A ranty, funny, dead-serious intersectional feminist blog.

Posts tagged “fuck love

Drinking Poison

poison_bottle-1A friend once said to me that holding a grudge is like drinking poison and expecting the other guy to die. But who among us can experience injury at the hands of another (or two others) and not feel resentment, anger, spite, even hate if the injury runs deep enough?

Out there somewhere is a woman (a sex addict, I assume, like my ex-boyfriend) who believes that she is entitled to joy and happiness at the expense of another person. I have been her. I am not proud to admit it, but I was her seven years ago when my ex decided he loved me and left his wife for me. As I have explained previously, he was miserable in the relationship, but now I’m certain he told his current addiction the same stories about me that he told me about his ex wife. He “loves” me, but he doesn’t “belong” with me because he doesn’t have the “passion” with me that he does with her.

Now, you and I, reader, understand that he’s got a problem with grown-up relationships. He wants to have GREAT SEX all the time without having to work at it. He wants his woman to scream in ecstasy at his every move because if he’s not the World’s Greatest Lover, then sex is not satisfying to him. And if he can go out and find someone new every time the passion wanes, then why on earth should he make any effort in a relationship? Why should he work with someone who has been raped and abused and figure out how to help her feel the things she wants/needs/ought to during sex when he can go out and find someone who fulfills all his fantasies RIGHT NOW without ANY EFFORT on his part? When you put it like that, it seems so simple, doesn’t it?

And as much as the rational part of me understands that to dwell on them rather than myself–to expend any energy at all on this fucking rerun of the worst syndicated cliché the world has ever dreamed up–is to keep myself from healing, to poison myself, to kill myself, there is a part of me that can’t stop doing it. Can’t stop hating him for loving me so little. Can’t stop hating her for believing she’s entitled to joy and ecstasy and this sick thing the two of them are calling LOVE at the expense of anyone and everyone who might get in her way. Can’t stop hating myself for being just like her, and for being me–the person he left for her.

Fuck him. Fuck her. And Fuck all this hate.

Until tomorrow,

Rosie


Unexpected Bullshit

*Trigger warning for discussion of rape.*

Dear Readers,

My life just took a turn for the surreal when I discovered that my partner of 7 years sought sex from a stranger and carried on a relationship with that person for months, creating a bond with her and ensuring that ours would be broken, probably irreparably.

“Probably?” You cry. “But Rosie! He did a terrible thing to you. Why the HELL would you take him back? You’re a FEMINIST after all! Show some self-respect!”

I hear you, readers, but life just isn’t as simple as it ought to be. I may not take him back. He may not want to come back. The whole problem seems to be that he lost interest in having sex with me, but instead of telling me, he took care of it himself. And apparently felt no compunction in doing so. (Now, of course, he’s tortured over what he’s done to me. Go figure.)

It has been four days since he left and I have not left my couch. I am, as I’m sure you can imagine, a basket case. Some days I cry nonstop. Others I just ache. In between I seethe at the injustice of it all. I’m also reading books and articles on how to deal with  deceit and unfaithfulness in a relationship. In one book, the author quoted a woman as saying to her husband the following:

“I was raped when I was 15. This is worse. The rapist was a stranger; you were supposed to be my best friend.”

I’ve been turning this over and over in my head. As many of you know, I have experienced actual rape, and it is a horrific thing that does not bear comparing to many others. I told my partner that it isn’t true. But I get why she said it. This feels like a very real violation of my person, and the physical and emotional agony are nearly unbearable. There will be lasting damage. I will have to learn to trust again—if not my partner, then others in the world. I question everything about myself, my life, what I thought was real and true. I don’t know that this is worse than the effects of rape, but it’s right up there.

When my partner confessed his infidelity to me, I confessed something, too. Something I hadn’t told anyone–a thing that happened to me three or so years ago that someone else did to me, something I didn’t write about in my article about my abuse because I hadn’t told him and couldn’t tell him because I was ashamed and afraid to hurt him. Enraged, I described the incident in detail and the agony I had endured keeping it from him. I wanted him to understand how his lies had hurt me. And he does—at least to a degree. I’m not sure he can ever fully comprehend my pain.

People who cheat rationalize that they aren’t hurting anyone. But they’re hurting at least three people. And while people do recover from things like this, I think it’s safe to say that the damage can’t be completely undone. I don’t know that I’ll ever trust another person the way I trusted him. I don’t know what lies ahead. I just know I have a lot of healing to do, and that may mean less blogging as I focus on myself. On the other hand, it might mean more.

Meanwhile, I have several guest pieces coming up, including another from my good friend Sid.

With love,

Rosie

PS: I wrote this post on Day 4. It is now Day 6, and I have packed his shit and told him to leave me alone. I’ll write more about that when I can. I can safely tell you, though, that he has hurt me more than any single person in my life. Including my rapists.


Update (12/18/14): It has been two years today and my ex has married the woman he found on a sex chat site. I’m sure they both got what they deserved, or will. I am still struggling up out of a well of depression. I have been trying different combinations of medications for a year after going off my meds and into a very dark place for a couple of months. I have come to term what my ex did to me as abuse, and have unsurprisingly encountered resistance to that term. I have written a lot about this concept, what happened to me, and what I have gone through in the past couple of years attempting to recover from it under the betrayal tag if you want to catch up. You can also read “An Open Letter to B” for a snapshot of the damage. I know that I am getting better—that I will get better. And writing about it is one of the ways I’m doing that. Thanks for reading.