Last night, I laid in bed, by myself again. I recall God saying something like “Let the record show…” He was talking about marking Nick’s record with the fact that, given the chance (and impetus) to apologize to me (for making my life utter hell for years), he markedly refused without a second thought.
He cares zero about how he hurts other human beings, it would seem. In fact, he’s been hurting other women since the night we fell in love with each other. It was in 2010. It was a night we talked and traded music and I made a very me mistake and he didn’t even bother telling me I’d made a mistake, at least not in that accusatory asshole kind of way. This was after he paid me three very meaningful compliments, which I don’t precisely remember other than one being, “You don’t take shit from anybody.”
The opposite was true, actually. I took shit from everybody on that project… however, I did dish it back. Ten fold, usually. I have a rare mutational defect where normal and common interactions that neurotypical non-mutated individuals shrug off equate to me going ballistic because you’re taking the cake. It’s one of my many flaws, really.
I programmed myself a certain way to get around overreacting, which I now understand is not truly overreacting. The rest of you are under-reacting.
Here’s a scenario: Your crush lies to you about something. You absolutely have the right to be pissed off and feel like you can’t trust them anymore. However, to them, it might seem like an insignificant thing that they glossed over. If you don’t blow up at them and/or have some sort of spat or disagreement over it, then you’re not telling them that they’re in the wrong where you’re concerned. Failure to make it right makes it look like you don’t care. So, they get away with it and keep doing it because they think it’s okay.
Anyway, I tried taking the high road on my feelings. It doesn’t work. People understand you blowing up, even if they don’t understand why or they think it’s an over-the-top reaction. They don’t understand you walking away for an age, thinking over why you blew up, then coming back and telling them what’s wrong with what they did with an cool head.
If any man out there wants this, by the way, I’m still looking for a future hubby.
God says this is rationality. Instead of reacting emotionally, I am learning what the problem is, putting it into words, then soliciting my mate to respond to my emotional content while I fail to blow the fuck up and aim my nukes right at your heart for fucking lying to me(TM). I should just do that, I’ve decided.
However, I can be stopped or asked to grow again into a fully rational being, I suppose. I’d rather be rational… I get so much more done. I find peace so much faster… but if you don’t help me stay at peace, I hit the eject button and leave. HINT: Men make me fucking crazy. When I’m alone, I’m perfectly sane somehow. Then I get a man of some sort and they want to change this part of me and that part of me and then when they get the Picasso painting they aimed for, they’re like, “Fuck, I don’t like it.” And then they throw me away. That’s what it feels like, nine times out of ten.
If I don’t stand my ground and tell you to go fuck yourselves, you’ll have me twist and contort into something I don’t recognize as myself and then I’m miserable. You pick up on that misery, not understanding it’s because you like XYZ part of me most and I thought you were asking me to grow it disproportional to the rest of my growth (and you do, I’m not making that part up, ANTHONY, GAMER IDIOT.)
All he cared about was video games, role-playing, and anime and as long as I did one or the other, he was happy to call me his wife. Then I started home making. I cleaned everything top to bottom and tried to organize it all so it wasn’t a clutter zone (he was a clutter fiend himself.) He was butt hurt about it, until his mother told him I was “nesting.” The thing is, I didn’t care to spend time around him much after I finished nesting, so I started baking. He’d sit in the basement of our own house, playing some MMO that had 15 minute missions, bragging about how he loved it because then if I asked him to do something, he could do it at the end of the mish. Meanwhile, I’m vacuuming, dusting, doing the dishes, cleaning the toilet, cleaning the shower, cleaning the kitchen, cleaning the bedroom, paying the bills, making sure the whole household ran, and eventually the cleaning ran out so I started baking and cooking more. Then, my roommate who had absolutely no kitchen acumen ruined it all for me by butting into it and forcing her ideas onto me, which completely ruined dinner every time. (There is no excuse, we all had access to the fucking internet, people.)
But I was supposed to praise the child for doing one chore once a week.
I guess he forgot there were other chores to do.
I remember once I cleaned the base boards of the kitchen. He walked upstairs and said, “WOW! It sparkles in here!” That was the only praise I ever got for doing something I’m supposed to do. But heaven forbid I don’t heap on the praise for doing his own laundry after I nagged him fifteen times when I hate repeating myself, let alone nagging.
When I ran out of baking and cooking, I started reading. Wouldn’t you know, he convinced me to read his favorite book series rather than let me do as I please? (The Wheel of Time by Robert Jordan.)
