11 March 2018

I wish I had wrote more about my life, these last seven years. I wish I had wrote more about the TRUTH of what happened to me in the last seven years. Then I would have something to go back to now, to read, to remind me, to remember, what the reality of what life was really like for me. When I feel the tug of loss on me, I can go back and really KNOW just what it is I THINK I lost. When I miss companionship, I could read what REALLY it was like – the insults, the digs, and complaints. The days I drove home dreading what I was in and wondering how I could be happier. The literally, dozens of incidences his of binge drinking and sexting of other women. The staying out all night, doing cocaine, possibly spending the night with strangers. The drunk driving home from Rock Hill. The van he bought to sleep with women while he was traveling with the band. The threats and complaints against the dogs. The blame for things I was blameless in. The responsibility I had to shoulder and the load he put on me. The shame and self loathing I developed for myself. The fact I never did anything right. I wish I had written all this down, but he wouldn’t allow it. It made him look bad. It tarnished his image. I did find one or two that I wrote and hid. It reminded me of some real pain that he caused me. Pain he caused that he didn’t care about healing.

I had one of his friends try to make the excuse “its just the alcohol.” No. The way he lied to people, the way he treated people, the way he took advantage of people, the way he could steal from people and rationalize it, the general way he conducted himself. It’s the way he caused much pain to those closest to him. That wasn’t alcohol.

I just wish I had written it all down. So I can read it now. So I can remind myself of the truth. So I can banish this sense of vague loss that comes over me occassionally.