday morning. Oh, well. I have a few on my phone and TH managed to get some pretty hilare videos of his step-father doing some sort of pimp dance or something. It was like a mix between the dance movies of the over-the-top pimps with their hats and feathers from the 70s with a few moves from Michael Jackson. There are just no words.

We went to bed and for some fucked up reason, my body thought it would be awesome to wake up at six-thirty. My mind started running with all the shit I needed to do (driving and driving and more driving) and how the dogs were doing with BFMA and what was going on with my mom (random) and how long the boys would sleep and why the fuck the bed was so hard and whether or not I should try to purchase those cowrie shells I’ve been thinking of now or later and how I was missing my “shrine time” and how the car needed to be cleaned and how I should look up pound weight for when you can change a kid from a backward facing car seat to a forward one and and and. Yeah, my mind was all over the damn place and no matter what I tried to shut it down, it wasn’t working. I ended up getting so pissed off that I just got up. I began packing while the boys slept and watched the Weather Channel for an hour. (So exciting.)

Then we were on the road and I was bored some more. It was better because I could talk to TH about the things in my head, but you know, there’s nothing even remotely fun and exciting about boring scenic routes. At one point, TH had to text his mother the route we took to get back to Springfield. I have no idea why since, technically, her husband should know how to get back since he drove down there without a hitch. Whatever. It never hurts to be prepared, I guess. And I’ll tell you what, I still remember the routes numbers hours later. I am a fucking weirdo when it comes to remembering random shit.

Then, I got to come home and heard all about Sweet Pea trying to take the fuck off on BFMA half a dozen times. Since she’s decrepit and so is Sweet Pea, I can imagine the hilarity that ensued (for anyone watching). Still, I have to admit that Sweet Pea taking off? I never expected that at all. She goes to the corner of the yard, does her business, and pretty much turns around from there. I pick her up and bring her in the house: end of drama. Jasmine is more of a pain in the ass about this than Sweet Pea. Jazz is still full of piss and vinegar most of the time, so I told BFMA she wasn’t allowed to let her out. I had visions of BFMA tying Jazz to her walker and getting pulled into the road because a cat walked by or a bicycle rode by (she barks at bikes and motorcycles because Sweet Pea used to when she could see because kids were mean to Sweet Pea as a youth and teased her with their bikes). However, BFMA managed to get Jazz out once this morning and without any injury, so I guess I should have more faith in Jasmine being aware of things going on.

Then, I got to take a two hour nap before I had to drive up to Rutland. R fell asleep on the drive out there and was pretty much entirely asleep for the ride up until I stopped at a Dunkin Donuts in Spencer on the way back. I had to pee and I needed a sugar rush. He was nothing but cranky about being woken up, about being in the car again for a long time, about being woken up, about getting out of the car, about going to the bathroom, about getting a donut, about eating the donut, about everything. At one point, I think we were just outside of Sturbridge, when he yells, “MOMMY. I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS ANYMORE.” And I just about lost my shit. “Well, I don’t want to do this anymore than you do, and I’m doing it. So you can sit and eat your donut or you can sit and shut up, but either way, you’re sitting and we’re going. We’ll be home in a half hour.”

Eighty miles an hour down the Mass Pike? Done and done.

I end this rambling entry with a picture of the males in my life.

The one in the black shirt is HLB and that’s his son. So, obviously, the one in the white shirt is TH and that’s my little man making the face in front of him. If you think it’s creepy how much TH and HLB look like, you should see their dad.

Epic Volcanic Explosion in 3… 2…

I am so fucking frustrated right this second that I want to beat someone up with a heavy, thick, hardcover edition of a book. I would beat them about the head and shoulders until they cried.

So, for the last two days, I’ve been doing a super clean out of my bedroom. This is because of the bed bug issue. Pretty much, as far as I am concerned, just about everything that was in my bedroom (epicenter of the infestation) is shot. I’ve thrown out everything I could think of to throw out. All of the bedding and sheets, even ones that I hadn’t used in a while, are gone. Pictures and posters on the wall are gone. Wires, rolled up posters, everything in or on the night stands, and a lot of the little baubles we had stashed on top of her dresser. The things that I felt I could salvage, I ended up cleaning them in super hot water and soap. They were mostly just dusty and not something a bed bug would find warranted in checking out to hang behind/in/near. The books that were in our room are vacuum sealed in bags, taped up, and hanging out in our freezer. (I read somewhere that if you put vacuum sealed books in a freezer for two weeks, then the whole cycle that may or may not have been on the books is dead. I don’t know if the books had the bugs in them/on them, but there was some fecal evidence – ew – so I figured it was better than being sorry that my bookcases get infested.)

