Tag Archives: marriage

Bad Paint Job


Sometimes it’s the small everyday things that hurt the most after a break-up…things that you would never have noticed pre-break-up or maybe dismissed as unimportant.

When we moved into our new house just a few weeks before the cataclysmic breakdown of our marriage, MM painted some of the walls a deep pinkish-red colour – just the way I had always wanted it. Once he moved out, I started noticing tiny, almost imperceptible patches on the walls where the old colour was shining through. Somehow that filled me with unbearable sadness. I fell against the wall, sobbing, and the only thing I could say over and over again through my tears was…

you missed a spot

you missed a spot

you missed a spot

you. missed. a. spot.

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Sh Boom


I’m sure you all saw it coming… MM and I broke up about six weeks ago. It is for the best, but the last six weeks have been a roller coaster of emotions. Sadness; guilt; relief; anger; depression and desperation. Every mental health issue I have has been triggered by the break-up.  It was not a good break-up. In fact, it could not have had a worse ending.

I should have written in here to work through it all, but it was all I could do every day to get out of bed in the morning, and go to work. One day soon I will tell the story. But right now I don’t want to think about what happened in the past. I’d rather write about what’s happening right now.

I already have a rebound guy who will henceforth be known as “RG”. He’s a mess. Just divorced two months ago himself; a raging alcoholic and incredibly skinny because, I’m guessing, he gets all his calories from booze. And, oh, did I mention that he sells weed for a living?  I really know how to pick ’em, eh?

I know it’s weak to get involved with somebody else right away, even if only casually. But I guess I need something or somebody to see me through these dark nights. RG, the alcoholic, needs the booze; and I, the love addict, need a delusional hope for love and romance.  The frantic, intense sex (sans condom) is intoxicating. It is some of the best sex I’ve ever had. I had forgotten what passion felt like. I had forgotten what it was like to breathe in a man’s smell, and be turned on just by that alone.  His penis is a like a fucking work of art. An incredibly large work of art! I cannot get enough of it. I never knew that penetrative sex could feel so damn good!

I find the sex confusing. How can it be that I am drawn so intensely to a skinny alcoholic who is not even particularly good-looking? Is it just some kind of weird animal pheromone thing? The last time I felt this way about a man sexually was ten years ago, and that relationship was so horrible that I learned to distrust an intense sexual interest in a man. When I met MM I saw it as a good sign that I didn’t want to rip his clothes off but after our marriage became sexless that didn’t seem like the right way to go either.

Is it that RG and I share a similar kind of pain, and that it’s this that draws us together? Unhealthy people and their unhealthy thoughts and feelings attract each other like magnets.

All of the above are possibilities, and yet I can’t help but feel that maybe there is something more at work. He is just so incredibly easy to be around. He is the wittiest and goofiest man I have ever met. Last night, as we walked in the park with my dogs, he broke into a rendition of “Sh Boom”, complete with all the kooky doo-wop noises, and I joined in, harmonizing. It was one of those “special moments” and I thought it was adorable:

Oh, life would be a dream

If I could take you up in paradise up above

If you could tell me I’m the only one that you love

Life could be a dream, sweetheart

RG is a way worse alcoholic than I imagined, though. On Friday morning, he told me that he had stopped drinking, and that he hadn’t had a drink for “ages”. I thought three, four days maybe. When I asked how long, he said that his last drink was one hour before I came around the night before. He was about eight hours dry! Wow. I knew then that he was not going to be able to detox all by himself. And of course he didn’t. He had to start again to avoid the withdrawal symptoms.

Despite all of this, I find myself worrying about him and developing odd feelings of tenderness. I’m not stupid, though. I’ve been there so many times before…the addict man; and me, the fucked-up woman with a saviour complex who wants to throw all her energy into saving her man to avoid facing her own demons. That won’t be happening this time.

Everything about my life is pretty unhealthy right now. I know I’m making some bad choices. I should be able just to sit with my pain, let myself feel it and work through it on my own. I can’t, though, and that’s fine for now. I’m doing what it takes to get through the night. I refuse to beat myself up about that.

