Way To Early In The Morning

Back to my old blogging ways. It's 2:42 in the morning and I am standing back on square one. Spiraling, spiraling. No doubt, STBX is cuddled up and smiling to himself, ever so proud of the multiple ways he's fucked over the three people he's made so miserable for years.

Yesterday afternoon was me, pacing around the house, taking a hot bath, going for a very wet run, and then taking a second hot bath. I asked my daughter if it made me crazy for taking two baths in one day and she said it only made me crazy if I continually washed my hands and kept muttering "the stains just won't come off..."

Who knows, that may just happen today.

And just seeing his "fuck you bitch" look yesterday has finally made me realize, after all these months, that he isn't just stupid and fucked up, he is truly enjoying the ability to hurt us as much as possible. Anything that makes him look like a victim falls right into his belief of his life story.

I remember stopping at certain times of our marriage and giving him the "Whhaaa?" look when he would go off on his belief that he was the wing nut of the universe and that "the government" was out to get him because he did something so bold as to place a half cooked comment on some news blog somewhere. Maybe that was just a ruse for comments that he left on kiddie porn blogs somewhere. Who knows.

Of course, his virulent political beliefs were always "my way or the highway", his way of coping with ANYTHING he didn't want to do was to simply sit there and refuse as any two year old would do (amazingly enough, after living with his father for a few months in Oklahoma, the similarities were uncanny), and the 'rules' that he would lay down for the kids were always for them but never for him. "Do as I say, not as I do" was always his child rearing philosophy.

So I am doing everything I shouldn't be doing right now. Losing sleep over this piece of shit, giving him a single ounce of my mental energy, and lovingly remembering how I, at times, would stand behind him as he sat on the computer and look at the spot on the back of his head where the hair was thinning.

That, I used to fantasize, was right where my cast iron skillet would go when I smashed it into his skull.

But I didn't go through with it because, once you've spilled the brains and skull all over the carpet, guess who's going to have to clean all that shit up...