i have hit a very pragmatic point.
i haven’t got much grace left it seems.
i wanted to apologize and clarify.
yesterday i didn’t mean to imply anything other than i wanted to stop the automatic bill pay transactions.
maybe that upset you because you had just put $1,000 in the account so that they could draft that?
i’m open to that concept. i was looking to prevent another saturday morning race to the bank.
you can withdrawal $1,000 as easily as impressively put it in.
but you became upset. i was meanwhile stunned. i had just learned about Gianna’s $300/mth esurance.
my mind went blank. it felt cold. numb. blank. i needed time to process.
in the end the processing was simple, just hard from a cold start.
i don’t know your financial situation. i have no idea how much money you have and where, and i know that you are still in bed with your ex-wife financially.
but really it was quite simple.
your bills are your bills. if you want to pay $300 a month for insurance for your daughter and “buy her expensive things” then you are free to do so.
i don’t think this has to get much more complicated in spelling things out. i mean, there’s no money in “the” bank account, and i have no interest in getting a job.
it’s likely that i’ll get a job again just about that time i have house fever and have gotten bored.
but it’s really a good moment to take stock and reset our perspectives.
i feel like you’re living with a 1950’s ideal you don’t want to admit.
but we don’t have to look at the past as if we can somehow change it or fix it. look back if you want to learn, otherwise, face forward…
so, i don’t need to know your bills. i know the bills i am a part of, and know that i should contribute to the household in all manners, now as before, as always. financially speaking, i have very little contribution required, from what i ascertain, as i obviously am not expected neither legally nor morally to care for yours and Angela’s children, nor should i contribute to “the expensive things” you want to buy your daughter.
if you’re wondering about how i form such perspectives of you—for instance, of late we’ve talked about how over time my respect for you has diminished—it comes from things like that.
if you were my best friend, then i would tell you to stop being stupid. if you were my best friend and not my lover, i would say can you believe the idiot had the gall to say that to me? after I gave his daughter the largest financial gift i’ve ever made to anyone? it’s hard to keep a straight face when you grand stand your male ego of being the provider and paint this daddy’s girl idea.
it hurts because i realize you’re so wrapped up in this image that you fail to realize that you’re doing this daddy’s princess routine with a fatherless girl.
i marvel lately at how little you think of what you put out there and how it impacts what you receive.
i wanted love and romance with you, but ironically my husband holds the record for calling me a “bitch”. you’re steadily tearing my self-esteem apart.
i would appreciate a more upbuilding environment. i used to try to correct you—remember last year when we would fight so often?
back then the scripture just kept going through my mind, and you recall, i’d try to introduce scripture but you always found it to be my extracting straw from your eye, and anyway, after countless potty mouth or racist jokes, finally it seemed that “let no obscene thing be mentioned among you” had been accomplished by the sheer fact that you realized I’d heard them all already.
back then my heart hurt because as we’d walk the street a see a gay person you’d see someone worth mocking, pointing and talking about, and i see hurt and pain. you see my best friend, tobey, she’s gay. it seems god puts us in positions which force us to grapple with the hardest points if we’re able. i finally got to the point that i realized that it isn’t for us to judge, no, we were called to love.
maybe we’re different. maybe you regret running away in the night to marry me. i don’t know. you’re not very expressive and we spend the majority of our time talking about the negative.
but the thing is, i just simply don’t care. what does it matter at this point? are you going to pout because i’m naturally beautiful but not interested in the antics of your ex-wife? at least be thrilled i’m not as bad as your daughter. though, to be fair, i imagine one day she’ll snap out her wearing her constant workout apparel and will be every bit as beautiful made up as her mother. but that has nothing to do with me. i’m me. i’m not that type.
i’m just kind of sick of the way things are in this small cycle. i’m frustrated because there seems to be no exit but to declare it alone. i had hoped we’d work through things together, but I don’t even know what ‘together’ there is.
so here is my “i’m through” email. i’m through paying your bills. i cancelled the weekly transfer for Gianna’s child support. i cancelled the transfer for your wife’s home equity line of credit. i cancelled the transfer for the car payment.
i have not cancelled your mother’s meager weekly allowance because we both know that she’s on your priority list below your children and probably below me. So if I don’t take care of her, who will? Just being factual. So serious the capital letters entered again. (in other words, while you’re buying expensive things for your daughter, and paying for her $300/mth insurance, I think that I should be able to find a way to maintain a meager $25 for your mother weekly. At least until you have time to shift your priorities… or well, I guess I’ll just keep doing it, because your mom will be dead before your children stop sucking down your money.)
