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A Bitch For All Seasons

Originally published October 24th, 2018.

“A bitch is what they call a woman when she no longer has the patience to deal with the bullshit. A bitch is what they call a woman who serves a hot a plate of rejection to any man who isn't worthy of her attention. Men who call women bitches for calling them out on their shit are bitches themselves.”― R.H. Sin

Several posts on this blog deal with healing or the long, often dark, road of healing I find myself stumbling through. I’m still struggling to find the right words to describe various aspects of that journey, this is in part to me wanting to maintain a sense of peace between The Ex and me. I’m aware that several the views I get on my little slice of internet real estate come from women he has some sort of involvement with. Their views turn into questions that they end up fielding to him leading to long text messages about how I’m still the source of all his problems. Wanting to ensure a smooth and joyous transition from solo co-parenting to blended family life when I got married this past May *it was a beautiful wedding and I promise I’ll write about it before the year is out* I made a personal decision to bite my tongue. It was for the greater good. I was right back into old thinking because I forgot that people don’t change who they are on a fundamental level. They may grow, but that takes work and it’s obvious when it’s happening. Sipping the greater good Kool-Aid had me thinking I could be friends with someone who routinely disrespected me for over 15 years.

We’ve all done it before. Attempting to keep the peace. To build bridges. We get so busy attempting to lead a round of kumbaya on the life raft that we ignore the asshole eating all the rations. Then we’re left floating with only a ukulele to eat and a poorly sung tune in our heads wondering why we didn’t see what was right in front of our faces until now. I’m the idiot on the raft with the ukulele, except I’m done singing. I’m done with locking every useful pieces of writing on healing and growth into Pandora’s box for fear it may disrupt the delicate harmony that is only an illusion anyway.

Over three years ago, I wrote about the illusion of perfect. And even as I step firmly into the next season of my life, I’m still plagued by the notion of maintaining harmony and that perfect illusion. The only way to really break the cognitive dissonance I’ve swam in for years is to climb out of the pool and compare the illusion to reality under the harsh light of day. That’s hard and painful, but it must be done.

In the illusion, The Ex sees me as a person worthy of dignity and respect. We’re able to be friends and his priorities center squarely on the happiness and well-being of our children even when it stretches beyond what would bring him happiness. In reality, he still views me as an ungrateful unbearable bitch that wakes up each day hell bent on making his life difficult by attempting to hold him accountable in his role as a father and a human being.

In reality, we can never be friends. In reality, any moments of harmony are fueled by selfish desires and far too many streaks of niceness on my part that even after nearly two decades of the same behavior I still can’t seem to shake. In reality, anything I do that is not done to directly benefit him makes me a bitch for all seasons.

In the illusion, that realization doesn’t bother me. In the illusion, I am untouchable. In the illusion, I am healed.

In reality, though, the illusion is a lie and that word still finds a way to cut open all the wounds I have spent the last three years painstakingly trying to heal. In reality, the voice that has told me everything is my fault and I’m failing at all the things still gets in. In reality, I want to throw things and scream because why the fuck is that voice still there. How much more therapy and red wine do I have to go through before I’ve permanently hog tied and duct taped that fucker out of existence?

In the illusion, that question has an answer. In reality, I know that question can never be answered. Like the steady hand of depression that voice is always waiting in the shadows, looking for a wound that didn’t heal quite right.

While I could end this post on that note, I won’t. Why? Growth my friends. That painful never-ending process of becoming the best version of yourself. It tells me I can’t end it there, because while I know my demons live in the shadows I’m not afraid to face them anymore. I greeted assurances that I was a bitch with hopes that he receives a clearly much needed hug. I bare my scars for The Bearded One *blog name for the new husband* so he knows the landmines that will dot the landscape of our lives and can help me tear down the wall I built up around my heart, because stumbling through the dark is far more enjoyable when you have a hand to hold.

There is still growing and healing that needs to happen. And while the illusion can be nice, hell even palatable at times, reality has red wine and cheesecake, so I might as well get comfortable there.

Copyright(c) 2018 Rayven Holmes

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