And just like RG knows he needs to check himself into a detox facility, I know that I need to limit my contact with him so I can focus on myself. I can no longer use men as my drug to numb the pain. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. I’m nearly 35. I need to start loving myself and following my dreams and passions. It’s not going to be an easy road, but it will happen….

Rebounding via text – Part 1

Aug 25th 18:13

I need to leave.

Aug 25th 18:32

I hope i see your beautiful face soon.

Aug 25th 18:36

You can call me. But i cant start anything with you. I just need a friend. I can’t do anything more.

Aug 25th 18:47

I understand. i will dump a bucket of cold water on myself. 🙂

Aug 25th 18:59

I am so fucked up right now. It would really fuck me up if I had sex with you. All my life i had sex with guys who didnt give a shit about me. You didnt even remember my name.

Aug 25th 19:22

I feel like an idiot. i tried to forget about you because you are married. dont have sex with me ever. if you need a chum feel free to call

Aug 25th 20:29

What is it you want from me? Be honest. Just a casual, meaningless fuck, right?

Aug 25th 20:47

Honestly…i am a little lonely. you are adorable…i enjoy your company and i can be myself around you

Aug 25th 20:50

Ok, we can hang out. You seem nice. Just please dont fuck me. I will probably want to if I am drunk, but i would regret it. I have nothing but bad experiences with men. I feel kinda broken right now. Just be nice to me. I do need a hug.

Aug 25th 20:53

Deal. a have a basket full of hugs if you ever need to borrow one

Aug 25th 21:07

Any chance you want to share a blanket and watch a movie. i will let you pick the film

Aug 25th 21:09

Not tonight. I am super tired & have work tomorrow. I already flaked out on my friend. We could go see a movie on Thur if you want.

Death in the Afternoon


Image

No, I’m not a big fan of Hemingway. He’s always been a bit too “masculine” for my tastes, but I have always admired the succinctness of his writing (and his fondness for cats). I don’t think I’m a pretentious writer (at least, I damn well hope not!) but I’m aware that I add in far too much – probably very unnecessary – detail. You could never accuse Hemingway of that. Oh no! There’s not a redundant word or phrase anywhere in his work. I hear he was a ruthless self-editor.

Why am I thinking about Hemingway’s writing style?, you may ask. Well, I’ve been away for this blog for a while now and every time I come back, I read over the posts I wrote months, or even years, ago, and my first thought is always: “God damn, get to the fucking point, woman!”. I bore myself. I just don’t have the attention span to read all of my posts, from start to finish. I think I need to write shorter blog posts.

Of course, the irony here is that I just spent two whole paragraphs lamenting the fact that I’m verbose and wishing things could be different!

OK, it’s 7:28 p.m. In the next seventeen minutes, I am going to write a brief Hemingway-esque synopsis of how I’ve been doing since the last time I wrote a post. Here goes…

Life is not bad but it is not good. This is probably my own fault. I think I should be more grateful for what I have instead of focusing always on the negative. I am now a “senior advisor” at work (instead of the lowly, underpaid contractor grunt I was up until December) and I’ve got to say my new $42,500 salary will come in handy. Recently, I’ve been working a lot of overtime, too (time and and a half!) and I’m going to have a fucking humungous pay cheque on Thursday. Every last penny is going to go towards the deposit for the new house (two doors up) we’re moving in to at the end of the month….but, still…it’s nice to have the money. We might even buy a second car soon, as it’s been a nightmare driving each other back and forth to work. I have my eye on a second-hand Mini Cooper, but I don’t know if we can afford it.

MM and I have a pretty disastrous relationship still. He is now physically violent and an extremely negative person to be around. He focuses always on problems – never solutions. I have mixed feelings about this because I know that I am violent and verbally abusive myself, and I think I have pushed him to the edge. No, this is not the deluded opinion of an “abused woman” who has been led to feel that everything is all her fault. I really do think I have driven him to this extreme behavior, at least, in a way; however, I also find it  rather pathetic that he blames me for what he does. He has a choice, you know. He could leave. He didn’t have to stick around and become a total arsehole.