if things were different, well, things would be different. in a different day dream, mine, i day dream how you’d eagerly want to see the world full of color—instead of imprisoning me in your pale pallor of procrastination—and be thrilled the new girl wants to know what color strikes your fancy, resonates your soul, ripples your energy. maybe you’d even notice just how long she’d put off her own pleasure and happiness just to ensure that she can most fully take into account your own. maybe you’d notice how the girl procrastinates and hems and haws while she’s just trying not to move forward with him. she has the color. a color she could have picked alone, but now sadly there’s the color. picked the color, and then now what? how many more days, weeks, before the next step? she was already so heart broken she turned on her heel and said ‘let’s get out of here’ already exhausted at the prospect of either spending the time now to shop for the things which force action with a heart which says, he’s still not ready.
i daydream the beautiful blue wall with the fall’s brilliant light shining through. the warm golden sunshine color brightening up the bottom floor as if ever persistent sunshine hit the caribbean mind. the buttery ritz carlton color running through the neutral space up the stairs and through the hall flanked by bright white trim pulling you through the space.
i don’t like the new purple/blue colored sheets, i mention it because they jar my mind right now as i know that no longer does the bed have the serene beautiful set going i had, but has instead this mishmash of stuff. a curiosity you care so much but not about the things i care about. so we have sheets i hate, enjoyed picking them out with you. but don’t ever want to see them. i like my somber dreary gray dream sheets. the other set is similar enough. i like the dark drape of deep earth covering. i picture the gray blue of dusk the calming color of stress eased away, weariness not yet worn out. the color falls fading to the sand like floor beneath, rising into a shimmer which taunts you as you wonder if its even there, that glimmer of a star, that sweep of beautifully illuminated crystals of light captured in tiny water droplets in a fog of beautiful dreams crowning the ceiling.
i picture the bathroom. i have the hardest time there, because i find it uninspiring. i am reminded that it’s not a daydream, you did ignore every bit of what i said about the mold until now you agree it’s mold. go back to real day dream world and an actual ‘challenge’ meaning—something beyond what i can simply just accomplish and normally would have if i were alone—would be to actually put an interesting shower in, and figure out how to make the best of the elements that are in there (as it’s a resale unit one day regardless) while being that simple selling point. i could talk all the time telling you the story about the ralph lauren carpet and what others thought of my teddy bear carpet expense… or i could just tell you about how i’ve dreamed of showering with my feet on real water smoothed stones under my feet for years now.
i imagine that we stay for about four years. seems to short investment-wise, it should just be booming then, and selling is selling too early. i don’t expect you’ll have anything to contribute to a new home, because my bet is that you don’t have a financial divorce from Angela before she’s married, and since you will fail to do it before she’s married, then there will be nothing to start it happening, until finally Gianna hits 18 and is still living at home with her new daddy and mom.
At that point it will pretty much be too late for anything but for an interesting legal battle. I don’t think it matters too much all in all because it will just wait until some judge is stuck figuring out how to untangle your stupidity. The longer she lives in the home, the longer she deserves 50%. So all in all, as long as she keeps paying, then who cares until it hits her being there 13 years? Reality is simple—she can’t sell without your signature. Which means she can’t sell. When one day she wants to move on, then she will either screw you, move out, say it’s your problem, and then STILL refuse to split the house fairly, or she’ll want out and be forced to make a decision. She’ll have lost all rights. Having married prior to it being her property and that he already lives there and is investing his work —stupid woman, he’s a contractor!— in the home, means that he is now legally entitled to the house as martial property when he marries her. So like it or not, before she can pass it on to her kids—yeah, right—she’ll have to give him and his kids his portion. So your grand gesture buying into her stupidity means you’re betting she’ll survive the marriage to pass the house on to the kids. If he divorces her, as he invested in the material property and lived there with her as his home, then he’s entitled to half as martial property despite the fact that YOU own it. It’s HER asset to.
