We just had an argument whether my shopping list told him to get condensed or evaporated milk for my xmas fudge.
Fucking 40, man. Over it.
The argument got heated, as they always did. I vividly remember that one in particular because I knew for a fact that it was evaporated milk on the list. I had been making Grandma’s Christmas fudge recipe for 20-plus years.
But my points were always moot, as I was always wrong. There was that one time he reprimanded me, in front of my sister, when I asked how much he had to drink that day so far. He stormed off to bed, calling me a psycho — claiming he didn’t have a drop. As he dramatically left the room, a receipt serendipitously floated behind him, fluttering to the floor like a dead leaf. My sister picked it up as I tried to conceal an onslaught of tears. The receipt was from the liquor store dated that day. I still defended him to my sister. The next morning, I got a mild apology — but only because he got caught.
I’ve recently been reading my diary notes I kept from before I left him. It’s been infuriating yet somewhat soothing. It’s maddening and embarrassing to remember all the shit I had to put up with for so goddamn long. But it’s also soothing to be on the other side of it. I’m free.
I feel guilty talking about my divorce. I never intend to drag anybody’s name in dirt. But at the same time, I’ve been having a really hard time writing this sex/relationship column when my own feelings of fear and anxiety have been consuming me for years. My facade of playing happy in a miserable relationship.
After talking to dozens of women over the years who have gone through varying degrees of similar situations, I feel like my story has massive heft. I feel I could help others wade through tough times — or empower them to get the fuck out.
But not right now. I’m still scared.
Meanwhile, this is a diminutive glimpse into hundreds of entries I’ve kept over the years — and still keep producing. Because it’s never over. Never. No matter how hard I can try.
I can only be the kind human I am and always have been and hope that will sate situations for now.
I’m confusing asthma with panic. And panic with him. I can’t relax when he’s here. I try. I’ll keep trying until my lungs burn. Then I’ll eventually have to give up because I’m not an endurance athlete.
I’m never going to win. So I’ll just lay here and get fucked when I don’t want to. Figuratively. Like when we have sex.
My friends say he’s drowning Christy. I think I finally believe it.
I’m done. I want a divorce. He told me his dad was sick, and that’s why he was drunk. Then he said he was lying about his dad, he was just drunk. He’s sleeping in the car on the driveway and I don’t give a tiny fuck. Good riddance, you narcissistic cock. Go marry your ego and be happy.
I left him. I’m terrified of the future. But it’s not with him, so it’s already better.
Read more Fantz: coloradodaily.com/columnists. Stalk her: twitter.com/fantzypants