I’m the kind of woman that tells you to do it once and if you don’t, I’ll just do it myself. I won’t tell you how much it sucks that you let me down, but it’ll go on the score board because nobody can be a door mat forever.
I made food for four and cleaned up for four, yet we had no children. Well, we had four fur babies. I cleaned up after them, too. I was the only caregiver to those cute ass cats. He only ever wanted a cat because my original adopted feline was “that cool!” He’d never met a cat like my cat before.
Imagine that. I actually trained mine.
They’re easier to train than dogs, if you know what to look for, honestly.
I got lax with the latter two, which are the only two I have left. I love them to pieces, though. We’re trying kitty probiotics in their wet food and I gotta say, they are doing great these days. The itching I’ve noted has gone down substantially, they seem overall more content, and more lively when they feel like running around (which isn’t much at their 16 years of age, I admit, though it’s partly my fault for having a gorram mess for a whole year now.)
I started chipping away at the mess of my apartment, finally. Finally, I feel good enough to start moving boxes into the storage room! Finally, I feel good enough to start solving for the fact that one tiny dresser does not hold my clothing. In fact, I need to find another use for it. And, I need to fix the drawers. I must quest for the wood glue anyway because I have a window to repair in my half of the domicile. I’ve been waiting for a year for it to fix itself (i.e. the home owner to do it) but it hasn’t happened, so I’ll just do it.
You know, it’s funny. I moved in last year and I was more broken then than I am now. Nick, the asshole in England who thinks he can solve everything for me, promised me that a real man would clean up my move-in mess. I know this is false, but I just bided my time. I knew eventually, I would be well enough to do it. God even reassured me so. Well, last week, a year and two weeks after moving in, I started fixing it up. I have furniture I haven’t even put together yet, like an entertainment center. That part, I might beg some big strong strapping lad to help with, but chances are I’m putting it together myself…
That is… if I can get the final pieces to be delivered. I figure I missed that boat, but maybe some God magic will bring me everything missing. (Probably not, but it doesn’t hurt to hope for the best while I plan for the worst.)
I guess if they have to reimburse me the $50,000.00 of shit they lost, I can just get a new whatever-it-is that I lost. (I mean, I know what I lost, but some of it I will never want to replace.) How is it they lost that much shit? Well… There was a card collection amidst that crap that was worth a bunch of money. Like the vast majority of the figure above. (So sad for Dann Moving Company, but this is what they get for losing my shit, y’know?)
The thing I wanted back the most was a chair. It was more of a throne, really. It’s called a Balloon Chair and it was made of bamboo. It came from Asia, of that I am certain. I bought it at an estate sale for very little cash, but once I searched for a replacement like it, it comes out to be several thousand dollars:
It was actually half again wider than the above image. God tells me it was an antique, to boot, which makes it much more valuable. I’d wager it’s worth at least 5 grand by itself, honestly, since the above chair is over 2.6 grand, not antique, and not as wide.
The funny part is, they delivered the seat to it, but not the rest of the chair. How the hell do you lose half a chair? I don’t think they lost it. Something in me says they divided it up because the manifest was incomplete due to Mr. Stupid Mover Man not making a complete manifest because he’s a lazy fucktard, but I have ample pictures of said chair and can take a picture of the seat portion that made it back to me. It has an incredibly distinct pattern, the cushions on the chair. There is no way it can ever be misconstrued as someone else’s chair. It is, essentially, one-of-a-kind.
I wonder how they’re going to respond when they find it in a forgotten lot in their warehouse, coupled with about 100 boxes that don’t even belong to Crystal? They have to deliver the entire thing free of charge because it’s their fuckup… and it’s going to be completely obvious to Dann Moving Group that there are would-be thieves afoot. The longer I wait to put in the claim, the more shit accumulates. She’s going to give most of it to Goodwill, most likely. Or her neighbors.
Fun fact where she lives… she can set anything on the curb side and typically, it’ll disappear in hours. They’ll start wondering what the hell she kept if she keeps doing that, and suspect it is nothing. (They’d be incorrect, but nothing of intrinsic value will be on the property, unless you count her super duper air fryer.)
See, that’s the thing… The price of sundries accumulates exponentially. She has a household of goods, basically, but once she tallies up how much it costs to replace it all, we’re talking a fortune. And, thankfully, her parents already had almost all of what she had, too, so she was not wanting for much at all while parted from her stuff. (Just her clothes, since she only brought one suit case worth of clothing with her vehicle. She had just enough room for that and three cats and her computer, which is now busted from the move, sadly, so she types from an ancient crap top.)
