I’ll Never…

Beautiful retro woman with red lips holding cup of coffee. black

I have to somehow accept the fact that my life didn’t pan out the way that I expected it to.

I’ll never be able to go back to how I was before my health conditions took over and made me so fragile, mentally and physically.

I’ll never be able to go back in time and listen to my instincts before I married the asshat.

I’ll never be able to tackle problems and situations with a mostly calm, collected mind without becoming overwhelmed, like I used to do.

I’ll never be able to clean my entire house in one day. (Become one with the clutter and dust!)

I’ll never be able to fully trust another human ever again. (Besides my extremely ill mother.)

I’ll never wake up again and not feel like a dog turd. (Unless I’m hooked up to a morphine drip.)

I’ll never…

Knowing Him Now For Who He Really Is

I think the realization of why asshat went totally berserk with the abuse and cheating hit me hardest the day that I received the divorce papers.

One of the last things that he said to me was a clear indication and I’ll never forget the look on his face when he said it, almost regretful. (Not quite, just almost.)

“I missed the way you used to be.”

Ah ha! Before I got knocked over by a feather.

He missed healthy Merry. The woman who had her shit together, a mostly upbeat, energetic, humorous person, who could bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan. He wanted his old Merry back, the one who didn’t cry constantly or think about killing herself, the person who didn’t sleep during the day. The person who could walk long distances without needing someone to push her in a transport chair. The human who wasn’t always in pain, who didn’t stare into space with a brain full of fogginess and fear, who didn’t have constant panic attacks.

That was his excuse…and for someone as empty as him, that was all of the fuel that he required for doing so many despicable things, especially leaving me in the ER after my suicide attempt in the summer of 2015 so that he could go fuck his whore.

Imagine that, if you can. There you are, puking liquid charcoal into a garbage can all alone, wondering why your husband/wife decided that you weren’t worthy enough of their love and support during such a frightening and lonely time in your life.

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No hand to hold, nobody to wipe your tears away…

As if I had asked to become sick, having no other choice but to quit working and apply for disability at the age of 37.

He always fucking knew that I had depression and fibromyalgia. I told him everything about me when we first met in 2002, only a few months after I left my first abuser, my now 22-year-old daughters father. It wasn’t like I had tried to hide it from him. He knew the risks of being with me. I had been an open book, candid along with my signature humor that I’ve always strived to use in order to lighten up unpleasant circumstances.

My 2nd anniversary of Discovery Day is coming up on July 31st. I’ve come a long way since that soul-crushing day and I have no plans on ever wishing him well on the rest of his journey here on earth. It wouldn’t be Christian of me to wish him pestilence, however I do hope that he never gets a full nights rest ever again.

Although knowing him now for who he really is, I bet he eats his hot wings, then falls right to sleep like a baby who had just been fed his bottle and gently burped.

How nice it must be to have no morals, conscience or self-realization. I’m not perfect by a longshot, but at least I have those three things going for me.