In effect, I’ve been feeling super industrious and very much in control of my life. Since cleaning and rearranging is what I do when I’m feeling like I have absolutely no control over my life, this is like a double whammy. (The psychology of that statement should be pretty self-evident.) I’m not only taking control over the bug infestation and prepping for the telling of my landlord, as well as for an exterminator to come in, but I’m also making headway on taking back my life from events I felt that I couldn’t stop or manipulate to my advantage. The few things that I felt I could salvage, I bubble wrapped the shit out of them and they’re all hanging in a large tote in a closet that isn’t effected by the infestation. I was feeling super awesome, and exhausted, but pretty fucking empowered and capable.

Then I discovered the red ant infestation on my counter by the sink.

Now, we’ve found more bugs in the house (besides the bed ones) this year as opposed to last year. Part of this is because we have the AC in but I don’t think it’s placed in as properly as it should be because TH did it without my assistance. It’s difficult to make sure that the little pieces that protect the bottom of the unit are in place, so that the little black piece that should be resting directly beneath the unit is actually partially beneath the unit and the rest is hanging down. TH also did a crappy job of cleaning it up when he put it in, but whatever. Anyway, so, I thought that the little ants I was seeing here and there were directly related to the unit in my window. Okay, no big deal. Clean that area up as best I can and shove something in it to stop them from coming in.

However, the thing is that the AC unit isn’t the problem. I went outside to double-check what I was seeing when I looked for the source of the little red ants and was gratified to see that there wasn’t some tiny trail walking up the side of the house and through the window, beneath the air conditioner. Then, I realized that the fucking bugs are probably in the walls and that I have no real idea how to kill them. I refuse to put an ant trap down because that’s just disgusting. It’s my counter where I clean my dishes and prepare my food before shoving it into the oven! This morning, I went to put the dishes I did last night away only to find the little fuckers all over them. I had to rewash them, dry them with a towel not infested, and put them away. I wanted to blow my fucking stack. I wanted to scream, but I managed to tamp it down. In the grand scheme of things, the tiny red ants are NOTHING compared to the bed bug situation, so really, what the fuck. It’s just annoying and irritating.

Then, I called MassHealth.

Now, I’ve known for a while that my insurance is wonky. I have to pay full price when it comes to my birth control prescription. I’ve just been putting off talking to MH because it is the worst fucking thing to do in the history of ever. You’re on hold forever, even if you call first thing in the morning. And without really knowing why, you get pissed off and angry over the bureaucracy of it all. If I could associate with this whole healthcare thing via the Internet and mail only, I would. However, my normal mail carrier is phenomenal, but on the weekends, someone else delivers the mail. And there’s loads of shit that MassHealth is claiming to have sent me that I never received. I didn’t think I had a big problem until I received a fucking bill last week. I put them on my to-do list for this week. And called them first thing this morning… and amazingly, I got through only after five minutes of waiting.

Supposedly, TH and I make too much money so we have to pay the twelve bucks a month for our son’s insurance benefits.

Are you shitting me? I have to seriously play around with when my money comes in to pay my monthly bills, buy cleaning supplies and toilet paper and napkins, as well as to put gas in my car and an occasional joy-filled moment of watching our kid eat French fries… and they expect me to shell out twelve bucks for anything? I explained that TH and I bring home about $2100 a month. But, oh, ho, ho. This is all entirely based on the fact that they use the gross income of a person instead of the net income of the person… which I never understood in the first place. WHY THE FUCK DO THEY DO THAT? YOU DON’T SEE THE AMOUNT ON THE GROSS! YOU SEE AND UTILIZE THE NET AMOUNT. SO WHAT THE FUCK. I wouldn’t have such a big hard time with this except that I’m nearly positive both TH and I are without health insurance – but it’s not like we go to doctors anyway so I can’t know for sure unless I do the call in and lose a portion of my soul for every twenty minutes I’m on hold. So I think what the lady told me is complete and utter bullshit, in all honesty. I think that the left hand doesn’t know what the fuck the right hand is doing. And since I was calling specifically in regard to the bill we received, that’s the only information I was given.