It doesn’t even have Windows on it. That’s how crappy the crap top is. (Sorry, Linux, you’re no walk in the park. Up your GUI game already and stop making people have a PhD in computer science just to use you.)
So, anyway, that’s going to happen after we finish moving things into storage and try to put together the furniture. It won’t go together because she’s missing pieces from everything, thanks to naughty thieves trying to steal her shit. What kind of idiots move steel shelves into a vacant lot without the bits that hold the shelves up? The kind who are stoned 24/7 and think they can get away with being complete dicks to their customers and tarnishing the name of the company they work for.
Now, they are going to have to spend twice as much as they already did and ship a great load of things into her house for free because she already paid them for shipping her things. She didn’t ask them to disseminate her belongings, including 33 unopened and unlabeled medium sized boxes, 18 large boxes, a wooden easel, a black pleather foot stool from WalMart back in the day (or the laminator inside of it, or the scanner also inside of it.) What about her white metal IKEA table? She didn’t ask them to steal half of her balloon chair or half of her steel shelving unit. (It’s from Sam’s Club, yo. Go get your own! It was $200.00 at the time but now it’s $350.00.)
She prioritizes putting her house in order and now she’s punished because? There is no reason, there are just a bunch of unethical jackasses all over the planet. Sounds like work for that Destroyer team, if you ask me. God, that is. The Supreme Being of Righteousness. I’m right on the threshold of your life, young padawan, but you have leapt from the light side like gazelles being chased by lions, and I have no pity.
Thus, I wait for the perfect moment that will double her collection of things to donate to charity. In fact, that card collection is probably going to Goodwill… except I’m not really happy about that, either. Maybe she can trade it for carpentry help. Maybe she can trade it for odd jobs. It is a gamer city, after all. At least some of these twats should be able to change a leaky sink faucet or help her fix a door frame. If not, we’ll do it ourselves.
We want to give gifts to the children who know how to take care of a thing because they are too poor to replace the thing once it’s dead and gone. That’s love. We want to put smiles on the faces of the needy. Is it too much to ask? But where do we find these needy children to play Santa Claus for? She always did love that Santa fellow. Ever since she watched this version of him on a bright screen.
At least that came home to me, she thinks to herself. Now if only she could put together that entertainment center and find out if the TV still works or not.
She moved here in September of last year and her things (well, half of them, or less) followed her home in FEBRUARY of this year. What do you think of that magic trick?
How about my next magic trick: I’m going to get her a boyfriend, despite the fact that the past three losers who lost her constantly pinging her head and making her absolutely fucking bonkers, making her talk out loud to herself everywhere she goes. She’s beautiful and insane (and pleasantly plump!) Wouldn’t it take someone desperate to date that shit?
Not really. He’s been around all this time, waiting for her to wake up and be herself. She calls him Odin, but that’s not truly his name at all. As far as she knows, she’s never laid eyes on him at all. He’s like the Wizard of Oz except she hasn’t noticed the curtain yet. Could it be her neighbor? Someone down the street? Someone in a suburb? Someone she’s walked past and ignored a million times? Someone she’s noticed?
“Why spoil the surprise?” She asks, and promptly tells me to STFU. “That’s Nick again, being a glory hound and an asshole, talking a good talk but never walking the good walk. Just when, exactly, are we going to move the last two boxes out of my living room into the storage area? Hmm?”
Narcissistic bastard. He just wasted all of our time. See that? I deal with this all day every fucking day. I’m gonna kill him, if it’s the last thing I do. I’m pretty sure I’ve got God’s blessing because he gave me the idea to begin with. I don’t need a boyfriend, I need a husband. I’m playing for keeps. I’m not changing my mind just because all the boys of the world can’t figure out how to fucking commit, Nicholas. I have cast my spear and I am waiting for a man to lay his down beside mine. I am waiting for a man who can acknowledge how he fails and try again. I am waiting for a man who knows he has flaws and is willing to forgive himself for being flawed. I am waiting for the man who can do the same for me, for I shall never be perfect. I maintain that perfection is mythological, an illusion we chase trying to find the oasis in the desert of hatred created by the money we seek to line our coffers with when all we need is food, shelter, and each other. (And the wildlife and the plants, of course.)
