UGLY DUCKLING

Section 2A in the chronology of my entries.

I was an overweight, awkward looking teenager. I’m not even being modest, it’s completely true. Greasy hair, freckles and braces on my teeth. The struggle was real. It’s amusing in hindsight. I’m happy to have improved with age rather than peak in high school. Anyway, it was character building. I was smart, and funny as fuck. By 15 I’d kissed a couple of dudes that I wasn’t especially proud of and let them touch me a bit, but didn’t land myself a proper boyfriend until 16 and in Grade 12. 

John was 18, an over confident ego-maniac and became my other half. He’d tell me I was pretty and that he loved me. I’d sneak out on school nights to see him, and spend all my spare time with him when I wasn’t at school or working. I gave him my virginity, not unwillingly, though there was little pleasure in it for me besides the psychological payoff I got for pleasing a man sexually. It hurt. He was huge, actually too big for the condoms we got our hands on. He’d break them, and I had no other contraception. Not surprisingly, I fell pregnant. I wondered why I’d come home after school and had the irresistible need to vomit. I shamefully had a local doctor refer me to an abortion clinic in Townsville. We scraped up barely enough money and we skipped school to take a bus to Townsville. That was a rough day. We couldn’t even afford the antibiotics recommended for after the surgery straight away. I cried at school the next day, all day. I couldn’t even grasp the immensity of what I’d done, but I was miserable.  Of course I hadn’t told my parents. I’d covered all bases in my preparation for Termination Day. I’d forged a note for my absence. I became quite adept at that. So crafty of me. Teenage girls can be devious, but so can suspicious mothers. I’d been complacent and left the discarded paperwork for the procedure in my rubbish bin in my bedroom. Mum discovered it and both her and Dad confronted me. They were furious, disgusted and ashamed.  Their words just made it worse. They couldn’t believe I’d aborted a foetus. Quite frankly neither could I. I felt filthy, damaged and very low in self esteem. I had let him violate me and they were disgusted. 

 I officially left home the day I graduated high school. I barely got along with my parents, who were happy to see me go. I was the black sheep. The fuck up. I shifted to Townsville and lived with his family while I started uni. His Mum had taken me under her wing.  She was nothing like my Mum. She was feisty and opinionated and unashamedly chainsmoked. She accepted me into her fold immediately. John told her about the terminated pregnancy and she was sympathetic and compassionate. She had been there in her past and understood. 

John and I did everything together, even showered together. Conversation was never dull. For all his faults, he really did make me feel valued and loved. My parents hated him for being unemployed and a smoker and mostly for knocking me up. I could see their point, but I felt loved with him. Connected. Secure. We thought we were soul mates. 

A few years later, l found out he’d kissed (in retrospect probably fucked but I’m grateful my immature self received the diluted version) our newly-lesbian flat mate. I was properly devastated. I felt so betrayed. He was like an extension of myself. We eventually tried patching it up, but it got messy enough for me to fuck his older brother as my twisted revenge. I’d always been repulsed by Pat and his sleazy attempt to lure women. Revenge is a dish best served cold though, and I was smug enough to boast my misdemeanour to the wrong people. That was the end of my welcome in that family. His Mum rang me to verbally abuse me. I shut my mouth and copped it all. I deserved the sting of every shred her words ripped off me. That conversation wiped all the smugness from my attitude…

(To be continued)

GENESIS

(Ed – written 4 years ago as the introductory chapter to my so far unfinished/unpublished book Lover Not a Fighter)

Choose to end my marriage was probably the most difficult and conflicting decision that I’ve ever been faced with in my 35 years. It’s been six months now. Some days I feel it like a blunt knife to the heart; remorse  so raw it consumes me. Other days, when our rare conversations degenerate into a barrage of slander and deeply personal insults I hate him. Hate him for continuing to have the power to hurt me. Hate him for never being able to love me enough. Hate myself for needing love, more than he was capable of giving. Hate him for not being the everything he’d promised to me on our wedding day. Hating that I still cared with sorrowful ferocity about the hurt I’d inflicted, regardless of the angles I could justify my actions.

