Ugh I need to push myself to blog more.
I have been super sickly the past few days and super high off the codeine syrup for my cough. Something about opiates seemingly pushes me to want to focus and write. It gets me into the “zone” so to speak.
Anyways, I am looking to expand my freelancing market from exclusively erotica to other genre/writing styles. Yesterday I wrote an open letter to “Nice Guys”. Today I am planning on writing a “thrilling” article on how awesome it is being an actual psycho. Since my writing style has been limited to psychobabbling, erotica and blatant honesty at its best, I will try to stick with what I do best for the mean time. Unless, that is, if anyone has any ideas, topics, shit floating about you’d like my input, thoughts, etc on. I would love feedback, or at least some guidance in which directional flow I should take on my next articles to come.
For now though, psychobabble galore and whore galore!
So last week I was chit chatting with an old friend and he spilled the beans on a secret he had kept from me for over a year. It was about John, my suicidal flaw. John apparently owed him a large sum of money for redesigning my entire blog without my knowledge. He said John meant to “surprise” me. His intentions were that said good however, before he could send John the outline of my renovated site, John had passed.
When I gained knowledge of this “surprise” I was instantly upset. Then the more I thought about it the more pissed off I began to become. I lashed out at my said friend. I then fell into a rage.
“Who the FUCK does John think he is?”
“Changing MY site design without even consulting me beforehand!”
“The FUCK is wrong with him?!”
Even death ever after I have allowed his abuse to continue to reign control over my emotions. That night, I let him win. Today, I won’t.
Honestly, I shouldn’t even allow little things like that to get to me anymore but it still does. For years I sat back and watched this guy break me down. I allowed him to. I allowed him to control my every aspect of my life down to what I can and cannot post on my own blog, because I was exhausted from the previous failed marriage before him I simply did not want to be the adult anymore. I allowed the abuse. I watched as he threw what little belongings I owned out the window on to the rust colored dirt of the Mojave desert. I sat and watched him spit on my clothes, empty my bank account and throw a few hundred-dollar bills at me as he forced me off his property. Then I watched myself hysterically search for cheap hotels to hire until I could figure out what my next plan is, or at least until he calms down from his temper tantrum. Yep. I watched and watched, and watched myself get beat down, thrown on the streets, dragged my things from one hotel to another, spiral out of control, abused so many fucking drugs, back to him; rinse and repeat.
I allowed all of the shittiest fucking shit happen to me when I was with him. I allowed him to treat me like a whore one moment, threatening and complaining that he isn’t having enough threesomes or sexual adventures to the extent he would break up with me, then of course throw me out. Then I allowed him to treat me like a princess the next, showering me with so much affection and admiration derived from guilt until the next tantrum. I allowed him to embed horrible ideas that my mother doesn’t love me. That no one loves me. I am nothing but a whore, a mistake, and a fuck up. That I’ll never amount up to anything without him. Yes, I allowed that.
Through and through, the only thing I didn’t allow him to do was take away what was rightfully mines. My website. My writing. My work. That was all mine.
Everything from the coding, design, writing, matter fact the ENTIRE existence of that master piece was mine. He created nothing. Contribute nothing. Was nothing to MY master piece. I assume this is why I was utterly livid when I found out about this ridiculous “surprise”. He was taking away from me the only thing I would never rightfully give, he was stealing everything away from me.
It took me a long time to realize how shitty I allowed myself to become. How much I must have hated myself to be treated entirely like shit by someone. I hated myself. Then not long after I allowed the next guy to spit in my face, then punch me in the face. I became shit.
I was shit.
I do not believe anyone remotely understands the melancholy, to look back on your life and hate yourself even more for those years you just wasted. What is supposed to be the best years of your fucking life you just gave them away. I fight these demons every day. I compartmentalize these memories only to find them creeping back in each and every time my mother, my father, my grandmother praises or reminisces the existence of this damned man. Every church service held in memory of his damaged soul at my family’s expense. Every fucking Halloween when he was supposed to grow a year wiser. Every fucking day I have to walk past the mantel of my parent’s fireplace and see a photographic memory of him snaring at me with his pearly whites. Thinking, “Bitch I own you.”
No you don’t.
Moments like these remind me of how strong I am. How strong I have become. I have given myself to so many worthless men throughout the years. Men that didn’t even deserve a life, let alone my life. I am completely through with giving myself to anyone ever again. I belong to me. My tears are of my own. My breath is mine. MY LIFE IS MINE.
This silence is mine. I am giving up on everyone to devote my love and my time to myself–and my cats.
The fucking END.