The only reason he’s on our MH to begin with is because they told me to add him. I explained that “legally” he still lived at his mother’s house. (He receives mail there so in the eyes of the law, he’s still living there. But his stuff and everything is here.) When I explained this to them, without the whole him actually living in my house part, they said that since he has a child and he helps me out, then it was in our best interest to add him to my policy. Okay, fine. And this is when I get bent over without even knowing it to take it in the butt because I do as they said, after being assured it would be okay and in our best interest, only to find out that I have to pay money I don’t really have to spend as well as not be able to discuss anything to do with him on THE FAMILY PLAN THAT WE HAVE.

Seriously, TH was right all those years ago. We should have just got married because of the health insurance bullshit.

Let’s Talk About Sex (TW).

One of the serious issues that drives me nuts about my relationship with TH is that the only time it is functional is during one of the [few] periods where we’re having sex regularly. I am a sex camel. Give me a week’s worth and then I’m good for four to six months. (TH jokes that we have sex whenever the weather changes.) Without the ability to be that intimate with one another, our relationship is little more than two people sharing a house with a kid in the mix. So, it’s not really much of anything during those periods. He gets snarky and I get bitchy. I know how to fix it when that happens but I just… can’t.

I always try to explain it away. “It’s not you; it’s me.” This is one of those catch-all bullshit phrases that really don’t mean much of anything in relation to the ending of a relationship. However, in this case, it really is the case. Someone once suggested that my lack of sex with TH was due to not being sexually attracted to him. However, the same thing happened when I was with MEH and I know that being sexually attracted to him was never the case. And while I’ve daydreamed about some of the sexier males out there on the silver screens, I couldn’t dream of ever having legitimate-not-fantasy sex with these people. But in regards to both MEH and TH, they have to put up with my bullshit and really… what else is there to call it but bullshit?

It’s not you; it’s me.

I don’t know how to explain it away, either, to make people understand what it is that’s going on with me when these dry spells happen. A lot of people just assume that by not having sex, you’re making a conscious decision to refrain from doing so. If it’s with someone who I’m not with, that I don’t love, and things along those lines then yes. It is a conscious decision refraining myself from doing so. However, in these two particular cases, it’s not even like a flash back issue. It’s just… I can’t do it. I just cannot bring myself to tear down the barriers I put up. I suppose this could be an issue with trust. Or, it could just be a lingering feeling that having sex is “wrong” or “dirty” because of the assaults that have happened to me. I’m, in all honesty, not really sure what it is that prevents me from doing so or being willing to do so. I just… can’t.

What really tears is all apart is the fact that I know how things can be between TH and I. He is really very good and wonderful for me. He is understanding. He is full of advice. And while he comes off as a snot about things like religion or friendships or things of that nature, he really just uses it as a prickly way to throw people off. I know how he works and I know that it works well for me. When we’re having a good time together, I can talk to him about anything. I always knew that I could talk to him about anything. He just does all the right things. If I need to cry, then he let’s me snot and slobber all over him. If I need to talk, he listens and offers his point-of-view on various subjects. And while a lot of people see him as “a kid,” he’s really full of such kick ass and wonderful advice. He’s so much older than he looks or is physically. When I can just run up to him and give him a kiss and not feel the stomach flop in fear or pain or nausea or whatever it is, then things are good. But for the most part, I’m not there.

I know this is one of those issues that sexual assault victims go through. I know that each person is different. For the most part, I can handle lots of reminders about what happened to me. I can say the words to describe what happened to me. I can say the names of the people who hurt me so tragically. I can openly admit to what it’s cost me. But, when it comes to sex, I just can’t do it. I cannot get past my own issues to see that it’s natural and not dirty or disgusting or wrong or shameful. I just can’t. And this breaks me heart because maybe I’ll always be this way.

And TH is so patient. He’s so much more patient about it than MEH ever was or could be. He doesn’t go out and find other girls to fuck behind my back. He doesn’t make me feel like I am broken or wrong. He doesn’t push or irritate me with questions. He doesn’t try to flout his manhood around like that’s going to get me into bed. He doesn’t push or force or anything. He’s so wonderful about it and here I am.


