He had spent five nights here, with me and our daughter. Behaved as though it was his vacation home, on the lake. Sauntered in, and took an approving but snobbish look around the place. It’s humble. It’s small and cozy, perfect for my daughter and me.
And, it’s MINE.
But his demeanor disturbed me on a psychic level. Something visceral, and intuitive. “I’ve somehow led him to believe that we are still a couple, in some way.” If I hadn’t led him on to believe that, than I wasn’t direct enough to advise him that we are, in deed, NOT a couple any longer. Fucking head games. We’ve both been playing head games for so long now, it’s become our common language. The one you speak on habit and reflex.
He’s led me to believe that we are still a couple, and that things will work out. That we’re just going through something most married couples go through. When it suites him, his bankroll, and his dick.
So, after five nights of sleeping with me, in me, and in my small bed, and while I slept on the couch, he’d packed his clean clothes, bevy of supplements, “Testosterone Booster”, and left for his annual-winter-on-the-road-job. And he called later that night, like he always has.
This time, like most nights, he’d had just enough beer to drink to commence with the emotional abuse. Last Saturday night, once again, he spoke his truth. “STOP BEING A DOORMAT! STOP BEING A VICTIM!!!” No truer words have ever been spoken to me. No truer words have I ever felt so poignantly, so deeply.
He used to complain that I never listened to him. Never took his advise. Until now. I think I shall put into practice his advise, beginning with the giver of such exquisitely deserved advice.
The doormat has been destroyed. No more mat. No more “Welcome” mat. Replaced with a sign on my front gate that says, “No Overnight Parking.” Not in this driveway, and not on my couch.