Wednesday, May 25, 2011

In Which I'm Disgusted with Myself

Last night Roi wanted to spend some time together before he left. I wasn't very into it feeling a little raw about his trip, but I obliged. Perhaps I should not have, but I wasn't looking to punish him either. I couldn't really sort out my feelings.

We were laying on the bed talking, or rather, he was talking trying to be nice and say nice things. Things I don't particularly trust and I was just trying to breathe. I was staring at the top shelf of our built-ins and my eyes settled on a black binder which I assumed was my collection of photos I developed in college. I felt like looking at them so I pulled the binder down. Only it wasn't those photos, it was a collection of writing I did in the two years following my divorce.

I opened to a page that started, "why can't I get over D?"; my stomach lurched. I took the binder downstairs to read it. I turned page after page after page of me complaining, whining, and pining over my failed marriage, my abusive ex, and the two men I fell for in the aftermath. And suddenly I'm seeing myself in a new light.

How long have I been letting my life be defined by who I'm in relationship with or not in relationship with? How much have I given up of myself? Who am I?


  1. I guess I would suggest that you be gentle with yourself. Being disgusted is not what WWRWW would do.

  2. Lol. True, but at the same time, one has to view the killing room of the inner predator too, and see what is.