Post #3
Yeah, this is the third post on the same subject. But you know what? I don't like hiding behing the pillar in my building's lobby, hiding from anyone driving by outside, while waiting for the elevator. I don't like having to sprint down the street to building entry, timing it right so that little fucker won't know what building I went in to.
It brings back memories.
I didn't like sleeping with my back pressed into the wall, so HE couldn't see me if he found out where I lived, and chose to peer in the window.
I didn't like ripping my newborn child out of her swing to cower in the bathroom (the only room without windows) when I heard a car that sounded like it might be his stopping in front of my house.
I don't like cowering. I don't like fear. I don't like knowing that there's someone out there who has the legal right to use my child to get revenge on me.
Here's the thing:
You're right; I never loved you. I didn't. We only dated for three months. The only reason I let you move in was because I was too fucking lazy to find a new roomate. You were stupid, but maleable. I was bored, and lazy. And so we met.
Sure, I did you wrong. I gave you the time of day, and I shouldn't have even done that. As to how far things went, and how fast? I can't take full blame for that. Three months, is, after all, three months.
No matter: My child is not your weapon. You may have done what you could to alieanate all my friends (as if you could), and may have stolen every possesion I had (as if they weren't replacable), but you do not have the option of using my child against me.
You don't have that choice. It's not yours. You denied her: you debated her relation to you. You said that no woman who was carrying your progeny would refuse to marry you.
Pick one. Either you were wrong, or she's not yours.
Legally, she isn't. She's mine. My daughter. I carried her. We sat in the parking lot together, baking in the heat. We ate cornflakes. We went to the hospital. Then she became she, and lazed her slow-assed way out of me, lungs sealed, heart trembling, yet still refusing to be rushed. She came, and screamed for six months straight, and hollered when I put her down to take a shower, and roared when I changed her diaper, and frothed when I changed my socks.
But you wanted to use her against me. Not as your daughter, but as a free grenade to throw. And you sat outside the window, and breathed into the other end of the phone, went to my parents house and scared their dog. And you went to court, and hoped that they'd feel as badly for you as you did for yourself.
You didn't even want anything out of it: you just wanted a public forum to call me a bitch.
Well, here it is:
I'M A BITCH
And to your alter-egos, that drive alongside me at night, and demand submission:
I'M A BITCH
Done. I've said it, twice. Is that good enough for you fuckers? Will you beleive me now? Because it's the truth. IT'S THE MOTHERFUCKING TRUTH.
I'M A BITCH
Now leave me the fuck alone.
It brings back memories.
I didn't like sleeping with my back pressed into the wall, so HE couldn't see me if he found out where I lived, and chose to peer in the window.
I didn't like ripping my newborn child out of her swing to cower in the bathroom (the only room without windows) when I heard a car that sounded like it might be his stopping in front of my house.
I don't like cowering. I don't like fear. I don't like knowing that there's someone out there who has the legal right to use my child to get revenge on me.
Here's the thing:
You're right; I never loved you. I didn't. We only dated for three months. The only reason I let you move in was because I was too fucking lazy to find a new roomate. You were stupid, but maleable. I was bored, and lazy. And so we met.
Sure, I did you wrong. I gave you the time of day, and I shouldn't have even done that. As to how far things went, and how fast? I can't take full blame for that. Three months, is, after all, three months.
No matter: My child is not your weapon. You may have done what you could to alieanate all my friends (as if you could), and may have stolen every possesion I had (as if they weren't replacable), but you do not have the option of using my child against me.
You don't have that choice. It's not yours. You denied her: you debated her relation to you. You said that no woman who was carrying your progeny would refuse to marry you.
Pick one. Either you were wrong, or she's not yours.
Legally, she isn't. She's mine. My daughter. I carried her. We sat in the parking lot together, baking in the heat. We ate cornflakes. We went to the hospital. Then she became she, and lazed her slow-assed way out of me, lungs sealed, heart trembling, yet still refusing to be rushed. She came, and screamed for six months straight, and hollered when I put her down to take a shower, and roared when I changed her diaper, and frothed when I changed my socks.
But you wanted to use her against me. Not as your daughter, but as a free grenade to throw. And you sat outside the window, and breathed into the other end of the phone, went to my parents house and scared their dog. And you went to court, and hoped that they'd feel as badly for you as you did for yourself.
You didn't even want anything out of it: you just wanted a public forum to call me a bitch.
Well, here it is:
I'M A BITCH
And to your alter-egos, that drive alongside me at night, and demand submission:
I'M A BITCH
Done. I've said it, twice. Is that good enough for you fuckers? Will you beleive me now? Because it's the truth. IT'S THE MOTHERFUCKING TRUTH.
I'M A BITCH
Now leave me the fuck alone.
posted by Impulsivecompulsive | 4:03 AM
7 Comments:
Shall I hurt someone for you? Would you prefer that they have broken knees or broken necks? One hurts more. The other tends to be more permanent. You, obviously, can take care of youself, but outsourcing hard-earned beatings is acceptable in todays global economy. Contact MattCo for more infomation.
Some guys have a delusional sense of entitlement. And an IQ under 10 to go with it.
Matt: I have no problems with passing off some necessary beatings to others. That's just efficient, and if there's anything that endless supply of economics classes taught me, it's that efficiency is king. So hell ya, I'm perfectly happy to become Mattco's biggest client.
(And oddly enough, there's a company called Mattco that sells steel toed boots. It's a sign, I say.)
Erica: Yup, and yup. Problem is, life doesn't come complete with scary music in the background, so it can be hard to label something as, "Freaky, fucked up shit," versus the more common, "Dude's a tool."
Hell, last night I was walking alone down a deserted, badly lit street, with a car slowly tailing me.
And yet it didn't even occur to me to get out my cell phone, let alone do the obvious and dial 9-1, just to be ready.
Hello? What the hell was I thinking? (Although I was within two blocks of home, and knew that there would be a fair sized crowd in the street in front of my building, plus the potential for up to a half-dozen police cars, depending on how "fun" the night at the strip club had been. So I'm only half stupid.)
True enough, but you can also say that the "Dude's a tool" label often goes hand in hand with the "Freaky fucked up shit" label. The two can at times be as unseparable(sp?) as a fly on shit.
But you're not alone with the half stupid shit. I've never thought to dial the first two numbers when it's happened to me.
After your three entries, all I can say is "Wow!"
Take care of yourself and your daughter. I'm thinking of you both...and of a world full of women who, as I learn more each day, live in fear...constant fear.
You might want to read a book called Lucky by Alice Sebold. It's an amazing memoir about rape, it's effects, and recovery.
Erica: Funny thing is, I was talking to Shadow about that, and as she pointed out, I did have the option of dialing all three numbers, given the situation.
Not to mention, I walked pretty much right by the police station.
What was I waiting for, them to jump out and throw me in the trunk of the car?!?
And yeah, I'll find that book.
NMN: I will take care of us, thanks. And "fear"...I hate that word (at least when it's because of pathetic little boys). I never really got over that teenaged feeling of being pretty sure I'm invincible, until it came to my daughter, and what could happen to her.
But I guess that enforced sense of mortality a good thing, really, because the people who don't beleive in their own mortality tend to be the ones who get themselves killed off early.
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