He’s moved on. I’d destroyed his life by taking everything he loves away from him. Obviously not that damaged, as he was officially Facebook re-relationship-ed after two months, with a woman 10 years younger than us, with three kids of her own. I didn’t care who he fucks. I know that sounds harsh, but I left him. I was prepared for that. I wasn’t prepared for him to be so soon playing Dad to someone else’s kids, while barely sparing a couple of hours on the weekends to see his kids. 

That hurt. That is betrayal for me, more so than sex. Peter wouldn’t agree. He would say infidelity is the worst pain a person can inflict on their spouse. 

I am a cheater. I’m a liar. I could have been stronger and ended the marriage before I let another man fill the void. No pun intended. My husband wasn’t keeping his end of the bargain, so why should I? 

I tell myself that human relationships are not black and white.  I tell myself that I believe in monogamy, but that’s my innate optimistism. Monogamy is a pretty flimsy ideal coming from the mouth of a Cheating Wife. Perhaps I’ve become so accustomed to lying that Ive managed to convince myself.

I’m Kim, 35 year old piano teaching, single mother of four daughters, with a boob job and a love hate relationship with vodka at any given time. I think I’m driven and ruled by some kind of destructive sexual-attention seeking disorder that festers inside me. I don’t think I can fight it. It’s who I am. I want to learn to control it. I think when I can properly pinpoint where the insecurities are embedded, I can finally redirect the source of my gratification into a proper, honest relationship.

IN THE SHALLOWS

Hark, people. I have a rant.

When you are somehow offended by the clothing choice of others, and feel the need to discuss with others your derogatory opinion of another’s clothing choice, then it’s YOU with the issue, not the person you are talking about. When did you become so righteous and perfect within your own appearance that somehow you became better than another, and in a position to deem someone else unworthy of social acceptance? If you relate the way someone chooses to dress with certain lifestyle attributes, that’s only a reflection of your own ignorance and inability to accept or understand anything besides your own rigid definition of how to gain acceptance socially. If you really feel so strongly about the appearance of another that you feel uncomfortable in their physical presence, or seeing selfies or photos on Facebook, then I pity the insecurities you probably don’t even realise you’re plagued with. When you look down on someone for how they dress, for whatever reason you think it’s justified, what you’re really doing is trying reassure your own ego that you are part of the ‘socially accepted’. The moment you open your narrow-minded word hole and make the appearance of another a topic of discussion, or humour, or a reason for social exclusion, you become a bully. Yeah, I went there.

Never once have I claimed or believed to be anything but flawed. I’m not skinny, but I don’t hate myself. Get over it. I have freckles and a few grey hairs. Still don’t hate myself. I’m 36 and I’ve had four kids, but that doesn’t forfeit my right to choose my own clothes. I know what I look like better than anyone, and know all my imperfections, strangely enough, like the back of my hand. Stretch marks, cellulite and scars. Guess what? I still don’t hate myself, and honestly, why TF should I? Why would so many (mostly) women feel more comfortable with me if I hated my appearance? Would those nasty (mostly) women prefer I dressed like them, hanging my head with the shame of an imperfect body and face? God forbid someone catch a glimpse of the dreaded thigh jiggle, or notice my squishy, battered mid-section through my singlet top.

Here’s a thought… how about judging others based on their merits, their kindness or their abilities? Assumptions based on another’s appearance say nothing about the victim, and instead make the bitterness and insecurity of slanderous gossips transparent.

I’m sighing. At the end of the day, it should be water off a duck’s back, however it always stings a bit to be the subject of needless defamation. Those who know me know I like to be liked. I laugh readily, and give my genuine smile freely. I’m not nasty, or cruel, and have no interest in gossip. I stick to myself, and my small trusted circle of close friends. I don’t create drama or cause trouble. I’m not competitive, confrontational or materialistic.

The day I allow my self worth to be dictated by a benchmark of the shallow and the ignorant will be the day I lose respect for my own intelligence. I’ll be damned if I let myself drown in the depths of another’s insecurities.

High five to all you people of substance.

(Ed – written 3 years ago but I maintain my ferocity on the subject)

Behold: An Epiphany

I had tried many times, over about two years, to separate from Peter. I guess I wasn’t quite ready emotionally, because I could never quite go through with it. It would hurt knowing I was hurting him, and there was also something to corrode my resolve. Sometimes he’d threaten suicide. Sometimes he’d attack my self esteem so harshly I’d question my own motives.