Nine minutes left…Life is not gut-wrenchingly awful. I am thankful, for example,  that I am not some poor Afghan child, lying in a hospital with my leg blown off from a land-mine. I don’t know what real suffering is. And yet….I don’t really feel anymore. When I had my old blog, I was so lonely and depressed, and I felt cut off from everything and everybody. Now I work so much that I don’t really know what I think or feel anymore. But this is probably the way it is for most people, right? This is probably why there are so many fucking retarded, bigoted people out there. They probably don’t have the luxury to come home from work and actually think about life and their place in it.

I miss feeling excited about life. I miss passion. I miss really good fucking sex with somebody you’re deeply attracted to (even if it is for all the wrong reason) I miss looking forward to stuff. I miss thinking that it doesn’t matter if life is crap now because I will soon be a successful writer or singer. I’m thirty-four now. I ain’t getting any younger.

But I’m not sure if it’s right to feel this way. I don’t know what’s a valid emotion and what’s just me having a “grass is greener” complex.

Well, one minute to go, so might as well stop now. It sure wasn’t Hemingway. But, hey, you can’t say I didn’t try.

Does this make me a stalker?!


Oh, how I long for the good old days! Before the advent of the internet and social media, I would see a good-looking guy at a party, or wherever, and there would follow weeks, perhaps even months, of longing and wondering. Who was he? Where could I see him again? Most of the time I never found out unless he happened to be a friend of a friend.

Even though Breakroom Boy works in my office, he’s not in the same department, so I didn’t think it would be all that easy to find out who he was. True, we all have to wear a name badge but what was I going to do? Linger about the break room all day in the hope of seeing him, sidle up to him, stand uncomfortably close  and then peer intently at the badge dangling from his waist? Well….I did consider it, but I ruled  out that investigative technique.

No, this is not Breakroom Boy.
But he does look a wee bit like this.

Instead, I briefed some co-workers to keep their ears to the ground and….success! One of them heard somebody use his name when they were speaking to him. Thanks to the employee directory, and my deductive powers, I was able to work out his last name as well. I know more about Breakroom Boy than is healthy. Let’s see what I know:

(1) His first and last name (and, oh, his father’s and grandfather’s too – although he is Breakroom Boy III, so it’s obvious what their names are)

(2) His age (32)

(3) Where he’s from

(4) What he studied at university (business – boring!) and his career since then

(5) His email address, home address and phone number (um, yeah)

(6) What kind of music he likes to listen to

(7) Where he likes to hang out

(8) His relationship status

(9) What his girlfriend looks like – I found a couple of pictures of him online with the same girl. She’s pretty, but she ain’t got nothing on me.

It was kinda thrilling to find out so much about him but I am ashamed to admit that I actually stayed up until 4:00 a.m. just trying to find out more stuff about him. How fucking out-of-control is that?! It’s creepy, and I would be creeped out if I knew anybody had spent that amount of time looking up stuff about me. I almost didn’t admit this on here, but I feel it’s important to address the fact that I am GODDAMN CREEPY! Oh my God!

Worse still, I created  a brand new AIM account just so I could anonymously say hi to him via chat. He didn’t respond! But, thankfully, all I said was “Hello”, and he has no idea who the chat is from. I’m thinking this is the universe’s way of telling me to leave this alone.

I must also admit that all my social media shenanigans have ruined the mystery a little, too, which makes me less eager to get to know him. I’m disappointed, and surprised, that he’s American even if Mexican-American is better than some vanilla white guy. I knew he was Latin, for sure, but he doesn’t carry himself like an American at all. I had imagined that he was Brazilian for some reason. He also grew up only 200 miles away and moved here apparently to go to college. I find this very boring. Why on earth didn’t he want to leave? Widen his horizons a little? Finally, I found a picture of him and (probably) his girlfriend dressed up in some lame-ass Hallowe’en costumers. Let’s just say that my brooding man of mystery did not look quite so intriguing dressed up as a mobile phone!

I think I’m over my obsession. Breakroom Boy is probably nothing like what I imagined, needed, wanted him to be. How could he be? Nobody could ever be that good.

I need to focus my attention on more healthy things but, still, I find myself drawn to adventure. At this point in my life, I can honestly say that I am only faithful to Midwestern Man because an opportunity not to be hasn’t presented itself. I crave excitement and passion.

I guess this makes me, at best, a weak person; at worst – a bad person.

