I am disgusted with myself. Repulsed. Horrified. I gave in. I knew the husband had been wanting sex; the signs were all over the place, just like his hands. He knows we don’t like it. He’s not stupid. He made a comment that I “as in we” don’t allow him to touch us anymore. It is too true. The touch of his hand, his lips, his tongue, his body, his breath, his parts, or any other body part I missed makes me cringe. I hate it! I hate it! I hate it! We were doing so well to begin with. We were allowing him to use us but not feeling the repercussions from it. If we didn’t want to participate in sex, we would just lie there and let him get off on us. Many times it didn’t feel right, made us cry, but it was better than participating in it.
Things are different now. We avoid his touch at every cross. In bed at night, if his foot accidentally grazes my leg, I kick and knee him till he moves. I never wanted or thought it would come to this but I feel used and abused by another man: the husband.
He would feel hurt if he knew I felt this way about sex and being with him. I feel I have to succumb to him or he might turn his attention elsewhere. I hate myself for this and so much more.
I am so not okay. Nothing will ever be alright.
The husband is really a good man. He waits on us hand and foot. He puts up with a lot. There are times we can be not so nice. I almost feel like it is owed to him. But if I don’t get anything out of it then it’s just another man taking advantage of us and I can’t bear to look at him that way.
I knew he would want it tonight. The signs were all there. I cut him off at the pass. I didn’t want to have to wait until later. I wanted to get the torture over with. So I approached him to see if we could go ahead and do it. Of course, he didn’t put up a fuss. Sixty seconds later it was over and I asked to be left alone. He knows I’m not okay by the tears travelling down my cheeks but I implored him to leave. Nothing good can come of telling him I don’t want sex. There are lots of good theories floating around as to the sexual aversion; I don’t care about the source. I just feel like it will never go away, so why discuss a problem with him that has no solution.
I’m so upset. I can’t stop the flow of tears. I feel I betrayed everything and possibly everyone just to protect myself from having to endure the anxiety of knowing he will be expecting it. Sex was inevitable, if that’s what you want to call it. It’s not possible to hate myself anymore. It’s just impossible. I hate everything about me and I just want to go skydiving (reference to something else).
I’m losing it more and more every day. There is no motivation or drive to get better. How do I know this is not “better”? How do I not know this is as good as it gets, at least for this disentitled being? My thoughts scare me. They take me to a dark, scary, and lonely place. Right now I feel so lonely and ashamed. Yet, I’m torn. I don’t know if I would have made any other decision regarding sex.
Even though it might appear a betrayal, was I not saving some, at least myself, by going ahead and getting it over with? There was no chance for others to slip in and out. It was just me taking the brunt of his sexuality. Does it matter at this point? Am I just spinning it? The others are coming and taking my words.
I’m keeping a food journal. I would like to track how fat I really am. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to turn down food, feeling hunger pains, or become dizzy when I stand. Nothing can save this now. I wouldn’t want it even if it was available. The last song has been sung. I’m too tired and sad to compete.
The shifts have been rather low key since I’ve been at the in-laws. There were some problems today that required a tranquilizer. We sat down for lunch/dinner. I was okay up until that point. I could a pot of my renowned Collard Greens and a new recipe for a Pumpkin Streusel Pudding Pie. I tasted each. They were really good, if I dare admit. I tasted the turkey, dressing, cranberries, and corn. After a few bites I knew I was in danger so I stopped eating. When I left the table the anxiety was so overwhelming and the switches were coming and going right and left that I had to take a tranquilizer. I took another one after sex with the husband. I wish I had some alcohol. The in-laws don’t drink. I do, and Lord, how I want one now!!!!! A big tumbler full of cheap, get-me-there-quick wine to wash down the tranquilizer and muscle relaxer is what I want since skydiving is not possible at the moment. I know I’m being bad. No one has any idea how cheap, degraded, ashamed, debased, depressed, and deplorable I feel. So the only big problem with shifting has been around food. Classic.
I know this comes off as whining, moaning, and being bitchy. I don’t give a fuck. It is what it is and that should scare the hell out of everyone. Fuck off.
I only ever wanted help and the only one to help me is the very one that gave up on me. I don’t know how to get it back. The previous quest for recovery that held the bright, burning drive inside me to get better is cold and etiolated.
There is so much inside the head that I want to say but it is being stolen so easily. The words are robbed and I am bankrupt of everything I want and need.
I feel so dirty.