Worth the Cost of Admission

I am tired today. My fault. Late night visitor. I am fairly certain I was asleep before he/(E) even walked out the front door early this morning (1:30am). Grinning, satiated, and completely spent. He’s my drug . . . and leaves me beyond satisfied but always wanting more. But I always need a day or two to recover before he returns again.

So I woke at 5am to go to a 6am spin class. I did fine until around 2pm and now I’ve hit a wall. Not that I’m sorry. Last night was worth the lack of sleep . . .

But my tiredness is more than lack of sleep due to my nocturnal session(s). It’s anger and frustration. And I want to punch something or cry. Or just collapse in bed hovering between sleep and awake and think about something other than this crazy ass divorce. The lack of communication. The manipulation of my children (who aren’t his). The narcissistic bullshit that has become his calling card. Only now I am not willing to surrender to it and shrink like some leaf withering on a vine. So I set boundaries. Probably pissed him off. And I’m not sorry.

That’s the thing about boundaries and backbones. Once you show them, draw the map, stand up straighter, people usually figure out that you mean fucking business. And then they sit in silence (no response to my text) trying to regroup and strategize how and where they are going to stick in the next pin. Except this time, I’m wearing my armor. So come at me mister because I’m ready. I’m prepared.

Papers complete. Filing imminent. Game over. At 43, I don’t have time for this shit. For his shit. Or anyone else’s.

You’re either in or get the fuck out. And the price of admission just went up.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.