Page 32 of At My Worst

Don’t do that. Don’t say that.

Don’t forget to do self-care.

You need to eat.

You are choosing to feel that way.

Make sure you pay the bills.

You might want to do your laundry.

You might want to go get the groceries you like.

Don’t forget to do your dishes.

Make sure you don’t forget to do this or that.

I feel as if I am inside a box that is slowly killing me, making it hard to breathe. The box that people who said they loved me put me in.

He didn’t see the pain in my eyes; if he did, he didn’t act like it. He was cold and would stand there staring at me as tears fell down my face. He never wiped them away. He only caused them.

Why did it have to be that way?

When did my marriage turn into a chore?

When did my marriage become something that kept me up at night, making my head spin?

I grab onto the sink and look into the mirror. I no longer know the woman staring back at me or who I am. I see the reflection of the bottle of vodka in the mirror. The bottle that promised it would take away this pain, the throbbing chest pains, the twisted stomach, but it is a liar. It lied to me, or maybe I just heard what I wanted to hear.

Don’t think that way.

It is sinful to want that. Disgusting and ungodly.

Why can’t you do it this way?

Save money, it’s not that hard.

I inhale deeply as I shake my head and look into my own eyes. The light is gone. The fire has been extinguished. The girl I was before is lost and buried underneath all the expectations of the man who said he loved me, who was my world.

I am only one person, one person who can’t fucking do anything right. I am not the person people want me to be. They don’t understand me; honestly, I don’t understand myself anymore.

I am a fucking therapist. I should be able to put my thoughts and emotions into words to explain everything inside me, but the words are lost.

It feels like there is a storm inside me, and I can’t control it much longer. I should be happy with my life, but I am not. I am not okay with not feeling connected to the man I was supposed to be connected to the most.

People say relationships should not be based on sex right, but I want it to be. I need it to be.

Before Alexander, my husband hasn’t touched me like that in years. Sure, we held hands, kissed on the lips, said hi and bye,and even had in-depth and simple conversations, but I didn’t feel wanted or desired.

I remember the first time he turned me down when I tried to initiate sex. It was like a knife stabbed me in the heart, and every time after that, the knife was twisted and turned until I was fucking drowning in my blood from the wound he had created with just a simple few words orthatlook.

I grab the bottle and take a big gulp as tears roll down my face.

“At least our relationship is not based on sex,”he would say as if he was proud that we weren’t sexual with each other. He never saw the hurt in my eyes with each“No, not tonight,” “I am tired,”or the“I just want to relax.”

I hate those fucking words; they haunt me.

My hand forms into a fist as I take another gulp. I lower the bottle and place it on the counter as I try to make his voice disappear from my mind.

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