Comments on Henry VIII’s “Great Matter.”

I’ve been watching The Tudors for the last few days. I actually own the entire series on DVD but haven’t finished watching it. The reason being that this show is both awesome and the bane of my existence. I love the show, itself. The very content is so fascinating and I love that they made a show based on one of the greatest reigns in English history. However, the reason I have a hard time sitting down and just watching it is because the historical inaccuracy drives me absolutely buggers. One of the time periods that my historically obsessed mind is all about is the reign of the Tudors, from Henry VIII through to Elizabeth I. So, watching this show and seeing the horribly huge-eye-normace and gross inaccuracies sets my teeth on edge. However, I know that the writer of the series was not asked for a historically accurate show but a kind of sex-filled melodrama, of which this time period is rife with it. Still, I can appreciate the sexy bodies as much as the next woman, but I still find myself ranting and raving (quite often) about how this didn’t happen then and how Henry doesn’t look fat and gross like he did in life and and and. I actually had a couple of blog entries in an old journal discussing the historical inaccuracies. But, really, as I’m watching this one thing comes to mind:

Why the fuck didn’t he just bide his fucking time?

Now, I completely understand what Henry was after. He was after a living, breathing son to continue the family line. This was one of the most important things a man could do with his life back then. (Sometimes, it still is as Chinese abhorrence of female children comes to mind.) It was his immortality. The King felt that he needed a son.

The English realm didn’t necessarily have the female inheritance issues from Salic law. This particular little law comes from the Frankish kings. In effect, it said that if you had an XY genetic code, then you could inherit lands. And if you had more than one living son at the time of your death, then your land was cut up into portions to be handed out to each of the male children in the line. The female children were given a tithe, if anything, at the death of their fathers. Sometimes, if they were unmarried, then money would be set aside for dowries and land dowries could be added to this, but primarily, female children were considered less than men in Frankish law. In England, a woman could inherit. A woman could rule. This was born out in the fact that Empress Matilda was the sole heir of Henry I of England. However, her rule was overshadowed by The Anarchy, a civil war between her and Stephen of Blois, who had himself crowned as king of England. It seems to be the fact that war broke out during the last woman’s reign that made the English so nervous.

And an Englishman knows and remembers his history!

So, I can understand why he was so pressed “by his conscience.” The thing is that Katharine of Aragon ended up dying in 1536, the year he had Anne beheaded for “treason.” She died of what current physicians believe was a heart tumor. “The rumours were born after the apparent discovery during her embalming that there was a black growth on her heart…” (Source: Wiki.) Now, I know that it was a long time coming for him to finally have a living breathing son, but his sole heir was born the next year and ended up dying young anyway. I honestly believe that his lack of children was probably due to a genetic incompatibility – a theory that I’ve been harboring considering my lack of pregnancy with my ex-husband (thankfully). In effect, men and women can get together but their genetics aren’t compatible enough to actually formulate a viable pregnancy. Sometimes, men and women can get together and actually begin to have children, but the whole thing ends in miscarriages or children that do not live long. (Both of which are rife in the married lives of Henry VIII and Katherine of Aragon.) The two were supremely lucky in having any child survive.

But there’s a general thing that all of Henry’s children have in common – ill health. Edward was small and sickly. Elizabeth was the heartiest of the three, possibly because of who her mother was. It’s possible that Elizabeth inherited both of her parents’ iron wills. Mary was also small and sickly. It’s possible that the Tudor genetic line was not as hale as it was made out to be. (We’ll never know since Henry VII was the only child of Margaret of Beaufort by her Tudor husband, who ended up dying during one of the numerous battles during the War of the Roses.) So, it’s possible that he wasn’t really supposed to have healthy children to begin with. (I harbor the secret belief that if Elizabeth had gotten married and had children, she probably would have died in child bed.)

