Today it’s very difficult to decide what to blog about. Last week sucked ass, this week is shaping up to suck ass. It all just sucks ass.
Well since I haven’t blogged about anything besides the Amaryllis plant since last Monday, let’s blog about the past week. If you click on The Sordid History category, you can get the background on the Philandering Piece of Shit. Last weekend and the weekend before he actually *didn’t* go to see the Amoral Skank. Mostly because money is tight and he can’t justify spending the money to travel to another city (gas and tolls) and then entertain this bitch (apparently she expects to eat out at the kind of expensive restaurants he would never choose to go to on his own, I’ve seen the receipts).
So on Friday the 11th we went to have dinner with some of his friends. They’re nice people, I like them, but I hate having to go out publicly with him anywhere besides say the movies, where people we know congregate, because I hate having to act like everything is normal between us. The plan was pizza and beer with this couple and then some crappy punk show in one of the rankest pits of hell I’ve ever been in for the last 20 years. I was not down for that part so he was going to drive us to dinner, drive me home, drive back to the neighborhood right next to where these people live and go to some bar he DJs at once a month and supposedly hand out flyers for the Rockabilly show he does once a month.
Dinner was so enjoyable and we were having such a good time just shooting the shit that it got too late for him to do that so he had to take me along to the bar. He tried to get me to wait in the car, but when I see razor wire on the roofs of buildings, I know it’s better to go inside. I’ve lived in this city my entire life. I know the drill.
Inside we go. Nice little place in the middle of nowhere in a neighborhood that can’t decide if it wants to stay ghetto or gentrify (lot of those in this particular borough now). Out to the smoking patio and he introduces me to his co-DJ from the night he does once a month. The supposed “Lesbian.” (Just for the record, for months he kept insisting the Amoral Skank was a lesbian as well. Turns out she doesn’t care who she sleeps, but the PPS is one of her “regulars”). Co-DJ takes one look at me and starts stammering so hard it’s almost comical. She can’t even get the word “Hello” out. She’s acting so hinky that she feels the need to come up to me a few minutes later and explain why she acted like that. I smile and nod but the sitch is getting even hinkier. She blabbers something about being surprised to see me since she never does (lies; she sees me at the last-Saturday-of-the-month show fairly regularly).
Now my mama didn’t raise no stupid children and I’ve got the IQ to prove it. So PPS is fucking this “lesbian” too. Her surprise at seeing me was because she’d been expecting him earlier and alone so they could have a little rendezvous.
I confided in two of the few people I trust not to tell tales out of school (mostly, one of them fell off the wagon at one point, but she’s back on I think) and get the sage advice, “Why don’t you just ask her?” Why don’t I just ask her? Here’s why I don’t “just ask her.” It will get back to PPS. PPS is a fucking Sociopath. If I do that World War III will then erupt. PPS will go completely ballistic and accuse me of “spying” on him. Then we will have a huge argument where he will call me lovely names like cunt and psycho, then say he’s leaving and he doesn’t give a shit if the dogs and I lose the house and wind up in a cardboard box.
So, in order not to suffer verbal and [more] emotional abuse, I have to look the other way, and keep my mouth shut. I have to pretend I don’t know he’s sleeping with the Lesbian. I have to ignore the fact that he spends all night, every night texting and IM’ing the Amoral Skank because he’s so obsessed with her (not using the word obsessed lightly either, as I found a timeline he kept of when she was with him, when she wasn’t with him, when she texted him and didn’t text him and who she might possibly be with when she wasn’t with him or not texting him for hours).
Any attempt to voice my hurt, pain and dissatisfaction gets met with the accusation that *I’m* the obsessed one. That I “need to get over it.” How do you “get over” a betrayal that is ongoing and constant? That you have your face rubbed in every day? He doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. I found his little bag of sex toys in the basement which he denied ever bringing to use with Amoral Skank and then found it in the trunk of his car a week later, either left there after his last visit out-of-town or placed there in anticipation of his foiled Friday night rendezvous with the Lesbian.
Without a job, this hell is never going to end. I won’t even go to the place where the arguments become all about how “wonderful” he is because he just didn’t leave and stayed to help me financially, which is what any “normal” person would do (as if “normal” could ever be a word to describe this man). That’s going to come back and bite me in the ass, because he knows that if I get a job and make him leave, he’s going to look like the wronged party (“Oh that woman. Did you hear what she did to him? She threw him out after all the time he paid the bills while she was unemployed”).
This is my life. This is the horrible morass of pain and abuse I live with on a daily basis.