So it’s perfect. It’s all so perfect now. My hair – perfect. Not too much makeup. Body looks great. Took me long enough. Damn baby-weight.
I’m experimental these days. I like hanging out with him. Makes me feel good. Nothing feels good anymore. But he does. Yeah, he sure does…
I use the kitty-condo to mount my fancy Polaroid Spectra. I’m doing it. I am actually doing this.
I am taking off all my clothes. I’m sitting up on the edge of the bed. Waiting for the camera-timer countdown. Waiting to see my first ever self-portrait. Knees bent up; arms wrapped around my legs; head tilted slightly forward and to one side, so my curls fall enticingly in front of my left eye. The way I like it… hiding behind but not.
*CLICK!* *FLASH!* Done.
And I wait. Wait for the ghostly image of someone new to solidify; to become the actual color of flesh that wipes out the milky, grayish white-out color that hides the developer inside; to feel pride I’ve hardly ever felt before. Been a long time since I was proud of this body – when you’re in your twenties 5 years of “chunky but funky” is a long-ass time.
Wow. Great photo.
So I hid it away. Tucked it safe in an envelope inside the book inside the bag I take to work every day. I don’t want my kid to find it even though it’s not exactly showing anything. It only hints. It hints at a sexy I’d not felt for a long time. It hints… at certain other things.
I especially don’t want my husband to find it.
My good friend tells me he’s doing watercolor portraits now. Wants to start doing nudes. So one night I hand him my Polaroid to see if he can use it for anything; but mostly to show off. A small compliment would be great to hear and he is my inner-circle. Totally cool. And I get what I want; and more…
And then I don’t.
I come home from work. The Husband and I are hardly talking anymore. He spends a lot of nights at “his mother’s”; which is basically code for his bitch’s house. Fuck him.
I find one of his notorious envelopes on my table. FUCK him. He still has the key to the apartment on Bath Avenue. Motherfucker. The envelope’s got writing all the FUCK over it…
“DID YOU RUB YOUR TWAT WITH IT BEFORE YOU SHOWED IT TO HIM!!?? DID YOU FUCK YOURSELF WITH IT!?? FUCKING
WHORECUNT!!!”
I’m shaking. Furious. And the envelope contents feel totally wrong. What the hell was inside that thing? Crazy motherfucker.
I carefully tear it open. Trepidatious, I peer inside. My brain cannot even process what I’m looking at here. What the ever-loving HELL is wrong with him? The entirety of my nude Polaroid photo has been meticulously snipped with a scissor into, quite literally, a thousand almost microscopic little pieces. I could have snorted that fucking shit; or saved it to pour into his fucking ear while he slept on nights when he had no choice but to come home.
That photo was my pride for a little while; something I coveted. I would often stare at it to get that renewed feeling of “hell yeah!” whenever the status of things at home got me down. And that was a LOT.
Now it was all completely beyond repair. Gone. Destroyed. I would’ve needed a microscope and a pair of needle tip tweezers (AND a forensic GENIUS) to put all those miniscule pieces back together again.
Fucking slut. WHORE. Bitch. Raging CUNT. Fucking liar… Horrible mother. Junkie.
Right. I’m a “ junkie” and a “horrible mom” because my son saw me smoking a joint with friends while he played with friends’ kids in friends’ house.
SlutWHOREbitchCUNT for entirely different reasons… One perceived reason. Named Bobby.
Was I horrible? Intermittent tennis bout between horrible and “Fuck that”. He’s spending weekends at his bitch’s house but I’m the slut for taking a nothing-showing nude photo of myself? For taking care of myself?
Fuck that – he cannot rip me down by cutting a photo apart. It may have been more than a photo but it’s just a photo. Just a fucking photo that I miss…to this day.
Even if taking it in the first place and showing it to my friend did rip him to shreds …
He’ll always be that fucking psycho who taped nasty notes to the bathroom mirror. Put even more notes in our son’s school knapsack because he thought the kid wouldn’t read them. Fucking lunatic who spent a good amount of time snooping through my shit and then cutting MY SHIT into teeny, tiny pieces.
But fuck that. And HIM.
Horrible? Me?
Nah, fuck that.
May 18th, 2015 at 17:46
This isn’t the current one is it? If so – CHANGE YOUR LOCKS!
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May 18th, 2015 at 17:51
Hell no. That one’s been gone since 97. Officially divorced in 98. I smartened up by the time I met the “Weird One”. 🙂
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May 18th, 2015 at 18:19
The one that loves your toes – right?
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May 18th, 2015 at 18:25
Yes ma’am 😀
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May 22nd, 2015 at 10:17
It’s amazing what double standards some people can have, isn’t it? The way I see it, you do what you can to remind yourself that – fuck it – you DO have worth. 🙂
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May 22nd, 2015 at 10:29
It took a while for me to get it, but most definitely after marriage #1. At least I am not the one who is fat and bald and living under some rich “Gorgeous Gal’s” thumb (from the Woody Woodpecker cartoon – yes, she is ALL that, “honey-lamb”!).
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May 29th, 2015 at 12:32
stuff like that makes me so angry….kudos for you for seeing through the lies and dysfunction and taking back your bad-ass beautiful self in every little way – every tiny little broken piece until you were once again whole, unique and essentially “you” – well done lady…well done
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May 29th, 2015 at 13:27
Aw, sweetie – no need to be angry on my behalf. This person is a miserable soul who is now basking in the result of his own bad karma. My mother’s words are so true – “What goes around, comes around” *(and then some!). 😀
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June 3rd, 2015 at 08:57
Damn. Atta girl for not buying into that shit, for standing up for yourself and owning your strength and self esteem.
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June 3rd, 2015 at 10:51
Takes practice. 😉
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June 15th, 2015 at 21:20
Wow. Lorien that is awful and abusive. I am glad he is a thing of the past and only good for blog fodder.
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June 15th, 2015 at 22:16
Truth is I spent lots of time calling him “stupid”; mainly as a point of fact. At this point in time he was his most hypocritical so this piece is an ode to a good friend who helped me find my strength during a tough time and beyond. 🙂
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