those eight years i want back
It isn’t that he systematically destroyed me.
It isn’t that all that time was spent decaying rather than progressing.
I was hungry and fat at once.
I’m so frustrated today because I caved in to his coercion, time and again.
He got his daddy to bail him out when he couldn’t bleed my mother for loans. Pressured, I pursued an exchange so he could catch up on the rent. Except he bought a car. Another car. Because he had ruined my credit so beyond with something approaching 10 repossessed cars (several at second-chance places), written off credit cards and bills and loans, he leaned on the credit of the other girl. (“See, I don’t need you, 8th Letter, I have her.“) He isn’t a legal resident of this country, piggybacking in and then lying to me about his marital state the moment he realized if he wasn’t married to an american he’d probably get tossed.
I should divorce him.
I should change my name.
I should file bankruptcy.
I can’t figure out what first. I need a car that won’t fall apart in three more round trips to/from work. One without flagging electricals and without rusted brakes. I can’t get one.
I wouldn’t be in this place without his efforts. I wouldn’t be as fucked up as I am right now without all the bullshit he said would be fine, would work out. The 50 jobs he quit/got fired from. The endless lies he broadcast.
And all of you say this –
And I did.
And I hate myself so tangibly right now.
At least you fucking assholes have the pleasure of being right. I consented.