One time he started assembling his rifle with calm, methodical purpose. I became hysterical and threatened to call the police. Damn it, my time on this earth was not going to end that day, at the hands of my husband and a bullet. My hysteria calmed him somewhat. His mood changed from cold hostility to worried affection for me. After all, there must be something terribly wrong in my psych if I’d been that scared. He was just putting his gun together to clean, apparently, although he hadn’t touched the gun in around nine months. My genuine fear was enough for him that day, thank god. I know deep in my soul he was putting that weapon together to fire a bullet. I could feel it, somehow. I just knew.

Separation was a necessity. Our relationship was toxic. I was oppressed with constant misery, and as badly as I wanted to break free, I just didn’t have the confidence to see it through. I often wanted to end my life. I could see no other escape from the perpetual misery. I knew that unless I found the strength to change my life, the depression would consume me. I was scared. Of Peter. Scared of his cold aggression, scared of his ability to wound me with attacks on my confidence. I was scared of hurting him, because regardless of how much I wanted to be apart from him, I still loved him so much that living in misery was nearly worth giving him happiness. Above all, I was terrified of living without his love.

I’m a sceptic of paranormal activity, and religion and wouldn’t define myself as a spiritual person. I do believe in the immense power of the brain and it’s own problem solving abilities.

I had a dream.

Within the depression and despair, my good old dependable brain delivered itself a dream that was to finally encourage the determination and confidence to save myself.

I was riding passenger to my Mum driving her little old white Corolla. We were maintaining a non-concerning highway speed. Behind me in the back seats were three random dudes. Young, good looking but nondescript. They weren’t familiar to me but their energies were neutral. They weren’t important, but their presence felt somewhat significant to visually acknowledge before the road ahead became my focus.

We were driving over a long bitumen bridge with no railings. Without warning we had veered to the left and we plunged off the bridge. The distance to the ground was immense and I immediately knew death was imminent. I told my Mum that I loved her and thanked her for everything, and I was sorry for any hurt I’d caused her throughout my life. I felt absolved and content with her, although I hadn’t felt plagued by guilt. I was warmed that we were at peace before we inevitably connected with the dry sandy ground.

I had expected death, but I opened my eyes to the sweet relief of the sight of my beautiful mother unharmed. It seemed an incomparable blessing. I began feel the injuries in myself and realised I was broken and bloodied. I caught my reflection in the mirror. I was horrified that my body had been so badly battered. My face was an unrecognisable mess. It was a moment of gratitude for my life, whilst accepting that the physical change was permanent. I’d always be smashed and broken, and my scars forever visible to the world. Although I was ugly, I was alive and grateful.

Mum and I made our way out of the car. I don’t recall any pain except exhaustion. We trudged through the sand towards civilisation and seamlessly we were upon the outskirts of a small town street party in early evening and bustling with activity. The street was a hive of entertained people on rides and games.

I spotted my girls, laughing and happy on rides and dressed in ballgown style party dresses. Their happiness was my happiness. My disfigurement was now insignificant. My girls were happy and that’s all that was important. In front of me pokies type machines were colourful and lit up. A sheer abundance of gold coins was arcing out and I felt carefree and secure in the wealth. I saw my reflection in a section of mirrored glass. My disfigured face had unexpectedly healed completely and in that instant I knew, just knew without a doubt that despite the severity of the upcoming storm, I would not only survive into an optimistic future of emotional prosperity and freedom.

That dream and its significance was undoubtably clear as I awoke that morning, and is retained with perfect clarity in my mind to this day. With refreshed, restored confidence that despite the severity of the impending storm, I would survive it regardless.

That afternoon, though my heart was breaking silently, I calmly asked my husband for a divorce.

(As this blog is not in a specific order as yet, this was a chapter I have written two years ago).

You spin me right round, baby, right round…

This is why I can’t have nice things.

I am stupid.

After a week of lunging with outstretched arms to catch every morsel of incongruent vulgarity he vigorously slung my way, the general theme can’t be mistaken. You know you’re dealing with an imbecile when every attempt to communicate is received with streams of random misogynistic slurs shamelessly bound together with a smug over-enthusiasm for profanity.

