it’s secret for a reason

I feel kinda sick.

Also, I hate myself.

For the past two days, I’ve had a sore throat and ears, which is how I always start out desperately submitting to violent strep throat. It happens often enough to have it’s own distinct horrifying pattern.

Tomorrow I will want to die.

All this week, in varying patterns, I’ve wanted to die.

Certain aspects of my (hyper-intense) religious upbringing have stuck with me, despite everything. Such as: Suicide is a sin. A sin that will send you to a special kind of hell, even more horrifying than normal hell. And even with my obsessive fear going to of normal hell, at least it’s not suicide-hell. That place is way intense. It’s also in Southwest America, interestingly enough.

Also, bigger than that, is my (hyper-intense) pride, which is strange, given how I hate myself. But still. I. Am. Not. Weak.

Which is good.

We could start with the boring, whiney mental illness part, or with the part where once again I’m a drug-addicted whore.

The good part is coming, I promise.

Sometimes I feel like I have to work So Hard to maintain mental equilibrium; even still, I don’t always do so well. Most of the time, I just accept the fact, the way I accept my astigmatism and finicky skin. But sometimes I get so tired of trying so hard, and then I have to work at even caring enough to try, and eventually I want to just give up.

This week was one of those weeks. I’m so tired of being insecure; I’m tired of feeling like I will never connect with other people; I’m so tired of being poor and afraid to get a decent job; I’m so tired of feeling like I always say the wrong thing at the wrong time (and usually way too loudly); and I’m so fucking tired of bothering not to go crazy.

One of my supervisors at work overheard me saying he was a ginormous douche bag who fantasized about being repeatedly gang raped.

I am also so tired of having that kind of anger in me. I mean, really, what the fuck is up with that? Where does it come from?

And then I just sat down at work and cried and cried, while C freaked out because he didn’t know what to do and just settled on ignoring me.

That was Thursday. I went home and slept for hours and cleansed my soul a little. Even though when I woke up, the urge to just fucking give up was there, but it had abated enough to bear. I considered skipping work on Friday, but I Am Not Weak and shamed myself into going. My manager, who I hardly ever see and certainly never talk to, actually had me come to his office. He was concerned; he said it was apparent I was Not Okay.

I told him it was true, I was Not Okay, but it wasn’t That Bad and would eventually be better because I’m more concerned about pride and shame than being okay.

I went wandering around looking for C to tell him about it, but S.R. caught me wandering around and chastised me in his passive-aggressive way. I countered it magnificently.

(S. R. is my direct supervisor. He’s my fucked-up ideal of the Perfect Man. He’s ten years older than me, tall and skinny with clean strong hands, awkward, quiet, intelligent, a little neurotic, and confides in me. This makes me want to fuck him, so hard. I’ve never once come on to him, or even vaguely flirted him. Nor have I told anybody. C tells me that S.R. has a crush on me and checks out my T&A all the time. I accept this too.)

S.R.: “What are you doing? Are you looking for C?”
Me: “Yep.”
S.R.: “Why? You know you guys could go just a few minutes without each other sometimes.”
Me: “Yep.”

I started to walk away. When I got to the door of the stock room, I turned around.

Me: “Why? Are you jealous?”
S.R. “Yes!”
Me: “I thought so.”

I left.

All things considered, I didn’t want to just Give Up so badly that day. I thought I really was getting better. I went home with C, where things seemed quiet and strained and I couldn’t pick up why. So I went with R to her house to drop off T. R asked me too many questions and I like her, so I gave in and told her that C and I had been fucking, often, for almost a year. I told her I loved fucking him, and I loved him, and I liked her, and I liked fucking her too, and that maybe we could all date each other when C finally broke up with M.

Then R told me that she had fucked C last week. She begged me not to tell C I knew. I promised. And that’s when everything fell apart.

I didn’t feel it at first. At first I was just amused, and then eventually a little put off that it had to have been a secret. Then eventually a little while later I was jealous that I wasn’t involved. C, R and I have threesomes, which are mad fun.

But slowly, quietly, the rage and jealously grew. We were all high and I forgot to even care. But that night, C once again pawned me off on someone else for a ride home, not caring if it was inconvenient for him/her or embarrassing for me. So I sat here that night with no cigarettes, and held the rage and jealousy quietly in my heart. And it grew.

Why should I even care? C is living with his girlfriend, for Christ’s sake. He cheats on her every time he fucks me, and especially every time he fucks R and me at the same time. Why should I be surprised if he fucks R? Why shouldn’t I expect it to happen?

Because I love C. He is mine.

I wasn’t upset with R at all. How could I be? She didn’t know that I’d been fucking him, or that I loved him. As much as I’d told her, I hadn’t yet told her everything. I still haven’t.

But C. That fucking bastard. I thought he loved me too. I thought he knew that he was mine, that M only had him on loan until their lease was up. We talked about our future; we talked about love, about the rest of our lives.

We also talked about how we both thought monogamy is unnatural, how sometimes it’s okay to fuck someone just for the sake of fucking. We have threesomes with R.

But I thought, I really, truly, stupidly, honestly believed that both C and R really only wanted me. I thought C loved me and just thought it was fun to have two bitches sucking him off. I thought R was really a lesbian.

Of course, I’m supposed to really be a lesbian too.

And now C has as much of an interest in R as he has with me. I am enraged and unbearably depressed.

I can’t fucking believe myself. So fucking naïve.

God, how fucking long is this story? I’m bored with it already.

