It’s been just two months of vulnerably word vomiting on this page and already it has taken a change in shape that I didn’t necessarily intend on so soon.
Talking about shitty people and shitty life events tends to take its emotional toll all over again after a bit. What started as a way to unpack a bunch of baggage from my upbringing quickly turned stale. And quite honestly, I’ve already grown bored of it.
My mom was a cunt and my upbringing was hard. Yawn.
Unfortunately, it’s not so unique.
(Before you ask, no, I don’t feel bad for calling her a cunt. That’s what she was and who she’ll always be. And quite honestly, I love the word cunt. She should feel honored I used one of my favorites.)
One really glorious thing (amongst many) about walking away from christian belief patterns is that nowhere in my mind, body, or soul do I feel an ounce of guilt for calling my mother out for what she is. Being told to honor your father and mother, even when there is centuries long systemic abuse patterns stemming from strict religious home environments, is just a form of human control. Not a way to honor “god”. It’s quite gross (not to mention psychologically damaging), and in no way will I extend pleasantries and respect to people that are the source of my trauma or abuse.
Coming back to the topic of my childhood will always be inevitable, but for now I’d rather be transparent about the usually tragic and sometimes hilarious stories that continue to shape my weird little world.
I might not have more stories on tossing salads with pop rocks anytime soon, but there will be someone or something equally fucked up to take its place, I’m sure. And that involves calling a lot more people on their shit.
Now speaking of fucked up, let’s get back to the good stuff.
Since leaving my youngest son’s father 18 months ago, we still kept a pretty close connection with one another. Maintaining and rebuilding our friendship and relationship for the sake of our kids was the utmost importance. Or so I thought.
I had never known Joe to lie, cheat, and deceive but it was just recently that I found out the extent to which he’s done these things. Or maybe now I’m finally choosing to actually see them. Looking back, I now question every night he went to go “smash with the boys”. (A term for playing Super Mario Smash Bros on Nintendo 64.)
Real grown up shit, guys.
He is now that rapidly balding, late thirties male with a “dad bod”, desperate to fool someone into submission before he finishes losing all his hair. Or before some other innocent girl sees him for who he is. At 36 years old, he still can’t manage to wash his own sheets, remember to shower more than three times a month (seriously), and clean up beard clippings from the sink or the pubes from the toilet seat.
Yet, this self-proclaimed Starboy walks around like he’s truly the gift of gifts. Moving through life with the swagger of someone who thinks he could pull Rihanna, but still brags about his high school football glory days and puts his football jersey number at the end of his signature. (It’s #4 in case you were wondering.)
What I ever saw in him, and why I continued to fuck him and sleep in his bed and do his laundry and buy his groceries and wash his dishes and remind him of appointments and take care of his dog and cook him meals and bring him medicine and rub his back and pop his zits and pick out his outfits and listen to him cry and take him shopping and give him advice and water his plants and take out his trash and bring him coffee long after we broke up…I’ll never know.
The sex is predictable and boring as fuck, so who’s the real idiot here?
I think part of me just felt sorry for him. Thinking a few pity fucks would help his rapidly crumbling mental health, hoping he would be stable enough to then be present with our son. Even though deep down I knew he would be dropping him at his parents house or calling me to come pick him up early every chance he got.
It’s amazing to see the ways I’ve kept myself a doormat in a relationship I wasn’t even in. Just like my mom taught me. She must be so proud wherever she is reading this.
One thing I’ve learned about myself this week is that I no longer believe in forgiveness. Forever detached from the judgement imposed by the convoluted religious belief that if I don’t look past someone’s emotional, mental, or physical trespasses, I’m the bad person.
But I will no longer extend forgiveness to those who betray my trust or mistake my kindness as something to be taken for granted.
And let me now tell you from personal experience, its much easier moving forward with less baggage.
*As always, names have been slightly altered.*
Love this calling people (*cough* men) on their bullshit era! ✌🏽