Again, I sat waiting around for him to come home. I was tired from working all day and from walking around the city, but not as tired as he’d be after spending something like 16 hours carrying kegs and mixing drinks.
How had I ended up like this, again? Waiting on him like a fool, like his pet. As if I couldn’t leave the house. As if I had nothing better to do than stare the clock down all night, again.
I hated myself for my laziness, for my insecurity, for my overwhelming desire to have him near me at all times. There was no good side to it anymore. Either I was wrapped up in him when he was home, coddling him like a child and holding his head to my breasts,or I was paralyzed with missing him, touching myself to the thought of him and staring, catlike, out the window of our apartment.
I hadn’t been like this a year ago. I had been a wild lioness, a silent predator slinking through the day with my long hair hanging in the sun. I had been like a fish, sliding through the night with my speckled skin slick with sunscreen.
I longed for the late walks in the forest, where we never carried flashlights, but clung to each other in the darkness and the cold. I had felt so sad then, so stagnant. But he knew how to drag me out of my shadow and force me into life.
I had wished for a way to explain these feelings to my friends. He’s a bad influence, they told me, you’re using him and you know it. And I was using him. This was no secret, especially to him. Yet he came to me, again and again, a habit he couldn’t break.
Is it right to attribute his presence to my progress? Maybe it wasn’t about him at all. Maybe I was capable of these adventures by myself.
I feel like I’ve hit a wall. Nothing excites me anymore. Every day feels like a rerun of an old sitcom with a bad laugh track. I force myself to exercise. To eat right. To cook and clean and groom myself. To practice my singing, my drawing, my writing, and the practicing of my instruments.
But I feel stuck.
I don’t like anything I produce. I don’t like any of the thoughts or feelings I have. My body hurts everywhere all the time and I feel like it is terminal. Like this is the way it ends and there’s nothing I can do to change it.
I used to feel like he was supporting me. Now I feel like I’m using him as an excuse to not accomplish anything.That resentment is creeping in. Every time he works 2 shifts in one day – which is almost every single day – every time I have to do his laundry, wash his dishes, pick up his messes. I feel like I’m pouring all of myself into him and he’s just pouring his money into me.
I’m so frustrated I want to fucking scream. I want to hurt myself because I don’t have any room left in me for this pain. I am full. I am a bucket of dirty mop water that has been left in the back and ignored. I am rotting and cold but nobody has noticed that I’m dead yet.
Why doesn’t he love me?
The only time we see each other now is at night,when he comes home to sleep. He gets upset at me because I don’t want to fuck him. I don’t want to fuck him because I know I only get a couple hours with him each day,and I feel used when all he does is fuck me and fall asleep. He says he shows his affection through sex.
This is starting to upset me, again.
I hate feeling like this because I know I’m right. He’s been working hard so that we can have this stupid lifestyle that I don’t even want. I don’t care about any of it. He didn’t care about it either until a few months ago. It’s not fair for there to be sacrifices to be made at every fucking intersection of adult life.
How the fuck am I supposed to feel when the person I love, who says he wants to spend his life with me, doesn’t even spend entire hours with me?
I know this is irrational. I know I’m going down the rabbit hole I always go down when I’m lonely. I just feel so pathetic that all I want is to see him and all he wants is to stay away from me for as long as possible.
I hate giving everything I have just for him to come home and consume me.