Her divorcing him is likely to be what prompts the sale of the house if they don’t go to buy their own first. For him to get his share he’d have to force a sale. Since we’re talking marriage and divorce, it seems it’ll hit about the same point in time when you might realize she’s sitting on your nest egg. As long as the economy stays good, and the sewer issue doesn’t ruin anything, you should have an appreciating home. Its in safe hands, as obviously he’s qualified to care for the home and would do so as his primary or part-time residence. But silly minded woman who doesn’t think he’s going to want his dimes and time back should the day come. It doesn’t matter. His portion comes out of her portion, not yours.
so basically it seems painting and the shower is about as far as i can get in the daydream of the NoDa townhouse. “daddy always had a yard,” strikes me through to the heart.
it’s been hard lately to keep my head any where near “up”.
you of all people know how very little other people know of my life. where one knows one bit, another another, there isn’t anyone who knows how it all adds up.
but i don’t need them to know.
i’m just expressing something to you which is limited to your observation—i have a ‘give up’ but its not like others. its when i give myself over. its something of the moment when you realize you’ve been fighting as if this is your fight.
this isn’t my fight.
i’m letting go. my heart is a bit numb. but it’ll come to life again.
i don’t know what ‘life’ is but waiting for the resurrection. in general, i find it boring.
in general, i find my life suffocating.
i’m not allowed to speak the truth, nor write it freely.
i’m working on changing that. if melissa can publish an award winning paper about her stepmother being an apostate, why can’t her step-mother write about the hypocrisy of the religion which would label me an apostate? the consequences of the writing is the same—on either side, we stand only to be disfellowshipped. ironically, only one of those DF’ings would be based on biblical principles. but isn’t that what she’s inspired me to do? or what it’s egging me towards? why should she have her freedom, and i not claim mine?
life was hard last fall as you ignored me and my mother. i was stuck protecting you from her—i never would have spoken to her about permanent birth control, nor would i imagine that the thought would ever enter her mind. so i was left with the ludicrous mother who hammers me for my birth control choices. she cut off her relationship with me until i remove the copper iud. could we stop pretending it isn’t your fault?
irony. i get reinstated so i can have my family back, but instead get married and lose her to the stupid copper IUD.
it sucks to be stuck. i hate the racing feeling. like electricity just coursing through my body most of the time. i feel amped and wired the majority of the time. i can’t recall when i’ve felt like i last could “come down”. it’s a feeling of tingliness like anxiety. tightness across my chest. i hate the irritability the most. the erratic mood swings. it’s like suffering everything i’ve heard about PMS and being a woman all at once. except that it was stored up for me for now.
its a constant heart break. each day not praying about it because what is that but to pray your husband has mercy on you and decides to take action instead of procrastinating? so i don’t pray about it. i tried to pretend it doesn’t matter. i try to smile when the hair starts falling out, i try to not mention the way the strings look flopping in the wind where my hair should be.
i don’t talk about how it hurts to prevent the very child you now secretly want. i mean, if you don’t want me, and you’re so wrapped up in your kids you won’t realize you don’t have a marriage, then maybe i could have a baby? no? a cat? no?
when did you become the guy who got to say no?
paul said that he advised women—
An unmarried woman or virgin is concerned about the Lord’s affairs: Her aim is to be devoted to the Lord in both body and spirit. But a married woman is concerned about the affairs of this world–how she can please her husband.
i’m still very much concerned with the “Lord’s affairs”, but i can’t say i have much left for being concerned with pleasing my husband. my husband thinks so little of me, and he makes me think so little of myself, i think it’s best i concentrate my efforts elsewhere.
so you’re not going to see a beautiful wife any time soon, unless it’s God’s gift. i will continue to fail to see myself in the mirror, but to be far to critical of my self introspectively.
i give up. or rather, i gave up. sure it’ll take me a while to get into action, to repair and recover my routines and things that make me, me. but at least i made the choice.
i’m putting myself in god’s hands. i’m in no hurry.
the other day it became simple to me. i don’t have any worries. i don’t need much.
there’s no reason I shouldn’t be happy.
i’ll try to continue to show love to your mother as i have.
it was ronnie who asked heather who asked me why you and your son weren’t carrying for your mother.
i don’t generally think of things like that. i saw your mom and saw a widow. it didn’t occur to me to look around for someone else to take care of her, why should I?
perhaps you realize i have a good clue now about your first marriage. you can’t kill the habits and i learned a lot about what you hid from me about your temper from your kids.
i have no desire to repeat your first marriage, nor my own. i’d much prefer to just be friends than to bear fighting.
now, you’ve been pretty brutal about how you find me to be mentally broken in some manner, and boring. So i’ll be brutally honest. Your depression is the worst suffocating thing I have encountered. You’re boring. You are all talk and no action. You put nothing of substance in your head. You talk about Ultimate, but you don’t play. Hey, I know the gig. I used to talk about running and not run. I realized it was stupid. I had picked up the habit from others. What stupidity. There are people who talk, and there are people who do. Those who do steer clear of the others. They’re obstacles, speed bumps, things in the rear view mirror, if you remember to glance back.