I stand here, silent and alone, waiting. I may wait for an eternity. Every moment already feels as if it is eternity, but I can wait. I am celibate, and so is my future husband, until we both wear rings upon that tell-tale finger. He will mean it, too. He wants me. Only me. Not me plus the whore down the block or around the corner or in the grocery store (sorry ladies, we’re in competition, and as we all know, a good percentile among us just want to fornicate because we’ve been raped until our good sense is completely lost in the folds of despair.) He wants me, not an illusion that he dreamt up to overlay on top of reality, talking himself into me being someone “perfect.” Someone who fits exactly one way and only one way in his lifestyle. He will be my partner rather than turning me into an accessory. I will have a voice, just as he will have a voice, and we will make decisions together. Two equals meeting to construct a future we both design. Together. We will take care of each other and ourselves to the best of our ability. He will adopt my cats as his own fur babies, no questions asked. (And, should he also have fur babies, I shall adopt his.) There will be no children, for we both know that this world is full of unwanted babes. We could simply adopt if that is truly our plan, to raise little ones, but it won’t be because our plan is even bigger than that: we will create an anime together to parent the whole world and help them grow into their ideal selves. Or, something like that, anyway. I said we were equals, after all. I love children and wish to teach them all my wisdom, but I have finite strength and energy. Children are a real commitment beyond my capability at this time. Maybe for all time. It’s not selfish to recognize that I’m not capable of rearing a little one, bursting with energy and vitality. It is sanity. Rationality. It is reality. I’ve withstood trials and tribulations with children in spurts; they always and forever exhaust me. I have no capacity to be myself around a tiny human being. I need to be myself because, after eighteen months of being someone else, I’ll tell you that the me I created is far simpler and better than the me that is comprised of three hundred losers in my head, telling me to do ABC.
Do you know today they tried to convince me to put on full Goth regalia and go out and about? Nobody would recognize me, not until I do my hair a certain recognizable color, anyway. That’s their whole point: get rid of any admirers I actually have now, wearing nothing on my face. Ditch them and start over. Why? Because that’s the part they relive endlessly. They find someone attractive, twist her up in knots, and then throw her away because they changed her and it wasn’t what they wanted, after all. And then that woman (or man) has to live with the damage to their psyche all because you’re bored, asshole. Or lonely. However, the lonely ones typically have more sense and sensitivity.
Mr. Tattoo Man in the mall who checked his hair after he walked by me would never recognize me with purple lipstick and grey eye shadow, but that’s their heinous plan. Make it so I can’t even recognize myself. I already don’t recognize myself. I keep screaming angrily at nothing in particular, but it’s not me doing it. I’m perfectly fine to go with the flow because I am in the moment and I am a human being, infinitely adaptable. I adapted already. It’s much easier to skip the denial, the anger, and the sadness and simply accept that reality has changed.
This is why I don’t cry much over my cat being gone. This is why I didn’t cry and fall apart when my shit didn’t make it from Point A to Point B. I don’t cry that I have to take care of the people I live with so I can stay alive. I don’t even usually cry over being in excruciating pain. I just try to fix it and move right along. (Yoga FTW!)
You want to know a real magic trick?
God is fixing my body, one baby step at a time. I’ve been in physical therapy since March 3, 2021. I had three car accidents that ruined my spine by subluxating three vertebrae. We exercise each muscle, one at a time, putting it back into place. My hip, it was crushed when I was a teen. Also putting that into place, one muscle at a time. In fact, because of this, I cannot have sex until it’s done. Sex is partly what ruined it to begin with, actually. Well, being raped by an asshole who talked himself into believing I was willing and enjoying his attention. As it turns out, if the man denies you the afterglow cuddle at the end, especially more than once, it’s rape.
I do not know yoga. However, as of a year and a half ago, I started spontaneously doing yoga. And that is how I know God exists. I looked up the positions I’ve been doing, too, over a year after the fact. It all started with the extended child pose.
If you sit at a computer quite a lot, my fellow lady friends (or guy friends, but I doubt I have any of those), try this pose until all your muscles stop protesting. You rest your forehead on your yoga mat (not the floor, put a towel under your face for god’s sake, there’s a bunch of germs on the floor) and sink back as far as you can manage (don’t force yourself to go back the entire way like this woman if it hurts) and just relax with your arms stretched in front of you, waiting for the magical moment of your muscles to let go of the tension and return to neutrality.
It might help to listen to something like this to give you a sense of time moving.
Additionally, if you are in pain and can’t hold it very long, jiggling a bit will help tire out achy muscles and return you to neutrality. Basically, you overworked one muscle group and you have to wait for the other to catch up… Once it does, pain relief will be yours. (HUZZAH!)
Have a nice night. 🙂