So I called C on it, even though I pinky-promised R I wouldn’t. I guess I’m not that strong after all. I couldn’t hold that hurt anonymously. I tried; I gave up.

Saturday morning C and I arrived at work a few minutes early.

Me: “I have to tell you something, and you can’t tell anybody.”
C: “Uh. Okay.”
Me: “I know what you did.”
C: “What do you mean?”

Long silence.

I was limbo torture. How could I have this conversation without being a huge whiney needy bitch? How could I break my promise to R? I am strong. I want to be impenetrable. I want to have a cool head and not care.

Quite a few years ago, I read somewhere that someone said “love is the sudden realization that something other then oneself is real.” Being such an introvert (and hating it), that stuck with me. I love C. His realness is vibrantly real to me. I feel his feelings. And that made me want to be nice.

Me: “I know what you did.” (Again)
C: “What did I do?”

Pause.

Me: “Last week.”

Pause.

Me: “You intentionally had R over when I wasn’t there. You took her up to your room. You fucked her.”

I said all of that so quietly, so calmly and rationally. I was detached from myself, and quite proud of myself for it.

C sighed, closed his eyes. He said, “I’m sorry,” and the tone in his voice said that he really meant it.

I walked away.

An hour or so later, after my heart hurt so badly that I was willing to give in a little, I found him. I made up a conversation. I asked him where his iPod was. He said he didn’t know. I offered him mine and he scoffed. I said, “Hey, there’s good music on there!”

He said, “I’m sure you think so.”

He was sitting on the floor; I was standing over him. I fucking lost it. I started kicking his ribs, but with the side of my feet, not the flat. He got up and pulled my arms taut. I hissed at him to let me go.

“Apologize,” he demanded.

“Fuck you,” I said.

“Apologize for kicking me.” He pulled my arms tighter. He was a wrestler for years. He knew what he was doing.

“Baby,” I said, slowly and deliberately, “I will scream so loud that you’ll be fired for harassment.”

He let go. I walked away.

I wanted to apologize. I didn’t care what he’d done. I’d attacked him and I couldn’t stand it. A half hour later he walked by. I called his name.

He walked away.

Eventually it became the time we take our morning smoke break together. Ever since I started smoking, I’ve refused to smoke at work. I figured it would make me incrementally less poor and a little healthier. Really, I hate to smell bad.

But then I realized I could spend 10 more minutes with C, and that’s all that mattered.

He found me, asked if I wanted to go smoke. I told him he was sorry, that I wasn’t really kicking him over the iPod comment. He said he knew that. He’d been crying; he said he didn’t know what he was doing and he hated it. I told him it was okay, that I just didn’t want to be excluded. I told him that he could fuck whomever he wanted; I told him I loved him and I didn’t want to lose him. I asked him if he was starting to love R; he said no, that he really only loved me.

The pain in his voice was real.

I asked him if he thought we were getting in over our heads. He shrugged. I agreed. I asked him if he wanted to stop. He said no. I said I didn’t either. Which is not completely true. This is the kind of life I’m used to. I don’t know how to behave any differently.

Actually, we spent the rest of the day tentatively poking the sore spots. I fluctuated between feeling like it was everything was ok to feeling like I’d fucked up and lost everything I loved. I fantasized about the time C really would be mine; I fantasized about going to sleep and never waking up. I asked him the part that hurt the most, about if it really was predetermined. R had told me that she and C deliberately made up a reason to take me home early one day because they knew they wanted time without me. C said that wasn’t true.

I don’t know whom I believe.

C told me that when he goes to Raleigh this weekend, there’s going to be a night when he and R plan on getting together and going clubbing and getting crunk. Just the two of them; I’m going to be two hours away sans car, sans plans, sans friends.

I really thought that there’s be a limit to how many times I could break in half in my life. Eventually it’s got to just be scar tissue, right? Eventually it doesn’t even have feeling.

I can only hope.

S was going to pick us up that day. I spent the day texting R, trying to find someone to lick my wounds. S wanted to go up to the flea market with C and I to find some of that shit that passes drug tests.  I begged R and T to come along, to rescue me from the proximity with C. I made out with R in the middle of the flea market; I wanted C to see it and I wanted it to hurt.

I abandoned C and R and went home with S. It took another bit of my reserve to send them off together, but I had a plan. I was going to fuck S. It was only fair.

But when we got to his place, other people were there.

I told him that I needed some no-strings attached revenge sex and that I’d chosen him. He accepted the fact. It didn’t happen, but it almost did, and that’s almost as important.

Back with C, R, and T. We smoke the rest of S’s fine, fine $300oz stash and spend the rest of the night restless and bored and seeking out more pot. Seriously, it was a six-hour mission for a quarter. Jesus.

I spend the night flirting with R, obsessively noting when C sits next to R; that he looks at her when he’s talking more than he looks at me.

Today, I’ve been cascading between really fucking high and mildly high since about an hour after I woke up. Fuck that shit. Fuck. That. Shit. I spent the week trying to heal myself, only to stumble into this fucking mess. I’m not dealing with this shit sober and alone. No fucking way.

D showed up, like he does out of the blue once every couple of weeks or so.  But unlike the rest of the times, this time I let him fuck me. Actually, I didn’t fight too hard while he fucked me, even though I told him to stop, even though I told him no. Eventually I just laid on my back and thought about whether I would deliberately use this as a weapon against C, or just keep it to myself.
I let D eat my pussy and I let him make me come, which wouldn’t have happened if I was straight.  I let him buy me dinner and kiss my mouth.

I can fuck other people too, you goddamn cheating bastard.

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