Spoiled Rotten

The men I’ve been in serious relationships with would agree on perhaps many things about me, but this one for sure:  when I don’t get my way, I’m a brat. 

 Well, that’s what I feel like today.  I want to just throw a fit on the floor, out in public, and let them carry me away if they can.  I hate everything; I hate everyone.   Everyone who tells me things will get better is full of shit.  Everyone who looks at me like I’m a drama queen, and reminds me that others have lost children and continued on to eventually lead satisfying lives don’t have a clue what kind of relationship I had with my daughter.

The ones who sniff at our “friendship”, who would never indulge in something so inherently irresponsible (you can’t be a parent and a friend) are just jealous. They will never experience one tenth of what I had with my girl, yet their daughters are alive and skipping around town, while they find time for them around the edges of their lives. 

I am supposed to be excited about Italy, which is only days away.  As I sit here, just on fire with my emotions, I can only picture myself over there learning to swear in Italian and shoving forkfuls of pasta into my mouth with bitter abandon. 

The day is getting closer, and I’m getting that feeling again…that feeling that I’m being chased by someone with a knife.  It feels like this:

 Imagine being held at knifepoint by a man in your home. It's dark. You can't breathe. Your heart feels like it may explode in your chest. You are paralyzed with fear. You don't know what to do. If you speak, it may egg him on. If you try to break free, he will surely chase you, he’ll catch you, and he will drive the blade home. You can only scrabble in the dark, on the floor, like some fucking little crab, anticipating the feel of the blade and fearing every black inch of open air before you.

I had the exact scenario I described above happen to me over 20 years ago, and i thought I had never been so scared in my life. I thought I would never feel such terror again. I was sorely mistaken.

So here I sit at the coffeeshop, not screaming, not bashing my pretty ceramic coffee mug against the brick wall beside my table.  I am just keeping to my daily writing routine.  I’ve got on my holey baggy boyfriend jeans (all the better to accommodate my bigger butt and strange new squishy stuff where my hipbones used to be).  My hair is up in a haphazard bun.  No makeup.  Cory’s fingerprint around my neck, and her picture on the bracelet hugging my wrist. 

I’ve ordered my usual salted caramel mocha, found a side table, and plugged in.  I set the picture of two pretty girls up against the salt and pepper shakers. 

Ready to create, I have just sat here fuming. 

Damn it, I want my girl.