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  • Writer's pictureCounty Lines

I think I fucked up again...

Last February a guy had the audacity to stick his tongue out at me, we had never met before, we had never spoken one word...

Fast forward 6 months, add one miscarriage, one heart attack, yet another police raid and nowhere to live...we got married.

And this is the part where I say for the umpteenth time, I think I fucked up again.

I try hard not to be bitter about the fact that I purchased my own engagement ring, I bought my own wedding ring, I paid for our entire wedding, and I have financially supported him ever since without him contributing a penny.

I try hard not to be resentful about the fact that I have bought him lavish anniversary/birthday/Christmas gifts; and gotten nothing in return.

I try and overlook the fact that we live in an environmental health hazard, though I have no immune system; which he is very much aware of. But I cannot continue to ignore the steadily increasing sexual frustration, which started...I don't know how many months ago, when out of the blue, he stopped having sex with me!

Every day, I do my best to numb reality. Believe me- I am not in denial- I know I am being taken for a mug.

Hence the reason I am chemically inconvenienced; both legally and illegally; 24 hours a day 7 days a week.

But I still let him rinse me financially, drain me emotionally, burden me with daily life, and break me spiritually.

I did not realise that something which was already broken, could be broken again.

I believed I had been broken, and I couldn't be broken by anybody or anything ever again. But he breaks me every day, continuously, every minute, every hour.

The sex thing though, that is really bothering me. This morning I shimmied into some sexy lingerie, laid on the bed in all my glory- heels, lipstick, everything.

He walked in, looked at me, didn't realise I could see the panic flash across his face, and then left and disappeared for a couple of hours.

I spent those couple of hours laying on the bed feeling like a dirty gutter slut whore. When he came back I was dressed in a hoodie, a pair of leggings, a begrudging smile plastered to my face... And all I could think about, was how I could commit suicide while simultaneously giving him all the pieces of my broken heart.

Then I realised he would not recognise a broken heart. How can you recognise a broken heart when you do not have a heart yourself?

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