But say that he had bided his time until Katherine died. I often think that he probably would have been given a brood of children after that fact. Perhaps he would have had to find another wife since, if he had chosen Anne then, her fertility was rapidly approaching an end. Besides, I strongly believe that the sole reason they had the one living child was because of the RH factor that they didn’t know about back then. (Come on! They had one living child and two or three miscarriages immediately thereafter? It makes more sense than Anne being a harlot and a witch.) Perhaps he would have gone straight for Jane Seymour. A theory as to why he found her so alluring was because she reminded him of Katherine of Aragon with her kindness and piety. And the English sure did love her as their queen, more than Anne Boleyn. She probably still would have died with child bed fever anyway. But mayhap, he would have found another to take her place who was hearty and hale. And had his brood.

The thing is that when I think of this particular historical enigma, I tend to think of it in terms of “fated.” While the whole matter is so engrossing and titillating in its constant mystery, I have to think that what came about was what was fated to come about. The reason being because of the inevitable reformation of the English church. It may have been Henry’s son who did the whole reformation process (and went about it incorrectly because his devotion to his beliefs were as strict as his sister, Mary’s to Catholicism), but I think that was something that was bound to happen. I think it was supposed to happen. Prior to Henry’s reformation, the only peoples in the whole of Europe who were following the Calvinist and Lutheran ideals were from Germanic states… the Netherlands, Hungary, Switzerland, Scandinavia, etc. And I think that the schism in the beliefs and spiritual practices of the major religious players in Europe was fated to happen.

But really. What do I know?

I’m just a girl that’s obsessed with history.

I Hate This.

Today is not much of a good day – I’m stuck in my head. Since my son is at the Cape with the rest of the family, I’m allowed to have break downs and get stuck in my head with things. This stuff, particularly, with MEH is so hard. Everything about it makes me want to cry. Everything about it says, “This shit sucks.” All of the horrors and the mistakes. All of the moments we shared together, both good and bad. They stick in my craw and they make it hard for me to swallow. I find it harder and harder to accept what happened to us as a simple turn of fate and think more on it as a epic series of mistakes between two people who were not meant for each other, should never have considered being together, and were too stuck in their own bullshit to see any reason. I think that’s one of the things that gets me the most. We had warning. We were told we were not good for each other, by a consummate liar and manipulator, but the information was provided. Maybe that was the trick with this one: we were given the information but by someone not trustworthy. And there’s the joke; the rub; the irony. We had been forewarned but we were too headstrong to pay more than a passing glance in its direction.

It’s hard.

I don’t consider MEH my soul mate and I never did. He’s too different and too odd to be considered that. Besides, as I’ve said, that designation firmly and truly belongs to BFTX. I’m not saying that you can’t have more than one, but I can never so much as possibly consider MEH to have been my soul mate. Things were too rough for too long for me to consider things that way.

Sometimes, I look at our relationship and I see all the mistakes he made. I focus the blame squarely at his door. “Well, he did this, this, and this. He did it to me over and over again. He is such a bastard; an asshole. He used and abused me. He was manipulative. He made large strides in the direction of ‘fuck up ville’ and I was left holding onto those mistakes. I was left to deal with his fuck ups all the time.” And then, in other instances, I only focus on the things that I did wrong. “I did say this and I did do that. I did this, this, and this to him. I am such a bitch. I am such an evil person. I made huge mistakes and left him thinking I was doing what was in my best interest, but maybe it wouldn’t have come to all of that if I hadn’t been so selfish and self-seeking. I made leaps into ‘fuck up ville’ and ended everything because I fuck it all up, like I always do.” I find it difficult to view things in the way of we both made huge mistakes and we both decided to make things worse instead of better. It’s like I can’t really blame the both of us, but each one of us at different times.

I hate that we’re connected. I hate that he can still get into my head. I hate all of this. I hate these issues. I hate how they crop up at the most inopportune times. I hate how I am stuck thinking about him. I hate how I can’t get him out of my head some days. I hate how he still seems to guide my hand. I hate how his actions have caused me to go the complete opposite of who I used to be. I hate how he was able to mold me, in any way, when that should have been my job. I hate that we’re still connected. I hate it. I hate having reminders of him. I hate him.

But that’s not nice and it’s not right. It’s not the way to go about things. Telling people that you wish your ex-husband would die in a fire is pretty brutal. What’s even worse is that, some days, I truly mean it. What does that say about me as a person? What it says is that I am brutal and that I still let him turn me into that person. I hate the connection. I hate it.

I hate this.