Divorce Cake


These days I can really relate to people who kill their spouses. Why go through all the hassle, pain and drama of getting divorced when you can just take care of the problem with one swift axe blow to the head? Admittedly, you would have to dispose of the body (inconvenient!), and appear suitably tearful and bereft at the memorial service (stressful!), but I can see how murder, dismemberment and deceit might actually be better than spending one more second in a crappy relationship.

Oh, don’t worry – I’m not going to end up on “America’s Most Wanted” any time soon. I’m not really the type for premeditated murder. I spend most of the time wishing that my husband, MM, would just evaporate into thin air, never to be seen again.

I am fond of this person. I certainly don’t want anything bad to happen to him, but I don’t love him. I recently read Ahdaf Soueif’s “The Map of Love”, and the following passage pained me because it highlighted just how much is missing in my relationship:

“And in the daytime, when I watch him climb out of the sea under the blazing sun, with Nur on his shoulders and Ahmad and Mahrous on either side, the love I feel for each inch of his body is an exquisite ache in my heart” (pp 461-462).

Far from feeling an “exquisite ache”, my heart is more likely to sink whenever I see my husband! But I want to feel that “exquisite ache”, and yet, like so many other people, I tell myself that such feelings are only the stuff of novels and movies, or that if there is such a thing, then it will soon be snuffed out by the humdrum nature of daily life together.

In his defence, my husband does not have it easy. I am a very difficult person to be around. It’s easy for me to be emotionally and verbally abusive because that’s what I grew up with, so it doesn’t take much for me to resort to that when I’m stressed or defensive. I have taken too much from him, and I haven’t given much back. He complains about that, and it’s true.

However, I honestly don’t care anymore about trying to be a better, kinder and less hurtful person. I’ve been worn down by my husband telling me over and over again how bad I am, and how selfish. It doesn’t matter how tired, drunk or hungry I am, he will just rant over and over again about it. Sometimes he’s kept me up until 3:00 a.m. just yelling about how bad I am. I don’t know about you, but I find that quite abusive, which is ironic because I’m supposed to be the abusive one. I also find it has hurt my self-esteem, and makes me question myself constantly. Whenever I have a disagreement with somebody at work, or wherever, I’m very quick to fall into  a black pit of self-recrimination about what a bad person I am even if it’s their fault.

I’m also resentful that there is so much focus on my “craziness” in this relationship. All too often I’ve seen how my bad behaviour allows other people to justify their terrible actions. According to MM, I consciously “choose” to be mean and abusive whereas anything he does was because he was an innocent victim who was “provoked”.I just don’t buy it.

At this point in my life, the only incentive I can see for not losing control of my temper and tongue is not because I want to become a better, more spiritual person. No,it’s because emotional, out-of-control women will always be blamed for everything no matter what anybody else does wrong.

Nobody sees the things MM does wrong because he just can sweep them all under the carpet while everybody focuses on me being “crazy”.

I used to be the kind of person who looked down on people who stayed in unhappy, boring marriages. How terribly weak, I thought, to stay when you’re miserable. Now I have become exactly that kind of person. I don’t want to be in this relationship but I don’t particularly want to be out of it either. I don’t try to make things work because my heart’s just not in it. I don’t enjoy having sex with him at all, and I practically flinch when he touches me. This is something I do feel bad about because I know that he needs a lot of physical affection. But what can I do? I can’t fake something that’s not there.

If I’m honest, I think he’s a weak, passive loser. I hate the fact that he’s thirty-four years old, and that he says he’s an “artist”. He spends a lot of time “perfecting” a graphic novel which he will apparently never finish. Now he wants to be a concept artist, and he’s borrowed $1000 from his mother to take some class that will supposedly help him fulfil this goal. I’m very sceptical.

I question why I have such a visceral reaction to his failed artistic endeavours. Did I marry him because he was unthreatening because I, too, am a frustrated type? If I’d married somebody successful maybe it would have been too painful for me to be with him while I struggled with perfectionism?

