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Archive for the ‘angry’ Category

Betray

I lay in the damp dark, listening to him piss in the sink of the filthy bathroom. He didn’t run the water afterward, just pulled the chain on the single bulb and walked back to the bed where I lay, waiting.

 

It was raining and the window was open, second story, rotted windowsill, bed centered tight against it. He lay beside me, naked, his skin frosted by the light from the streetlamp. His skin was fine and soft, like his body, his face looking unfinished now and falsely kind in the half-dark. I moved to rise on one elbow and he pushed me back onto the rain-spotted mattress, hard, and mashed his mouth onto mine, one hand crushing my shoulder, working my mouth open, sucking my tongue hard, too hard, and throwing a thigh across mine. I did not resist, did not hesitate. I kissed back, if it was kissing, his mouth that tasted like cigarettes and like beer, but most of all, like mine.  I breathed his breath, locked my fingers in his thick hair, groaned deep in my throat as he scraped his teeth against my lips and sucked at my throat. And I waited to feel . . . something.

 

He had been my constant companion for nearly a year now, in spite of my husband, in spite of my children. He was funny and entertaining, but he was mainly bad, and everything my life was not. He was my dark side, and I was going to change him, or be owned by him, or something in between. He saw me where I had become invisible to my husband, my children, my other-life friends. I was going to have this life and my other, make a fool of the good man who loved me, all because I could not, would not walk away from him.

 

Pulling me now, onto my side against him, unhooking the bra over my full, soft breasts, tearing it away, and mouthing them roughly, squeezing them painfully in his hands, pulling at my nipples, biting them where they pressed between his fingers, nearly drawing blood. Now, I thought, surely now it will come – the grinding heat and throb I had labored over night after night, squeezing my thighs together as I stiffened and came, thinking of this man, this stained mattress, this soft brutality. Surely, now.

 

Unkempt nails scratched my skin where he dragged my panties down my hips, past my knees, and I moaned again, and writhed, as expected. He hooked his elbows beneath my knees and forced my thighs apart, spreading me. He must have expected me to be wet, but he said nothing, just began to lick me, long, slow strokes, his tongue flat and warm and slick, then worked his mouth faster against me. I lifted my hips toward him, made the sounds I should make, but there was nothing. Nothing! I wanted to push him away, grab my rain-damp, scattered clothes, fly down the worn, slanting stairs to the street and run until I couldn’t anymore.

 

But what I wanted more was to hit him in the face with my fists, not once or twice but until the skin on my knuckles split and his face ran red and unrecognizable with blood.

 

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I had a bad day yesterday. In the waiting room at the dentist’s office, before my root canal (any sentence beginning that way tends to make me shudder), I took a phone call from the woman I work for. I work in tourism, and to cut to the chase, something I had neglected to do left six tourists standing in front of their hotel waiting for a tour van that was never coming, a driver/guide out $115, and cost my employer $360. She was not pleased. She didn’t yell at me, though; after we ascertained that I did, indeed, not make the call I should have made, she just said my name in the most disgusted way possible, then hung up. I was in tears. Had she yelled at me, I could have yelled back, but the way she did it left me nowhere to go. All during the root canal, tears would slip out of my eyes and down the sides of my face, and the dentist kept asking if I were alright. I tried to tell her it had nothing to do with the root canal, but probably didn’t communicate that well with four hands and a couple of metal instruments in my mouth.

I was needed at the office after my dental procedure, and was dreading calling her. I have seen how she handles people when she’s angry, and expected her to be abusive, and I knew I would not take that from her. So I was upset about having to quit a job I quite like, generally. I am always pleasant to her, no matter what my real feelings are, because I have known from the first few days of my employment that if she and I ever argued, and she spoke to me the way I hear her speak to others, I’d have to quit. And I didn’t think she knew this about me, but I think I was wrong. When I called after my appointment, she quickly went over how the morning had been, and then dropped the subject of the morning tour-that-wasn’t. Before I hung up, I said, “Thanks for not being really pissed-off at me.” To which she replied, “I am, I just know better than to say it to you.” And that was it. I sat there with my cell phone in my hand, half-smiling – she apparently knows me better than I think she does.

My experience yesterday morning also had me thinking about something else. My youngest daughter, H, is always in trouble with me, and with my husband. She is forgetful, willful, she doesn’t pick up after herself, is willing to perform no chore, including picking up her own room. She refuses to do homework, taunts her sister into unholy rages, and on and on and on. And we yell at her a lot. But I also use that tone with her, call her name in that disappointed, disgusted tone. And I remember thinking of her after talking to I on the phone, and thinking, oh, this is what H feels.

So I talked to her about it last night. I was exhausted, and after coming home and having dinner, I went up to bed. She came in for a snuggle, and I told her about my day, and how I wondered if that was what it felt like to her when dad and I treated her that way. She nodded yes. She said, “Everybody gets so mad at me, and I keep thinking somebody will feel sorry for me, but nobody ever does.” We talked about things we could all do differently, to keep her from feeling that way. Ideas included having her do what she was asked when she was asked, and ways we could let her know we were displeased without making her feel like she’d failed us as a human being. Getting homework done, doing a few things around the house, picking up after yourself – these things are not worth losing your sense of self-worth over.

