She got me. Yeah, but this time it wasn’t the black bitch. It was Doe. Once again, how wonderful it is to know I never have to see my parents again or ever be abused by them again, but what a shame it is to know I have to live with the memories. Memories that pop into my head spontaneously. It doesn’t matter what mood I’m in, where I am, what I’m doing; they can come to mind any time, any day, any place. And believe me, the memories are almost as detrimental to my mental health as the actual events were. They really cause a lot of stress, anxiety, sadness, and sometimes, still a bit of anger, too. How one can hurt over something that happened nearly 25 years ago? Telling myself it’s done and over with, I can’t change the past, move on, don’t think about it, it can’t happen again isn’t always so easy. No one could easily forget that their own mother would’ve left them to die if circumstances had been just a little bit different.

I was forcefully remembering the time I starved myself for a few days at the beach. I had no liquids either. Hey, I was only around 10, so I didn’t know any better about the importance of water. On the third day of no food/liquids, I couldn’t lift my head off the pillow when I awoke. I probably wrote about this before, but anyway, she didn’t feel the least bit sorry for me. Her exact words to me, and I remember them as if she’d said them just yesterday, were, “You did it, you correct it.” 

That’s some mother I had, huh? Yeah, I did a stupid thing, but what do you expect from a kid so young? Utter perfection? If it weren’t for that bedroom being right off the kitchen, and if it weren’t for the cabinets containing food being about 5’ away, I’d be dead for sure. I remember how strenuous it was to get up, grab that Devil Dog out of the cabinet, then hop back into bed. I pretty much fell back into bed. Anyway, I could ever so barely muster up the strength to do this, and I remember it took 10 minutes to slow my heart down and gather enough strength just to eat the damn thing. I think – tell me I wouldn’t have died if the food had been further away or even on another floor. Tell me my own mother wouldn’t have let me die – but she would have. She just didn’t care. Perhaps I did the wrong thing by saving myself. Maybe I should’ve let myself die instead of fighting for my life that day while she played backgammon in the next room with her gal pal Charlotte, determined to have a good time and not let her virtually dying daughter ruin her day. Maybe I should’ve let go and given up, sparing myself many years of emotional and physical grief, and maybe teaching this pitiful excuse of a mother a lesson. Maybe it would’ve served her right if I’d died when I jumped instead of breaking my arm. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Later...

Another hour will mark the date we moved exactly one year ago. I never would’ve believed it in a million years if someone had told me the freeloaders would still be a problem, either!

I feel both rejected and relieved by Tom’s not hitting me for sex after all this time. Maybe I don’t turn him off, but I sure feel like I don’t turn him on, either. I feel like the last time I really turned him on was when we first met. It’s that way for me, too. I know most of his turnoff stems from his baby fears and his stubbornness to admit this to me. I still think something’s wrong with me, but it doesn’t matter cuz a woman doesn’t have to be sterile for a kid to be not meant to be. I just wish he could see this! Even if he opts to never cum again, I wish he could see that there’s no way I could conceive anyway, and if there ever was the slightest chance that I could, he’s made sure that that’ll never happen.

Regardless of who’s afraid of what and of what’s destined, I wish I’d started things off right! I wish I’d let him screw me from the get-go and not been like I was; having to go slow. I wish I’d been on birth control. Maybe that would’ve saved us from a lot of BS; if I had gone by the fact that most guys don’t want kids, and by the fact that I’ve known pretty much all my life that that wasn’t meant to be anyway, and had gotten on birth control or gotten myself permanently fixed.

Sometimes I wonder – did this man, who’s so wonderful and so close to perfect 95% of the time, trick me into marriage by telling me he’d cum regularly and that he wasn’t afraid to have a kid? Did he, and is he still, assuming I’d just throw my life away on account of his cumless dick and fears to just sit home all my life and clean the house? Did he assume I’d give up and lose the desire to pursue my dreams? Well, I definitely lost the desire, and I’d definitely rather be bored here at home with him than worse off all alone somewhere else. If I’m right about any of this, though – how dare he take me for granted like that, assume so much, and risk losing me while doing it! I may not want a kid like I used to, but the point’s still the same – he’s always lied, strung me along, and made such lame excuses about it, and I wish to hell he’d come clean. If he hasn’t yet, he obviously never will level with me honestly about his not cumming, unless he intends to wait till after menopause. Nonetheless, he should’ve leveled with me up front. I had a right to know the truth from the start. Not figure it out for myself in time by watching his actions. If he had had a genuine physical problem or came out and bluntly admitted to not wanting a kid, that would’ve been OK. I’d still have loved him enough to marry him. And whether or not he continues to bullshit me, I’m with him for life either way, but it’d still be nice to hear the truth. Knowing the truth and seeing the truth is one thing, but having it admitted to you is another. I don’t expect I’ll ever get an admission from him like I should have up front, but better a late one than to never receive one at all.

Do I want him to hit on me tomorrow, Sunday, our usual sex day? Yes and no. If he’s reading my journals he’d know I might be ovulating at this time (if I really do) so that may either scare him off or scare him into playing games, which he also finds quite amusing. You know, the one where he “forgets” how to fuck me, or is just too soft altogether. Sometimes he never gets hard, other times he deflates right before he’s about to enter me. Then again, I might’ve mentioned bleeding a couple of weeks ago, and so he wouldn’t necessarily need to read this with his great memory. And he has an easier time, like most of us, remembering the things that are most important to him, too. Anyway, I want him to hit on me so I don’t have to feel like some abnormal freak (something I feel enough of already), and I don’t want to feel like a turnoff, but he turns me off as well, just for different reasons. So, I don’t want him to hit on me, cuz I can’t get aroused because of his predictability and because of his not getting all that into it. It’s hard to get off by someone who doesn’t get off by you, and God only knows I managed to do so for the first year or two. I’m not saying I’d necessarily get off regularly if we suddenly had spontaneous sex where I never knew what to expect in bed from him, and where there was a 50/50 chance of his cumming, but I might more often.

Tom may find me more of a turnoff than any other woman he’s been with, due to how bad I wanted a kid at first and cuz of my aggressiveness, but I don’t think he’s ever been a very sexual person to begin with. He’s just not big on sex and is even sort of prudish. The guy wanted me to shut the blinds in the bedroom one time, and I was like – oh, please! How the hell are people going to see in a house with no lights on, in the daytime, from a few hundred feet away? If it weren’t for his low drive and prudishness, I might wonder if he was cheating. They say that if you’re not getting it from your mate, you’re getting it elsewhere, but this usually applies to those with an appetite.