Man, to think of all i’d have accomplished with the day dream you. look at how much we did when i just forced you into a road trip on a whim. on a whim. and look at what it did. (do you even feel anything about what you helped accomplish?)
we’re on thin ice, but there’s no breaking the ice.
you have a mother you’d like to fuck, and Roma you never did, and a Heidi who you look at the way I wish you’d look at me.
please consider stepping back. i don’t know if i need to start wearing clothes around more often so you stop acting like i’m here to be touched at every opportunity. did it ever occur to you to NOT cat call me every FUCKING TIME you see me? it’s like having my own sexual harassment squad built in while i’m trying to tell myself i’m more than Tn’A while my husband points out that I’m Tn’A and not much more. I mean honestly. I’m suffering so bad here and I can’t figure out how to make it stop.
then there’s the slave thing. get a life. stop making me breakfast. it would have been nice but we’re stuck in some sort of a weird relationship where i feel like i’m just stuck in a routine with you that we have to follow because it’s the best shot at passing time forward safely until there’s again a safe space.
so that’s why i’m on edge. there’s not a job in my future if i can help it. i want to truly heal. i want to believe things like that i am loved for my mind, and appreciated for what i contribute. i’d love to be valued specifically for my contributions, and to be able to have my contributions acknowledged so i can feel appreciated. that didn’t happen. i got a job, started paying the bills, and you stopped contributing. you basically moved from house keeper and cook to who knows what and driver.
eight hours plus a day i used to work, while you would make excuses about not having the ability to make time to read the bible through. I read the bible through again cover-to-cover without you.
you see, you can pretend all you want, but i can’t. i really can’t.
i spent a year trying it the Glass way. pretending and such, but i’m not capable. i have always been fond of the truth.
someone once told me that the truth will set you free.
start with your budget for your bills. then let me know how much I need to contribute to our household.
you know some of my daydreams, and if you want to mock them as being boring, then i’ll remind you that i scaled back my dreams significantly. i used to dream of inspiring people. now i just want a colorful home to hide in for the winter. my dreams are reduced to stupid impossible to accomplish to do lists.
My recent dreams—
see the dishwasher removed from the back porch
see the microwave removed from the bathroom
see all the chemicals properly disposed of so i can have room
see how long it takes him to install the shower curtain
move the bathroom storage mess behind the shower curtain when Darryl finally installs it unless i decide to do it myself because i always did it myself before and who cares how bad my job doing it is, no one ever complained before, and at least i will actually do it—but i find it disrespectful to my husband so instead i stew and stew and stew and wonder if he knows how he just racks up points left and right for being useful for … hmmm… what are you useful for?
see i get off topic don’t i?
Lets just say I am now praying for a woman best friend. Someone who is the kind of woman I met in San Diego and adored. She’s like my momma when I was younger—momma went down and rented a table saw, and she and her friend put up crown moulding and trim through out her home. My mom of course was just being the enabler who made it happen. She’s the kind who has a beat up rusty old tiny truck which we can put a ladder in the back. She happens to actually have one I can borrow, so we can get started already—the $200 I needed for a ladder to reach my dreams now saved for colors. We laugh and joke the whole time painting—kind of like I used to do with my girlfriends in the past. Thinking of Julie now. It takes a couple of days. The bedroom was the first we tackled knowing it was sort of easy and hard at the same time. The ceiling never was touched, as I always knew it was more the kind of thing that rich people can make happen, but is just a touch too little impact for a tad too much effort for my type. She’s not as wild out of her mind as my death wish bestie Tobey. So I finally have someone to go do stuff with.
Alison is promising, but Alison has also just found the ‘right’ drug for her depression and social anxiety disorder, so while you think she’s another perfect blonde who isn’t a mother you’d like to fuck all the same, since we now know and will never forget that you’re that kind of guy, whether you ever have the stupidity to humiliate your wife in front of your son again we’ll never forget… she’s not.
What I really want now is stupid stuff. I want to be able to hire someone to do the painting for me and do it right with the right colors. So I can start living instead of hating the place I live.
