August 5, Later: Last night was pitiful and divine. I read my journal from September 2000 when Liam was born up until we moved into this house. It was triggered by Marie and I talking about New Orleans, so I went back to research my 24-hours there and my rather brief affair with Randy the male nurse when I was separated from R. I had met Randy online playing one of those ridiculous roleplay games that R wanted me to get involved in, but then, basically moved out and dumped me. I was left playing alone until I met Randy.
Reading through those days sickens me. I was a loser. I was married to a loser, and I was dating a loser. The only flowers rising up out of that ugly evil bad world of darkness were my two beautiful sons.
After hours of reading through those pages, I realized I’m sick of men. Of trying to please them, of not being treated with dignity and respect. I’m not sure I will ever get over the trauma that R caused. No one should have to put up with that shit, ever. There is no where to turn for consolation from that sad life, and yet, here am. I am still standing.
But am I? The more I thought about it the more I realized there is no reason P should be shutting off emotionally to me, or withdrawing sex, or putting me through the mess of fighting for my right to not live in a world where I am constantly worried about drugs or lies or weirdness. I shouldn’t have to deal with any of that shit, anymore. I should be cared for for the rest of my life because I’ve already paid my fucking dues. It right there in black in white. Written by hand. My receipt of payment for a crappy life.
Dearest P, your love for me should be so obvious that it shoots like a beacon of light from the top of your fucking head. And I know there are women whose husbands need to be beaten off them because these men intensely crave sex with their beautiful wives. I know there are men like that in the world who exist. I know it.
I simply cannot believe that this is all I get.
No. I’m done. I will not chase a man ever again. I don’t even want to be bothered anymore. The same problem repeats itself until you learn, and what have I learned? I learned that I still fear that my new boyfriend is going to turn into C. And that’s not good. That means I haven’t learned all the lessons I was supposed to learn from C.
Repeat, repeat, repeat.
I seriously just want to shut myself off from reality. I feel desensitized, apathetic. Yes, here it is. I am finally apathetic. And, you know what? I think this is it—my breakthrough moment. All the obsessing about C and P and R and all those men is over. Please Lord, let it be over. Who the hell cares about them anymore? Any of them. That’s how I feel. I feel like just saying fuck it, who cares what the hell you do. You can all just jump in a lake.
I have my children! They are my world. I have my house! My beautiful wonderful house. I have the beach and the gym and school and my family and work. I don’t need any of this stress anymore. I don’t need or want to obsess and wonder anymore if P will marry me. If he’ll move in. If he loves me. What he thinks of me. Who fucking cares what he thinks. I suddenly don’t care anymore.
I don’t care. I don’t care. I honestly don’t care.
Through the apathy for these men there is an anger, very slight, but present, and it is directed at me. A place where I never thought to put it. How dare I put up with people who treat me like shit and ignore me. How dare I linger so long, wondering I am worthy of their love. I am! I am worthy. Is this narcissistic of me? Hell no. It’s call waking the fuck up.
I feel a release. A letting go. A detached feeling. No walls. No protecting myself. Simply apathy. I don’t want to distrust and worry and wonder why you are so emotionally unavailable, P. I’m sick of this shit. I want normal, healthy Tracy. I want peace. I don’t have the energy to fight for anything anymore. You don’t want to treat me well? That’s fine. Then, I shut you out of my brain. You don’t want to love me well? There’s nothing I can do about it. I’m done. Tonight, after I read all that horrible crap that happened to me in 2000, I wanted to share it with you, but I could sense you didn’t want to hear it. You are always so wrapped up in your own suffering and first-world problem. When do you ever ask me about me? When did R ever ask me how I was doing, or feeling? Never. He could care less. And same goes for C. People are so fucking wrapped up in their own lives. You can all go jump in a lake.