Seriously.
What makes this guy think that I want to help him?
In that line, what the hell made him go up to my father in the store to ask for my mother’s contact info to begin with???
HELLO~~
“Hey there, sorry about all those times I f***** your wife during your marriage and hey, I know she left you for me but bygones are bygones. By the way, I’ve wanted to reconnect with her, do you have her number?”
Shit.
My poor father is forgiven for giving the Creep my phone number, but I wish he’d just given him my mother’s number instead. Papa was pretty flabbergasted, to say the least, that this guy had the balls to even approach him. He totally forgot that he even had my mom’s number, since its only for emergencies.
And why the hell did the Creep think that my dad and mom are even in touch?
The Creep called me and told me he’s wanted to connect with mom for the past 40 years. I answered him via email saying only that I would pass on his contact info to my mother when I next spoke with her. Which of course, would be a few days because I had to work.
And the Creep writes back about how he always thinks about my mother on her birthday…and how he drives by the house she grew up in…and how he’s wanted to talk to her for 35 years…and how sad it is that my uncle is dead…
Well I wrote back and said my uncle was NOT dead and furthermore, I had met him as a teenager when my mother lived on Oxford Street, so it has NOT been 35 years, more like 25.
And again, I reiterated I would pass his info along to my mother.
Ok I thought that was it.
A couple hours later, another email, how great my uncle is still alive and funny story about Oxford street…his girlfriend at the time had a friend who rented out the place when my mom moved out.
Um yeah, funny. WhatEVER.
So then another email follows the next day. Oddly enough I get it at work just after telling my coworkers about the crazy stalker/Creep.
This email has a picture of what seems to be his living room. Fancy, spiral staircase, looks big airy and expensive. “This is the picture I will send her” he says. “I’ve wanted to track her down for over 5 years now.” Wow, he went from 40 years to 5 years in just three emails.
So of course I only replied “I am at work. I will give her your contact info when I next talk to her.” (The same thing I have said all along)
I did get ahold of my mom a couple days later and low and behold, Creep had managed to get her cell phone number anyway. No clue how he did it, but I do know its a little bit of work finding an unlisted number. So my mother is not answering her phone anymore.
That was a couple days ago, I figured good, now he is her problem. (after all, don’t you get back what you put out? She wanted him enough to cheat on my dad..well then, let her have him. Even if it is almost 30 years ago)
Then today…another email from Creep in my inbox. This one, though, is strange. Its a copy of my reply to the last one, the one with the picture.
So…trying to figure out the Creep’s way of thought.
Either he was reading it and hit reply on accident, or he is forwarding it to me as a means of reminding me that I have not given my mother his contact info. He very much wants her email address, he did ask for it in the emails as well. And I am very much not going to give it to him.
I sent copies of the emails to my mother.
Let her deal with him. He was so hot all those years ago when her kids might have benefitted from her actually being there….instead of at ‘church’ or ‘choir practice’ or hanging out at ‘gloria’s house’ or any of the other places she said she was when she was with him.
*
And what makes this just laughable, is that he wasn’t even the REALLY crazy of the exe’s. The one who had to lay naked in bed, with all the lights off to proclaim to me and me alone that he loves my mother…well, he is the real crazy one. Wonder how long until he shows up…..
And out of the blue I hear from you
Your words are cutting and sudden.
Without warning you are there and
Without warning you have spliced and sliced and
turned upside down
what started as a normal day.
Dammit, mother.
Why must you always take away my happiness?
Statistically speaking, I should be able to figure this out.
Statistically speaking, coefficient, sum of squares, linear equations should have a theorhetical probability of making sense to me.
Statistically speaking, I got my X axis knotted up on my Y axis and now my
data is a bivariate and I think it needs counseling.
Statistically speaking, I am supposed to be smart but
statistically speaking, I am dumber than a rock.
so here I can be who and what I want. There I am being edited and changed around.
“too repetetive” she said.
“You can’t start a sentence with the word ‘but’”
Ok fine but they are journal entries dearie, and you said you like my style.
Here I will be what and who I want.
I might be your best friend or your worst enemy.
I might be the meanest person you ever met,
or the most loving and caring person you can imagine.
I might be the saddest story you’ve ever read, or
the best lay you’ve ever acheived.
I can be whoever (whomever) I want
and I can change it with the click of the mouse.
God, I love that edit button.
