There are things I can’t stand.
Things like the seizure of power. Like the fact that she’s getting too full of herself. That he doesn’t agree with my will to kill her.
I was doing well, I was polite and patient, accommodating and creative. All this in favour of that girl. Half of the things with which she got wet during this week came from ideas I had and that he approved. The fact that he is with her is thanks to MY request. She should kiss the ground I walk on.
Instead, she asked about the type of sex that we do and she is all like “I will make you do what she doesn’t do.”
It can’t go on like this. She wants to feel special. And he didn’t smash her face against a wall as I wished. He told her that she has a long way to go to be special. Some may think that it’s a way to discourage her, however, I believe it’s just a way to say “Do your best, because you can succeed if you really want to.”
There have been arguments due to my chaotic mood swings, to my fear after perceiving her intentions as the most malevolent towards me, to my claim to understand what she might think of this or that sentence just because “I’m also a woman.”
I probably don’t know anything. I probably shouldn’t even put my nose in it. The fact that I can read what he wants to write to her is already a lot, and I have veto power on this. When I insist on some sentence because it hurts me, I no longer think that those words would be the most useful in that moment, and he feels like I don’t trust him. Closing my mouth, however, is something I can’t do, although I must admit that at least half of my complaints are based upon the pain of an open wound. There should be guns shooting at lungs just when anyone even considers the idea of putting me in a threatening situation. But this time there is a “Do your best.” It’s not exactly the most deadly blow I have ever seen inflicted to my “enemies.”
The other day I was saying that my intolerance towards her (more than understandable) moves for independence are unbearable because it’s my entire life that women whom I love put their feet on my head, and I can’t accept this treatment from a unknown girl. I accepted things that would have required a clear cut of the relationship, I have endured, humiliating myself, far too many damages, and now there’s this Jane Do popped out of nowhere that happy as a flower wants to feel special. I was patient because I loved those people, but I don’t feel the least affection for her. I feel hurt because I wished that armies would have been raised to stop her. Or rather, I wished that HE would have stopped her, but we disable the alarms waiting for a “real” faux pas. By that point I’ll be already full of scratches, and hers will be the coup de grace. It won’t kill me, that’s for sure, but I can’t stand that we have to wait the 100th attack just because the other ones were ambiguous.
Oddly, yesterday I overreacted even listening to the him of the past, someone I’m already used to. I know that during the period we didn’t keep in touch he went with several girls, but yesterday hearing him talking about them had a different effect, as if their ghosts were part of the “game” and I could feel pain because of them. I yelled at him “I jump continuously from 1 to 100 women and my brain doesn’t have enough plugs of Guess Who* [italian table game: Indovina Chi] for all those you name” as if they were all girls that I still had to bear as I was tolerating her. It took hours for me to calm down and embrace what I already know: that is, I’m all that he needs. He has the patience to say the same things hundreds of times a day, I read the concern on his face and the pain every time I cry or I sigh, resigned.
I look in the mirror and see myself passing through the 5 stages of grief at random, sometimes all 5 simultaneously, sometimes one per second, sometimes one for each day of the week and the last two days in complete apathy.
I think I’m improving, because I can already subdue the panic attacks and crying. Those of anger are much more frequent and uncontrollable, the sense of injustice sometimes makes me say things like “I didn’t want it, I would have done differently if I had been given the opportunity.” Sometimes I let myself go for a second to the morbid sense of abandonment, that rapture that when you’re hurting yourself pushes you to go even further with closed eyes. Like notching oneself’s flesh, arching towards a whip, or imagining your boyfriend while he puts his cock inside her little lover and you think “More…” Because of these excesses of my mind I have incredible feelings of shame. Like I’m accepting a fate I should fight. But what will I lose if I convince myself to accept it and enjoy it? What part of my fighting spirit dies under this apparent submissiveness? How much ground does she gain if I give her the freedom to enjoy something that is only mine?
I try to force myself to embrace something that I asked for myself, but part of me is still screaming that I’d be crawling like a worm if I granted myself the luxury of letting it be. That I’d be handing my head on a platter even while knowing that she wouldn’t have the slightest hope of marking me.
I’m beginning to think that they will have to see each other, otherwise we’ll risk to ruin everything. And how will it be to face their meeting again? That silence stretched over hours, my desperate waiting, the insomnia and the wide-awake nightmares? Will I have new weapons? Will I have more self confidence? Will I have to take refuge in invectives trusted to an ally to taunt the dog to which I offered a juicy dish of mine?
They will have to fuck. He will have to touch her, he will go inside her, caress her, welcome her moans, he will have to think about her pleasure in order to get into her head and make her his slave. He will have to crawl under her skin, he will have his hands and his eyes busy and I will be a lifetime away.
While she will have her legs spread waiting for him, what will I be able to offer to him? What will I do to not let him deny me? How can he get off and satisfy her even while having me in his mind? Having me locked in a house in another universe? Will it be easier for him to think only about what he has to do? And what will remain to me if his head will be emptied? Can I say that another him will be born, functional to the act, ignorant of me? What will he do in order to get off knowing that I’m locked in a cage waiting for him? And if he succeeds even thinking about me, will I really be so small and so helpless to let my boyfriend that says he loves me and only me to fuck someone else? Will I be a thought so small and useless not to influence him at all for real?
Let’s change the cards on the table: if I were into it completely, it would be as if he was driven by my desire, and he’d think he would satisfy me by satisfying her. But things aren’t like that yet. I really have nothing in my hands with her panting on a bed. I would be just myself, I wouldn’t have changed in anything, but he’d be a man who has shared a bed with another woman. What is the passage in order to have my power recognized?
How is it that from a worm I can turn into an eagle?