I once had an acquaintance who was a rich doctor who made some disparaging comment about my dating impoverished artists (he was probably annoyed I had no interest in dating him). He smirked and said that I’d soon get tired of that when I realized how awful it was to be broke all the time. I was insulted, but I also remember feeling smug that I didn’t consider dating or marriage as some kind of mediaeval financial transaction like some American women do. I know I’m betraying feminism for saying this, but sometimes I do now wish that I was married to someone with money, and who was successful. It would make life easier.

Despite my brilliant undergraduate degree, my Master’s degree and my fluency in three languages, I am far worse off than my grandparents ever were, and my life is much more stressful. A combination of bad decisions, and poor self-esteem mean that I live from pay cheque to pay cheque.

I am thirty-three years old, and even though I’m not ready to have kids any time soon, there would be no chance of my doing so if I were. MM would never be able to help support a family. In some weird, primeval way, this makes me fucking mad inside.

Money is really the root of all the troubles in this relationship. Over the years, MM has bailed me out when I didn’t have a green card and couldn’t legally work. I would feel grateful for this, but I have to hear again about what a bad, selfish person I am for spending this money. Apparently I’m a spendthrift! Althought I spent it on surviving…on rent, food, bills…whatever I needed to stay afloat.

MM just called me, and I know that I won’t leave this relationship. I’m too gutless. I’ll just stick my head in the sand and pretend that everything’s OK. When I imagine being single again, I realize just how socially isolated I am. I don’t really have any good friends here. Being married acts as a buffer against the world, and makes a crazy cat lady like me socially acceptable.

What a huge disappointment life has been. I am everything I once used to despise.

Plus ça change…and all that.


Haven’t written in here in a looooooong time. This blog feels kinda redundant now, to be honest. A lot of the blogs I used to read are now no longer in existence, or they’re “private” and I wasn’t invited to join the party (and don’t care enough to ask for the privilege). I’m sure some of my readers are still out there (I can see some of you have email subscriptions) and maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it’s not.

The impulse to start afresh is strong. But I’m not sure I see a point. A new blog would mean a big, brave new start to a big, brave new chapter in my life but that, sadly, is not how life is.

Every so often I check who has left me comments on here and it’s nearly all people having suicidal thoughts who have stumbled across my “How to Kill Yourself Painlessly” post. I feel that my blog has become a social club for the fuck-ups of this world. I guess this bothers me because I consider myself to be a fuck-up, and it’s never nice to be reminded of this.

Oh, I know that happiness is a “choice” yadda yadda yadda but, you see, the thing is, I don’t seem to be very good at making that choice. I started blogging in (when?) 2007, and nothing much seems to have changed. It seems that most blogs have a limited shelf life because the writers change and go on to do different things. I feel that I’m the exception in that I’m still stuck.

The teaching thing didn’t work out, by the way. I HATED being a teacher. The job market is so shit in this state (and in the US, in general) that I knew I would have to stay in that godawful little town for another year if I wanted to get out with enough experience to get a job somewhere else. It was soul-crushing living there, so I didn’t want to do that. A parent actually called the school to complain that there was a “foreigner” teaching her child. The head of my department hated “gringas” who “didn’t understand the kids” and went out of her way to sabotage everything I did. Ironically, a week after I left, she got fired for stealing money from the school! I could go on and on and on and on about how awful it was to live there.

I haven’t, for one single second, regretted my decision to quit teaching.

Now I’m back in civilization (the same city as before…which doesn’t seem half as bad as it did before I moved to Hicksville) and working for a major company in a customer service role. Apparently I can’t even give a hint about the identity of this company because I have been warned that it actually has a special department looking out for disgruntled employees posting shit about it on the internet. It’s probably just as well that I hadn’t posted on here before I found this out because, oh, I would have bitched all right!

Life just meanders on. I’m tired working the 9-6 daily grind. Haven’t got much energy for anything once I get home. Sitting all day on your arse in an office really takes it out of you. I want to be a singer and writer but, same old, same old, I don’t really do much in that area. I am trying to learn piano, though.

Still married to MM and things are going….well, they’re just going. I’m fond of him, but I can’t say that I love him with any passion whatsoever.

This is why I don’t blog. I’ve become the person I never thought I would become. Everything about me is stagnant, and I have no idea how to change that.

Hello, pretty pretty!