This isn’t my first rodeo, but I always feel compelled to defend myself against claims of such little substance.

Argue with a fool, however, and it makes two of you.

Behold! the fine line of self worth, where I’m currently teetering between ‘I don’t deserve nice things if I’m legit this repeatedly and consciously stupid’ and ‘If he just gives me one more chance I’ll prove to him I am worth caring about’, with humiliating fragility hoping he’ll go back to being sweet and caring.

We can get past this, grow from this. Our relationship will be even stronger. He just can’t process emotions well. Anger just masks other emotions. He only says those things because he loves me deep down so of course his feelings are magnified. And I was bugging him when he said he didn’t want to see me for a few days. Why did I need to make a big deal about it anyway? The only reason I was confused is because I’m a fucking idiot. It’s simple but as usual I fucked it up because I’m stupid.

Either that, or he doesn’t love me, and that hurts way more than just feeling stupid.

Men have abused me since my earliest memories as a four year old girl – sexually, emotionally, mentally and physically – but none have quashed the flame of my romantic idealism; only deepened my desire to be loved properly.

As badly as I want him to be, I know I’m not being loved properly.

I’ve been gifted with enough intelligence for me blatantly ungrateful if I am to feign ignorance any longer.

Steve. Doesn’t. Love. Me.

Nice things are the rewards from good choices. Bad choices don’t deserve nice things.

The lure of the hamster wheel is as degrading as it is irresistible. I find myself scurrying to jump back on as soon as he so much as blinks in perceived encouragement. He has been my weakness and the rip I’m my sails for 7 months too long. I can no longer claim victim status as an error of judgement.

If I can’t beat it, then I’m just going to have to bloody destroy that motherfucking wheel of temptation so hard it whimpers a safeword. Eye of the tiger, baby.

It’s time to break this Cycle of Abuse, and I’m the only one that can do it.

Bulletproof. As. Fuck.

Let the Games Begin

The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

I’d ask for an Amen, but every microscopic cell of my being is already chorusing, cheering and nodding in united agreement.

Bandaid schmandaid. I care not for the negativity of warning labels bullying me into employing the tedious and time wasting tactics of letting my heart heal naturally. Shudder.

I will instead gleefully rejoice in positioning every magical, sticky little Sharman of ego- boosting promiscuity slap bang centre of my stinging confidence until the sad motherfucking sore section quits it’s bitching and brushes this rejection shit the hell off my person.

I’m so perilously close to the doorstep of 40 that I can read the motivational words of it’s welcome mat which declares, incidentally, that “If you can read this sign you’re obviously alone and unsuccessful at relationships and possibly most things thus far and your four decades of fuck-uppery are a constant source of disappointment to your parents”.

For the love of lubricant, I hardly need a smug, smart-arse door mat alerting me to the realisation that I lack both the time and patience for that frivolous ‘time heals all wounds’ bull shit.

Bandaids are where it’s at for me.

I can confidently cite the Spontaneous Satisfying Sexcapade of 2016. Following an unexpected dumping by a Brad-the-Bundy-swilling-box-ticking nice guy, I was rewarded with no less than eight lusty encounters featuring eight sexy men.

I’m definitely of the strike-while-the-iron’s-hot mentality, and in retrospect I didn’t predict so many different bandaids to be at my disposal. The planets aligned for me for a fun fortnight of fuck-tasticism. High five Universe.

Judge if you feel the need, but variety is the spice of life, after all and works a treat. I mean, it was strictly for medicinal purposes, as directed by Kim’s Basic First Aid for Busted Up Hearts Volume 9 (for those playing at home) Chapter 3, section 2a – available in 13 languages and now as an audio book. Completely imaginary but I’m sure you’re picking up what I’m putting down.

Last night may well be the opening ceremony of another fortnight of Healing Heathenism.

Steve? Steve who? Oh yes, that weeping, festy wound snugly contained beneath bandaid Numero Uno. Still hurts to the touch, if I dare to flirt openly with honesty but less debilitating than yesterday.

Nothing another bandaid or seven can’t fix.

Onwards and upwards

BulletproofAF ❤️🎼❤️