How many times do I need to be called a f**king selfish b*tch before it doesn’t matter? To be honest the first several times hurt like hell…then the next many times, you become numb to the cruel words. Name calling is done when an individual doesn’t have the tools to provide a better argument. Does that make it hurt less? No. Does that make it mean so little? No. Abuse is abuse in any form. How many times does it take before it hurts again. Hurt, numbness, hurt…that’s the pattern. I can let it go and numb myself to the words, knowing it is his own insecurity that allows him to be mean, but once an awhile it cuts to my core. When things have been good, it hurts more…it matters more. So how many times do I have to hear it before I don’t care anymore? I wish I knew…time will tell!
I fell in love, did not know at the time, that he was a hater of all women. This man loves me, this man does not trust me. This man thinks my mind is terrific but believes I am manipulating at every turn. This man can appreciate my female body but thinks I am out to get him. I have married a women hater. He has spent his life being used, lied to, manipulated and abused by all women in his life. Walked all over, unappreciated and under recognized in all aspects, by the women who mean most to him…his sister, his mother, his grandmother. Now as the wife of this man, I am paying for the debt of many others. I could not be more trustworthy, more honest, more truthful in my intentions, my thoughts or my actions but it all falls short in comparison to what he believes, what he needs, what he has created with his hate for women. He loves me but overall he is a women hater…
Ignorance is bless but knowledge is power. Unfortunately I am not ignorant, yet very knowledgeable. How do I achieve bliss, how do I release some power. With power comes responsibility, with ignorance comes regret. As much as I would love to be ignorant, my past has given me too much power, too much knowledge. Trust comes from where, the ignorance of what could, would, or did happen. Or does trust come from the knowledge that you can trust honestly even with the knowledge of the past. I choose knowledge over ignorance. Trust through knowledge not through ignorance.
Some people think the generational difference in my marriage may be a challenge. While other’s might think that race may be a factor in my marriage. Or some may believe our economic family backgrounds could be an obstacle in my marriage. But none of these issues are hard for me, or even a thought for me or my husband. I have fun when he tells me I have stuff in common with his mother, since I am older than him, I laugh, I don’t take offense. I don’t even think of being in an interracial marriage, I truly don’t see the color, never have and never will. Having my husband come from a background where poverty, abuse and life struggles are commonplace versus my middle class upbringing, offers us a different point of view of each and of live in general. But when I am married to a man who is broken, who is deep down insecure, who doesn’t know how to overcome life obstacles because of his insufficient emotional development.
I have stayed through cheating, lying, drinking, and verbal abuse, not because I am weak but because I am strong. I am stronger than he is, I have a healthy emotional foundation that does not shake easily. My biggest fault may be that I am unconditionally loyal. My strength within is something I have had to pull on in order to be there for a man that is not strong, he is broken.
For those who love a broken person, you will understand. From the outside, we look weak, we look like we are being walked over or taken advantage of but on the inside, I know this man holds onto me for salvation. He has messed up, he has hurt me, he has lost my trust. I still continue to be his light, his strength, his saving grace. This is loving a broken man.
Not having any more than two sexual partners in my entire life, I may be old-fashioned. I have only slept with my first husband and then my second husband. Because of this, I can’t begin to fathom the intimate act of infidelity. I have only slept with someone I loved. I did not wait on marriage for sex but I did wait on love. Is this a rare occasion? Am I to take sex lightly simply because the man I love slept with another woman? How do I tell my heart that it meant nothing to him? How do I tell my mind that it’s more normal than not. The connection through the intimacy is something to be cherished and nurtured. I have been intimate with my husband after his affair but it took many years to not cry after, alone in the bathroom, wondering how and why he would connect with another on that level. Now I no longer cry but I hold back my heart. It hurts to do both. I only exchanged one vice for another.
How do you respect a liar? Is he a liar or is he a man that lies? I used to think there was a difference…used to think it mattered if there was a difference. What do you look at, the intent of the lie, the degree of the lie, the longevity of the lie? And does it really matter? Is a white lie better? Isn’t a lie a lie?
As a person who does not make a habit of lying, I find myself unable to respect a liar. I don’t consider myself pious, but actually don’t have reasons to lie. A lie is a weakness in my opinion, an immature defense mechanism that adults use to mask their own weaknesses. I struggle with respecting the liar, I struggle with loving the liar. I struggle with forgiving the liar. Unfortunately the liar comes in the form of my husband.
I have been here before…many years ago. A marriage quietly slipping away, a desperate plea, an extended hand. I felt myself needing the confirmation, the affirmation, the love in order to let me know that I am not the only one fighting for us, for this marriage, for me. I knew I was reaching, knew I was asking, knew I was needing…clues were ignored, requests not responded to, my hand not grabbed. I need you to say something, I need you to do something, I need you to push me back off the ledge of leaving. Walking the fine line between leaving or not can be swayed easily by the grab of a hand. Grab my hand…tell me I am worth it, show me I am needed. Grab my hand….please
Don’t let me walk away. I know the path all too well. The last man didn’t recognize the pleas, ignored the clues, disregarded the requests. Please grab the hand that he did not. Don’t let this end us, don’t let me walk away. Please grab my hand…
We were told to meet at the jail for our marriage “ceremony” because after 7pm, they send the proposed couples to the jail rather than the courthouse. It was a story to tell…getting married at the jail, having my first husband’s new wife and sister as our witnesses and then running through the Taco Bell drive through to celebrate. It was to say the least unconventional. We talked about having a beautiful wedding within the year, talked about taking a short honeymoon and celebrating together. We talked about it…
Three months later…pregnant. Talk stayed as talk. We did not plan a wedding while I was pregnant, we did not take a honeymoon during the pregnancy or postpartum stage, we celebrated by having a baby.
I love love love kids! I started my family with four…then I had a stepson. This was not something I sign on for right off the bat. When I met my husband, he did not have kids, only I did. Then after a year of infidelity, I suddenly had a stepson. With bumps and bruises along the way, my new marriage had some hurdles, but they all seemed manageable. Staying through the infidelity, the new stepson and now court battle, tested my strength as a woman, as a mother, as a wife. I made it through, what I considered, the hard part, the birth. Watching my husband have a son, born to the woman he cheated on me with was hard. No other word but hard. Now came the work. Loving my husband every time he loved, cuddled, nurtured his newborn son. This was difficult, to say the least. I had envisioned this time with him, watching him with his first born (thinking it would be with me), letting it fill my heart. Now there are so many mixed emotions. I decided to stay, this was now my challenge to get through emotionally. This was hard.
I can name all the number of times my closest friends or even family members have seen me cry…including my first husband. This number can be counted literally on one hand. It’s not because I am afraid to cry or bottle up my emotions…I am just not a cryer. One of the few times I began to cry in front of my best friend, she simply looked at me and said, “What are you doing?”….as if it was completely foreign to her and to my behavior. My emotions are worn on my sleeve and crying isn’t a necessity…until I met my husband. In the past, my mother was truly the only one who really made me cry. Hurt prevailed and tears fell. My first husband was not a cruel man, he was tender and kind. Although we fought like any married couple, it was healthy fighting, no below the belt blows. Then I met my current husband. Never have I cried more in my life. I had to make the change to waterproof mascara simply because of him. It could be for any given reason on any given day that the tears came freely. He thinks of me as a crier, which is ironic. I am weaker because of him…time to find myself again and switch back to regular mascara!