My mood has improved considerably since yesterday’s Scrooge-like post. After blogging, I wasted some more time surfing the internet (New Year’s Resolution: Stop looking up so much pointless trivia online!) and then I eventually managed to get my act together and take my dogs for a walk. It was so peaceful outside. This town is filled with with “transplants”, and they must all go back to where they come from during holidays, as there was hardly anybody around. It wasn’t even that they were just all inside with their families, as it was dark, and very few houses had lights on. It felt like I had my whole neighbourhood to myself, and it was lovely. I’ve always loved holidays because it feels like real life is suspended, and that time has stood still. I had even forgotten what day of the week it was yesterday and even though I know today is Saturday, it doesn’t really feel like it. I wish every day could be a holiday. I don’t want to back to my real life but, alas, I will have to – I will try to see more clients later on today.

After walking the dogs, I set about preparing Christmas dinner, which seemed like a huge chore at first (who wants to go to all the effort of preparing a special meal only to eat it alone?!) but I was glad I did in the end because it was goooooooood. I had Tofurky vegetarian roast (tasty, but too salty, as all meat substitute products are, sadly); mustard greens and roasted sweet potatoes. My God, I love sweet potatoes so much that I want to be one! Could there be anything more tasty? Before I came to the US, I don’t think I had ever tried sweet potatoes before. I’m sure that in this era of globalization you must be able to get them back in the Motherland, but it’s hardly like they’re a staple on our tables there.

I’m also a huge fan of collard greens, mustard greens and kale, which are all common in this part of the country. The funny thing is that kale is apparently also very common in the Motherland, and was the only cultivated vegetable we had until the 18th century. Indeed, so common is it that it even lent its name to a whole literary movement, the kailyard school, a group of writers who had an overly sentimental, nostalgic view of rural life. Despite all of this, I had never once tried kale while I lived back home and wouldn’t even have known what it looked like (let alone known how to cook it) had it ambushed me in the street yelling “I am kale! I am kale!”.

Anyway, here is a picture of my Christmas dinner:

Afterwards, I settled down on the sofa with what remained of my nice bottle of Malbec from the night before (and some chocolate mint coconut milk ice-cream! Yum!), and started watching “Barberella“. It was one of those films I had been meaning to watch for years, but had never got around to doing so. I was reminded of it twice recently, though – the first time when “Belle de Jour” finally outed herself, and admitted that she’d worked as an escort with the “Barberella Agency”; the second time when I was at a party and someone asked whether I’d seen the film and looked at me like I’d two heads because I hadn’t (Sheesh, I can’t have seen every single film, you know!).

Usually, I’m not overly excited about kitsch films, but I did enjoy it quite a bit. It was certainly a nice antidote to the previous night’s decidely non-Christmas Evey viewing material, “Dogville”. In case you’re wondering, the title of today’s post is one of Anita Pallenberg’s lines in the film (she’s waaaaaaay hotter than Jone Fonda, by the way). Did you know that Duran Duran named themselves after the main villain in “Barberella”, the evil Dr Durand-Durand? I think I did once know that useless piece of trivia, but I’d forgotten.

“MM” and I didn’t even speak to each other yesterday. It wasn’t like we were avoiding each other or anything (we exchanged a few texts), but he called when I was out walking the dogs, and afterwards he was busy with friends and family. He sent me a text in the early hours of the morning saying “I miss you so much. Goodnight”, which made me feel quite guilty, as I can’t say I miss him one whit. In fact, I’m in a fucking fantastic mood! I’m very, very relaxed and chilled out. The tension in my shoulders and neck has completely gone, and I’m just enjoying being by myself. I’m not sure what that means. Perhaps it means I don’t love him, but, then again, have I ever missed anybody all that much? Sure, I’ve missed other guys before, but it was always men who didn’t want me, and I think my longing for them was more obsession than a genuine sense of wanting them close to me.

When it comes to relationships, I do enjoy having somebody in my life so I know that I’m not all alone in the world, but what a drag that you have to put up with so much crap to get that! Life would be so much easier if I could just live on a Barbarella-like spaceship that had a sort of on-board holographic computer, with human emotions, that would talk to me and give me advice, but would basically shut the fuck up the rest of the time. Why the hell has nobody invented such a thing?!