It occurred to me when I see you day in and day out wear the same clothes, that I was the same. But your clothes take up the entire master bedroom closet and then come into my own. Then I also have your ex-wife’s photos in my closet. I have your daughter’s memories. I never really want to say anything— I’ve kind of thought you’d retort that, well, the whole house is my stuff.
I wonder if you know that I’m not in love with my “stuff”. You are obviously failing to look through my lenses when you say some stuff—like why you would look around the place and comment on my books? Seriously, of all my possessions, what do you think is least likely to be done away with? What is most of who I am? Am I not but books, and boxes of memories? I awaited three things to arrive, books, boxes of memories, and wine. I got the two out of three I needed.
So I’m not sure who you think I am, but besides being partial to my actual high end furniture (my Baronet bedroom set) I don’t care about replacing everything else. But you can’t start decorating by getting rid of my books.
Meanwhile, I think back to when you first mentioned it a few weeks ago, and wonder, what do you think now as compared to then? Do you realize that it’s good that I am the way that I am? That I don’t go decorating like your ex-wife?
I don’t know, I just got to the end of my ability to pretend.
To pretend that 8 hours a day isn’t 8 hours a day.
You started throwing it at me that I said you couldn’t work. You make such leaps. It’s not really about you working, it’s about you being interesting, productive, useful. Christian.
What did you do, day over day, for every hour I worked? What did I accomplish, and how do you feel about what you accomplished?
I mean seriously, the house work is cheap work. It’s cheaper for you to go get a job and pay a full time housekeeper the minimum wage.
Speaking of, at minimum wage, you or your daughter needs to work 21.55 hours a week just to have her car.
Your son is a business major about to graduate.
You stood before me yesterday telling me how you don’t have any idea how much money you’re going to make.
You told me you have an account, but that you don’t even know how much you owe in estimated tax. i realized that i was doing it again. playing stupid so you don’t feel stupid.
so yesterday i didn’t say, um, there are estimated taxes calculators, and dates when it is due, and methods for all of this.
in my mind i registered again a loss of respect. either you think i’m stupid enough not to know business, either you’re stupid enough not to know and to ignore that i do, or you are just going along with my playing stupid which is just stupid because i’m not stupid and i have very little patience for playing stupid. i usually just end up exclaiming “this is stupid”.
so i don’t know, you’re a bag of excuses, and not much to show.
we keep having this same conversation.
oh and it wasn’t cool. the way you brought up my getting a job in front of your girls. you said something about me getting a high paying job. then it escalated to california. your poor kids. what must they think?!
the good new is that i’m pretty sure melissa is getting a better idea of how there is no such thing as the way it used to be. she needs to be able to take care of herself, and expect that her husband will need others to help him pretend that he’s taking care of himself.
i’m sorry i was mean to you yesterday. i was stunned and i couldn’t get past you turning on me while i was stunned. man, if you’d just given me a moment to process, i would have gotten there. but you kicked into gear before i could…
so it’s simple, this was a long email to say i was silly. paying for everything has given you a strange daydream world where you’re daddy warbucks and gianna is princess gigi, and you’re buying expensive things and such.
whatever. when you wake up, give me a call.
meanwhile, just expect i’ll be doing myself to stay out of your way, and to work towards being truly and deeply interested in you again.
for now, please act more like it’s not a given that you can do or say anything to me as your possession.
and for fuck’s sake. keep your hands off me. perhaps you should try reading cues a bit better. or at least just don’t touch me unless it’s romantic. and grabbing me when i’m bent over to pull my hips into yours to ‘bang me’ doesn’t make me feel like anything but hatred.
if you can’t look me in my eyes and make me believe you love me, then don’t even fathom sleeping with me.
i deserve better.
one day i have to give in. one day i will have to find someone to start talking to.
i always thought i’d have a marriage which wouldn’t require that friendship to be outside the marriage.
but the days are worn thin.
i mean if i did talk to a neutral third party, wouldn’t they say this last year as opposed to your perspective of it, is crazy? not mine?
maybe i wouldn’t hate you so much. or maybe i’d just turn into every other woman i’d ever steered clear of who just complains about her husband.
yeah, i want a friend for one reason only—to complain about you. to have someone to talk to about this.
it’s pretty much as miserable as i can imagine being.
what will it take to swallow my pride—my right to privacy—to become vulnerable and stop bearing it all alone?
I don’t know. i never have.
maybe the only cost of this marriage is my misery, and your stupidity for thinking you could marry me and have me.
