I will not trigger. I will not trigger.
I am having a rough day at work. It made me wish I could go home and hide in a game of Age of Empires. Just for a moment, I had an image and heard the sounds and wished I were there.
Just for a moment.
I might wish I was wishing I could hide riding my horse, or sewing, or writing something beautiful, but Age of Empires is what I have chosen lately.
Just for a moment.
Then that moment passed.
And then, all at once, it hit me.
When He feels that same way, stressed and wishing he were elsewhere, he wishes he could go hide in some whore’s cunt. Those are the images and desires and feelings that he recalls. Whores. Cigarettes. Food. Whores. He gets that same urge for comfort and stress release, and wants to have empty, lustful, worthless sex with some new bimbo to get him excited and happy and all drugged inside. And I don’t know why that hurts so bad. I don’t know why I am sitting here crying at work again.
He might have been training his brain and his emotions to wish he was holding me in his arms. Or me holding him. Or riding his bike. Or petting his dog. Or anything bonding and loving.
Maybe because I wanted a real love, this time. Maybe because I thought someone actually gave a damn about me, this time. Maybe because I don’t really understand addiction. But to have that fleeting feeling when I am under stress, and to realize that he doesn’t experience a fleeting wish. Rather, a desperation overwhelms him until that is all he can think about and all that he wants and all he cares about.
I don’t know.
It seems so empty. It makes my life with him feel so empty and worthless. All those years, and he was drooling and desiring and humping anything, anything.
I am unheard. I don’t exist in his world. I don’t matter to the one person I wanted to matter to. My children will go on beyond me, most likely. I wanted to sit with someone who gave a damn even when I wasn’t beautiful anymore.
But he will forever have that lust and that desire and that addictive urge which will overwhelm everything else. What I feel for a few short, wistful seconds, those are the only feelings he really has. Love for someone else? Respect? Wishing someone else good feelings and finding joy in their joy? Taking that gentle, little beating heart of someone and carefully holding in your hands and letting it go and loving the way it flies free in the open sky?
I was doing so well. I was feeling so strong and separate, even after making a nice dinner where I put the care into that I wanted. To be the kind of person I wanted to be. The person I really am. Because I didn’t want him to feel as alone on his birthday as I felt on mine. Because I don’t wish that kind of sadness on anyone, even when I think I do.
It hurts to care. It hurts to want to care. It hurts to be rejected and hated and passed over for whores.
They say real men don’t want prostitutes and whores. That real men want real women with real feelings and real emotions to show them that someone else cares about them, too. To share their life, their joys, to lean on and come to with their sorrows, to grow old with many memories.
I guess I don’t know any real men.
I only know manboys, mamaboys, givemewhateveriwantboys.
I have been conditioned to accept so little and to not recognize when I am being treated like shit.
I thought I had learned, had demanded more from life.
I really hurt now.
Life hurts enough as it is. Death. Loss. Disasters. Mistakes.
Why do people have to go out of their way to hurt each other? Why do they have to choose to abuse other people? Why do I have to choose life with people who are so willing to hurt me? Why do I have to live the rest of my life with this pain? Why can’t I just let it go and not care anymore?
Why can’t I be like other people, those who are willing to hurt me, and couldn’t care less?
We are beautiful in our flesh. But he only values flesh in pornography, flesh of whores, flesh to jack himself off, anything he can consume. A drowning man killing the people around him with his thoughtless reactions. Those who came to help him, care about him, maybe save him. He filled me with his cruelty, the horrible things he must have thought of me to be able to fuck them, then fuck me, and call it good.
He will do it again. He is most likely doing it right now. In his mind. In his heart. In his flesh.
I feel sick now. Filthy. Poisoned.
I wish I could go home.