If You Couldn't See A Method To My Madness...
Well, Baby, you just don't know what it is that I do.
I know that sometimes I can appear to be chasing my own ass in a circle. That perhaps I don’t have a plan, a clue, a direction, a general idea of my scenario.
Don’t get me tangled or twisted; this is all premeditated in this area. *waves well-manicured hand over her own damned area*
I write funny things about the shit that is uncomfortable to address publically. Y’all think it was easy for me to come here and tell you about the man who slept with a bunch of random men behind my back? Y’all think it was anything less than humiliating to tell y’all I was threatened and manipulated into a situation where that dude was putting his fucking hands on me and I had to stand there and take it? That I enjoyed airing that shit out for everyone to have a good look before they cut their eyes at me like I had somehow asked for that?
Let me straighten the erroneous: hell, no, bitch, that shit was to this day nauseating. I cried as I wrote it, and then I cried when I read the shit back. But my reasons, although not always written in bold, were there and it didn’t take long before my email notifications started buzzing in my back pocket.
“My ex was down low; I walked in on him and his boyfriend in my house”.
“My ex beat me in front of my children so often they didn’t even flinch when it happened any longer”.
“My husband beat me in the front yard in front of the neighbors yesterday. Nobody called the police. Can you point me toward help?”
That is why I tell all the things that I could have let lay dead in a corner. Who am I to tell a woman that I know what kind of spot she’s in, to come to me if she needs to get out, and yet I hide my own trip through hell but pretend I’m a tour guide? No, actually, I will profess that I know this landscape so well because I spent a substantial amount of time in the bowels of hell with nothing less than a demon. I know how your husband acts because I once allowed the same type of pussy excuse for a man to use the one chip he held to keep winning him the pot.
And then something inside my chest snapped. I told myself that there wasn’t a repercussion on Earth as bad as one more day with that monster, with that bitchboy who had to push women around to feel tough. And I stood up and pushed back. And then I said loudly, “you don’t run my fucking show”.
There’s no point of pride there. I never should have allowed him to walk away the first time. I should have taken what I could carry in each garbage bag and hit alligator alley real quick, but I let myself be controlled by the terror associated with the unknown. That’s where they trap you. You prefer the devil you know, but I can attest, sis, he’s always the worst option.
He will see you in a corner, and he’ll paint you there. At least if you take his bargaining chip and face the threat he dangles over your head, what you walk into from there is your choice. Do you really want that evil flap of skin choosing your moves for you? You know you don’t, you know he’ll destroy you on purpose and smile as he does it.
That is why I tell it all. Why I dredge up my own sad ass decision-making skills and air out every bit of dirty laundry like it’s supposed to be viewed. Because, at the end of the day, you’re not alone. I not only have been there, but I’ll also go back to grab your hand and take you out, too. I’ll walk back into the fiery pits of hell to save you from the corner he is adding his finishing touches to.
I mean every word that I say. That’s well-proven. When I tell you that I will find a way, you tell me what’s going on and I will not rest until I find the resources to help you. I know what it feels like to be trapped. I won’t leave another woman there. I just can’t do it.
There is no reason, not one, ever that he should put his hands on you. And yes, my male readers, you already fucking know it works both ways, so don’t ask dumb ass questions and get me started. I’m already fucking .38 hot about it, please don’t push me.
I am going to do exactly as I do, I’m going to tell you my life so that you don’t allow that to become yours. I’m going to offer my hand, and if you take it, he’s going to have to kill us both, and I’m proven on record hard to kill. I will not let you give up. If you want out, we’re going to get you out.
That’s why I don’t leave the skeletons click-clacking in my closet.
That’s why I tell the stories that don’t look good on me.
Sometimes, someone just needs to know that they’re not alone, that they’re not the first woman to suffer this, and there is another side to the hell you’re in today.
I'm the first one willing to slam my ass back to hell to rescue any woman. And have. I've also been that woman sitting on her ass iin the middle of the desert because her "husband" (ha!) wound up and let it rip. I've been surrounded by six people who saw it yet did nothing. That said, I will get you out of the frying pan, but God help you if you go back again. If I put my ass back into your hell, I revisit my own. You put me through that again and return to your Satan, I've got nothing for you anymore.