I’m so sorry. I really am so sad. I’m fighting back tears. I mean I didn’t know you were such a loser. I mean kicked while you’re down, down and out, loser. The kind of guy who puts others down so they can feel better about themselves. The embarrassing scene yesterday. You trying desperately to cooly drape your arm over your girl. You insulted the woman by your comment—“not you,” you corrected—“I meant her,” referring to me. I raised my eyes the barest bit to smirk at her. You spoke of shame yesterday as if I don’t know it. I know it. It’s shameful to be shamed by your husband who doesn’t even realize that she knew it was you, not I, who should be ashamed.
no one said life was easy, nor did anyone say the girl worth having was supposed to be easy.
but could you at least pretend to try?
before you existed I ate cheerios and had no shame. i spent countless nights poring over volumes of scripture eating steamed vegetables with feta for dinner. you turn your nose up at my simplicity, but i cared for myself. i don’t need you to act like somehow you’re doing me a favor taking care of me as if i can’t.
i don’t need you.
i just wanted you.
is there a you somewhere in there?
i wanted to do stuff with you. i really did. i really do.
i am trying to not cry. i can’t do anything about it now.
the wedding is over. i missed the day. octoberfest will soon fade, and annually i’ll probably recall the friends who saw mine, but i didn’t get to see theirs.
i’ll keep hoping that my life as i know it isn’t simply over, and now some sort of fight to maintain some sense of myself in this land of make believe where we pretend that you and i exist in any meaningful form after you’re done setting all the proper boundaries up — you know, space to spoil your children, or whatever.
i once thought you might marvel at the ability to invite your children into your home. but you don’t have a home.
yes, reality brought us to the fact that you live where i live because simply, we are married.
you seemed to be shocked that i could be so honest. and here i am baring more honesty hoping that unlike at revolution, you won’t just consider this an emotional outburst and brush it aside as some sort of a tantrum as you did that night.
or maybe you will.
but you know? i forgot. my life isn’t yours. there is no guarantee that you belong to me. you make no move to ensure it is so.
so i have a freedom i am determined not to lose.
and should i ever find myself unmarried again, you can bet i’m not giving it up for any man again. and no, sorry honey, that’s not a romantic gesture for you. it’s reality. i was wrong. i gave up christ as my head for you instead.
anyway, i don’t know what recovery looks like, but i started reading and remembering and realizing that i used to be blissful and unencumbered by others trivial problems. I used to live each day believing that each day has enough worries (if you could find them) for itself. i used to not worry about what i would eat, or drink, not because some guy thought it was his duty to ensure i didn’t fall off the deep end due to some caloric intake protocol which makes him feel in charge of the drama he’s trumped up to be important and in charge of… no, i used to live alone. happy, and spending my days happily in prayer in my mind. music blocking out the sounds of the evil world—”fuck bitch, I don’t care! fuck bitch, I told you I don’t care”—lyrics you claimed you didn’t hear… out of my space and time.
i put the head phones down to let you in. i heard a lot of “no’s”. I heard a lot of blame. I heard a lot of bad words I hadn’t heard in a long time. I heard a lot of mean observations.
i’m quite sad. but i never lose hope. it’s part of the me that you don’t know, probably never cared to actually read about.
so it’s up to you. i don’t claim to be some great thing. i’m not sarah, no daddy to call me his princess—my dad called me a selfish ungrateful brat, and it’s little wonder under his tutelage that I didn’t end up being your bitch, huh?
but i do know this. when you insult me, i can recall that 2 years ago you didn’t matter. your opinion was irrelevant.
and now where your opinion should matter, it doesn’t does it?
i mean, is it good to know that you think I’m a bitch?
the cruelest thing i think of all, is for a moment, i actually felt appreciated by you. you were the first person who ever actually knew enough of my life experience to know what it meant to be appreciated for my intelligence. usually my intelligence is used as something to punish me with. and this time was no different. your appreciation last mere moments it seemed.
since i’ve been married to you, i’ve gone from thinking that i could be one of the members of the bride of christ — one of the 144,000 — to realizing that I have an uncomfortable conversation to now have with my God.
What exactly does he want me to do with you? How does this burden become a joy?
for now, i’m going to do my best not to think longingly of men who are vulnerable and men who cry.
strange world i live in now. these vaguely disengaged day dreams.
can’t hope for a friend when her only purpose it to be female so i can have her as a friend and so that i can escape you.
i just hope you wake up my friend.
angela marié niblick-baxley glass ? human experience design