Yesterday had its moments of grace, too. The dentist, who knew I was extremely frightened of having dental work done, was extremely gentle and supportive. My root canal was virtually painless. I had to work all day with my boss, and in spite of the morning, she was upbeat and positive the rest of the day. When I dashed home before going to pick the girls up from school (and then going back to work), I wanted to throw some red beans in the crock pot, expecting to have to wash it, and my middle daughter had already washed it and had it ready to use. For some reason, this specific small act of kindness touched me deeply. Picking up the girls, one went missing – H was supposed to meet me at a certain place, and she wasn’t there, nor was she anywhere near there. I drove around looking for her for as long as I could, then called my husband, who was calm and pleasant when offering to let me get back to work (already a little late) and him leave work early to drive uptown and look for her. No drama, just kindness (she was fine, just goofing around with her friends). S had made the final seasoning adjustments to the red beans, and made rice, and all had eaten when I arrived home, so no last-minute dash to feed my starving horde. I was able to eat, spend some time talking to everyone about their day, and go to bed. Seen that way, it wasn’t a bad day at all.

I need to work on being grateful for what I have, and less self-obsessed over every little thing that doesn’t go my way. Today is beautiful, still very warm, and I’m going to go out to my lovely pool and swim with the dog, one of my favorite things to do. This life is very good.

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Hate and ennui.

There is a large amount of time I spend every day incapacitated by an overwhelming sense of ennui. I’m not happy, I don’t like the way things are, and I am too weary to take action. This is not a good thing.

 At any given moment during my waking hours, I “should” be doing at least a dozen things. Cleaning the house. Doing laundry. Exercising. Preparing dinner. Walking the dog. Painting something. Writing. Taking medication. Checking my blood sugar. Washing the car. Going to work. Taking a shower. Paying bills. Making one of fifty doctor/optometrist/dentist appointments. Helping with homework. If I had the drive to do so, I could probably come up with another ten or so. The problem is, what I want to do is cruise around on the internet, sleep, and maybe break the two up with a sandwich and a glass of iced tea. That’s about it. This has been going on for a long time.

I wonder if my weight has anything to do with it – this is an awfully big body, and using it even to do housework is exhausting. I wonder if it’s depression, since my mother and sister are clinically depressed, but my experience has been that when I’m on anti-depressants, I want to do even less – I just don’t care that I don’t want to do anything. It’s a quandary, for sure. I’m writing this, however, and that’s something.

I was thinking yesterday about what a hateful person I am. It’s true – there’s no debate, not in here, anyway. I carry a lot of anger and hate. I was wondering if it would be prudent to see a therapist of some kind, and see if I could work through some of it, maybe let it go, see how life feels without it. But a therapist really just mirrors what I put out there; they ask questions to force (enable?) me to come up with my own answers. And can’t I do that by myself? Yes, you may say, but how will you know what questions to ask? Well, I don’t know that, but it couldn’t hurt to give it a try, could it? Hmmmm.

I think the first thing, the basic thing I’m angry about is how I was treated as a kid because of my weight. It’s a common  belief that children are cruel.  I’m here to tell you that it’s not just children – people are cruel. Children are just more honest about it. I am angry that kids were allowed to call me names, throw rocks at me, shun me. Not that an adult could have fixed it, I suppose I’m just pissed off that it happened. And comments adults would make were wrong, too. I’m angry that my mother made me eat crap food to try to get me to lose weight. And at the same time, I’m furious that she didn’t make a better effort at it, and maybe helped me avoid this entire, fat life! As usual, my mother can’t win.

I’m enraged that my mother wasn’t personally interested in me as a child. And, for that matter, still isn’t. She just doesn’t like too much information. I’m resentful that she allowed Rod to treat me the way he did, writing those messages (‘Tubs of lard don’t eat this.’ ‘Fatsos shouldn’t eat this.’) on the food in the refrigerator, locking the front door and pantomiming to me from the window that if I’ll run around the block a few times, he’ll let me in. I’m mad that David, the renter, was allowed to call me names and swear at me, as a child. He’s a photographer, THE photographer in the Valley now; I wonder if he remembers me? I should write him and tell him what a fuck he was. Would it make me feel better? I am not sure.

I’m pissed that my dad left us, and more pissed that he raised other people’s children rather than me. Angry that he’s dead and I’ll never get to ask him what that was about, and why he didn’t want me or my sister. Angry that he’s dead, period, for that matter. I’m irate at myself for marrying a man whom I loved, but was not in love with. He knew this, and talked me into it – said that what we had was too good to throw away for something that, in his experience, didn’t last anyway. I think I’ve felt cheated all these years, though, for not getting to have that. I’m upset that my first child’s father doesn’t want anything to do with her. I’m angry with various men, throughout the years, who have, in my eyes, failed me.

I’m furious that my various career endeavors have ended in failure, or, more exactly, that they have each endured a slow death, poisoned by the faintness of my own heart. I am a very angry, hateful person. There are people I hate, too, and seem to enjoy the hating. Kimberly Kinder, in kindergarten, who was the first, to my knowledge, in my life to turn to a group of children, point at me and say, “She’s a fatso. You’re a big fatso!” and make everyone else point and laugh. Mrs. Faircloth, who, in third grade, called me a liar and slapped my face. Si Merriman, who chased me on my bicycle when I tried to ride into town to the library, and made me terrified of something unnamed that he might do if he caught me. My maternal grandmother, who never liked me, not from the beginning, and showed it continually. There are people from college whom I still actively dispise, people from every era of my life. In my current sphere of experience, I abhor people from my children’s school, people from places I have worked, and on and on. Why is this? Why can’t I just let things go? I know I harbor all of this hate inside me. Am I wearing it? Do I carry around an extra hundred and fifty pounds of hate? This sounds like it might be true to me, it feels like it could be true. How do you give up hate? I don’t think I need to learn to love or even like these people, rather just find a way to forgive, to let go. I guess I might need a professional, after all.

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