And when I say it hurts you say wah wah wah
and when I say I need help you say its only going to get harder
and when I say I need my back rubbed you think it means you’re getting lucky
(and if you figure out you’re not, it a cursory pat on the shoulders and off you go)
and when I say I need you to help transport the kids you say you can’t
because its workout night
or lost is on
or wrestling is on
or you have a pay per view
or you have a softball game
or or or
*
I go to work I come home I do for the kids and even for you.
You go to work you come home and you do for yourself.
*
you tell me to go meet people, make friends.
I can’t even remember how to do that at this point.
and I can’t just take off and go, leave the kids to fend for themselves, as you find it so easy to do.
If you aren’t going to be home,
I won’t schedule anything because the responsibility is to the kids.
I don’t go out to dinner and movies leaving kids home to fend.
I don’t go out to pay per view leaving the kids home alone to near midnight.
I don’t go out to play softball.
I don’t use watching television as an excuse to come home early or not go anywhere at all.
*
Sigh
*
one minute I am soaring along on my tide of happy wishes and
rays of light and the next its like
a tidal wave these hormones…
controlling me and bringing me to my knees with
sharp pain and
inexplicable anger.
Don’t fucking talk to me when I feel like this because
I lose my ability to contain the truth.
Don’t you dare say anything that can even be slightly construed
as patronizing
or condescending because
I will jump down your throat before you even draw breath.
I sit and I stew and then get tangled up in
stupid girl-emotions and why
am I crying now, and why
was I so pissy then, and when
will this shit just
freaking
END.
For now the only cure
would be
Dove dark chocolate
and some really
hot
sex.
Oh well. Neither seem to be materializing
and I’m too pissed off anyway.
Maybe I’ll feel better tomorrow.
its strange, this lonliness…
it hits me like a wave on an otherwise sunny day.
Some chalk it up to hormones
but that’s the coward’s way out.
I run my life doing for others,
it is no surprise that I am left empty
by day’s end.
When I tell you I’ve been busy all day, I
get disdainful response.
When I tell you I am sad bored lonely confused,
I get a quizzical look and a change of subject.
Hell, when I talk about work, you change the subject–
in the middle of my sentence.
And yet there you go
kissing my neck when I am not looking.
Mixed messages reign supreme in my life and not just from you.
I need more than a kiss on the neck once a week
I need more than a bemused frown when I try to explain how I feel.
I need some connection, something a little more
I need
I need
I need….
My selfishness amazes even me, sometimes.
I can take it like a woman, babe.
Trust me.
I am strong and I am capable.
I can let your criticism roll off my back
and I can bypass your thinly-veiled
anger.
Hell
I can give it right back to you and better.
I can take it like a woman.
I can smile at you when you hurt me
I can swallow back tears with the best of them.
I can roam the internet, late at night,
searching for what you somehow can’t give me
or
don’t want to give.
I can fold your towels and wash your clothes
all with a determined, housewife air.
Inside though,
I am a woman and I am strong
I have thoughts, I have feelings.
I am smarter than you think–
smarter than I let on, most times.
So yeah, babe, I can take it like a woman.
I guess you’re the one who needs to worry now.
the leaves fall softly outside in the brisk breeze. I huddle in my blanket, stretched out on the sofa. I can see out the window from here; I can watch the browning grass as the last remaining birds attempt to find sustenance from the hard, dry earth.
I shiver and pull my blanket higher, resting my head on my pillow.
Moving my arms causes the pain to spike from wrist to shoulder and I try not to wince. Outward shows of pain are not encouraged here after all.
The pain in my shoulders radiates to my back and I wish wish wish for a comforting touch, a gentle massage or just a warm hand between my shoulderblades. Anything to take the white throb away for a while.
How I long to be up and out. How I wish I could just get up, go somewhere.
But the cold is in my muscles, bones, blood.
My legs are leaden, and hips creak when I try to move them.
And don’t you dare touch them, else I will cry out.
The front door opens, colder air blows in with the arrival of the young ones home from their day.
Breathing deep, I pull off the blanket and stand up.
Hiding, always hiding, the sharp stabbing spikes
up the legs, down the back around the neck
I smile and push back the wince again
hiding always hiding
I begin my day.
and the feelings of large hands
around my throat
air doesn’t move thru
constriction
and the pain in my head
as it fell against the floor
the wall
the window
Cannot scream without
air cannot think without
thought…
cry for help remains internal
and
as I lose consciousness the last thing
I see is
the rage-filled
reddened eyes of
my killer
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