My strength is ephemeral.

He comes home, and I am an emotional wreck, again.  I was physically ill that he was coming home early, when I thought I might have some real time for myself.  And every time I cried I felt terribly ill, sick at heart and stomach and spirit.  Feverish, and yet cold.  Wishing I could vomit, but blocked and choked.  I couldn’t breath, or think.

He asks what I want.  I cannot answer everything I want.  It would be a lie if he offered it.  We both know that.

And then, he comes home after the movie, and is that secretive, hiding, running to his room before anyone can ask him anything.  He knows by 5 his movie doesn’t start until 7.  It takes maybe 50 minutes to eat.  Maybe he shows up for the movie 10 minutes early.  And the remaining hour?  Well, it only takes half an hour for a few lap dances and beat off in the vehicle parking lot, or grabs a 20 dollar hand job from some slut off the street.  He still has time.  His voice, his manner, his hurry, he was deceiving, hiding again.


It helps me every time he behaves like the addict that he is.

I know I am right to forgo all hope then, to prepare myself to leave and not look back.

But I was a total internal mess.  Pain, such pain.  Aw, Gods, I ache from two days of torture.  Why did I allow him close again?

Because I have hope.  I hoped he might come back changed.  I hoped he might not come back at all.  I hoped I might not have to begin life over again, again, again.  But everything felt normal, too normal entirely.

So I ached.  For the fear that I will never be healed.  For the terror of even thinking about being close to someone.  In my fantasy, the man who would help me heal has to deal with me screaming during sex, pushing through the miasm of terror at the images in my head which plague me.  But he holds me, slowly, karezza style sacred sex, healing sex, loving sex.  He gently cups my face in his hands, looks me in the eye, not to hypnotize but to reassure over and over that he is there, with me, only me, only us. 

But it isn’t real.

Reality is a man who will lie.  An addict who will lie.  Who will always fall back on lies and addiction in the face of the slightest trouble.  Who behaves like he is not truly in recovery, but wants his security blanket back.  Who wants to placate his mother figure because that is what is oldest habit is.

Wow.  What a man.

In some ways, he is different.  He is less likely to attack, although that is still his first act.  He is more likely to tell me he is attacking, rather than hide it inside and do it, so many ‘it’, behind my back.  He is somewhat more open about his feelings.  Those are good things.  But that is not his natural state, and when stressed, he will become that usual other, the addict full blown.  And he is still an addict.  Cigarettes.  Food.  Fantasy.  Lies.  And he lets his ‘program’ fall one piece at a time……

He is not healed.

He is far from healthy.

He will never be free of the addiction.

But he acts like he doesn’t need much help anymore.

I loved him so much.

I wanted him.

I can’t.

I dreamt the sun was changing.  The radiation blast was coming, going to hit the Earth, and anyone outside or near a window would be blinded, even with their eyes tightly shut, and diseased from the radiation.  I had a son.  I was trying to find a safe place, but all the rooms in the house had windows, even the basement because it was a walkout.  I couldn’t find a safe place, anywhere.  And the blast was coming.

I am very tired today.   Changed work schedule, couldn’t sleep knowing that I would have to get up early.  That happens all the time.  I think I will like the new schedule.  I hope it will enhance my life and provide more opportunities.

I hope I can quit being so depressed all the time.  I wish I could disconnect from him.  How do these sex addicts steal our souls so easily?  How do they get under our skin so perfectly that it is extremely painful to remove them?  I have been hurt before.  This is the worst pain I have ever endured.  I am nothing to him.  Not one word I ever said made any difference.  Every vulnerability I ever shared with him was used against me to tear me to shreds.  Every simple thing I ever asked for was turned into a weapon.  Every nightmare I was ever terrified I would face in a relationship is exactly what he delivered.

Odd.  The best time I remember now is afterwards.  During the insanity bonding.  When I at least knew something of truth in my life with him.  Every other memory has been completely tainted with the lies he has been dumping into our relationship since the very beginning.  The foundation was rotten from the very start.   The only good memories I will carry of him are when I was too insane to care, and I was having sex with other men in order to stand touching him.

I feel sorry for him, for his fear.  He hopes he has ADHD so maybe a pill will cure him.  If he cures his fear, he thinks he will cure everything.  He has no real concept of the damage he has done to his thinking, to his reasoning, to his entire personhood.

Or mine.

I feel sorrier for myself.  I am a minefield.  I am so damaged now, in ways I haven’t even run into yet.

Why, oh God/dess, why?

Why did I have to be here again?  So much worse than ever before?  Why do I have to be hurt again and again?

Why don’t I get to catch a break in love?


‘Little star awash in a river of heaven.’  ‘my lovely full moon.’  I am hearing this, from someone.  I hope it is real.  I hope I am more than that, and that as well.


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