Diary of a Sex-Starved Pseudo-Mennonite, Part 11

As did many ladies in the 90s seeping into the 2000s, I dressed like a man and often literally in men's clothing. At some point in our relationship, my ex suggested I start dressing as a woman "while I still could." Which is a pretty gross implication. But I took it to heart. With him long gone, I still wear a lot of dresses, but pick out my own now, like a big girl. Yes. He dressed me. It got like that. He convinced me I could not make an acceptable choice for myself. I also did not keep my things in our bedroom. His clothes and shoes were in there. I kept my stuff in another room. Like the help. But my stuff was also really his stuff.

I have been buying a lot of clothes I don't need since he left. And I like the clothes. And other people like the clothes, which shouldn't matter, but it's like a vote of confidence in my ability to make my own choices and to know myself. Years ago I wrote a novel that my ex oversaw, shall we say. One of his suggestions was that I write a novel that was wholesome. What a dick. He was rejecting the purpose of the writing. He wanted to whitewash me. Not because there was anything wrong with me. Just to see if he could. If I would submit.

When I met my ex, I lived with a guy (romantic). When I dated my ex, I lived with a guy (platonic). He was well aware that in my 20s, I had a bunch of male roommates. Which felt like home to me because my mother always had way more men over than women and my brother ran in a pack of dudes, so if he was home, so were half a dozen guys more than likely. Then years into our marriage, I was referencing something about when I lived in a house with half a dozen guys (one romantic) and my husband said, "What kind of a girl DOES that?" Well, the kind of girl he married and knew full well did that. That's what they fucking do. They meet you. They see exactly who you are. They pretend they think that person is amazing. Then they do the old bait and switch and take occupancy of your empathic self, like a slow growing but ultimately highly malignant cancer. They ridicule and sigh and confuse you until you aren't even sure you remember who that person was. That amazing, beautiful, in fact very special, person.

My ex wanted me to look him in the eye when we had sex. I had stopped doing it because frankly the look on his face was so fucking creepy I could not cope with it. If I looked him in the eye, I would have to see it. I would have to see what I married.

He wanted me to tell him he was hot or good-looking or sexy or whatever while we had sex. I could not. Like George Washington, I could not tell the lie. I would not. That part of myself, I held on to. That's what is so sad about our fucking story. I did not marry him for his looks. Not for chemistry or raw attraction. I married him for his personality.

So you see why he had to punish me, sexually. I would not tell the lie he had to have. 

I never expect people to be jealous of me. Especially my husband. So envious that he wanted to obliterate the thing he envied. And I was a thing. Not a person. A trophy. An object. On a good day, a dazzling pet.

He said I wasn't creative or imaginative. He said I was lazy. If I just worked harder, I could have a bikini body. If I just shut my mouth and applied myself, I could be a manager or director I didn't want to be so he could have the money. The suggestion that I was a good person was HIGHLY SUSPECT. When other people said I was, in fact, the kindest person they knew, he looked at me like they were crazy. He said there was so much I did not know. So much. I was bad at laundry. And cooking. And life. 

He tried to convince me I was hairy so I would feel ugly. I am not hairy. But he had me plucking hairs until my eyes were watering from the pain. And when I said to him, "I think you are just making this up" he appeared deeply hurt and said well then he wouldn't try to help me anymore. He would never mention it again. Until I begged him to keep lying to me about myself so he would feel better.

This blog isn't funny. It just isn't. But here it is and I hope it helps somebody.

Until next time, Sweeties!

Ness Sweet Ness