I have to admit, even I gave him more credit than this.
I knew I’d hear from him again. It was only a matter of time. Probably when he’s drunk. But really? It’s only been a couple days. I figured at least a week… I barely got done finishing my blog post detailing the last bit when I got this.
I’m planning on changing my number… I am. I should do that. Like now…
…but then I won’t get his messages…. sigh. Why always that tiny, tiny piece of me holding back?
–> PB
I’m obsessed. I have Ryan and his whore blocked on my Facebook, mostly to keep me obsessively checking for any new Public posts (none, ever.) So what did I do? I created a fake FB account to check every now and again. That was a couple weeks ago. Fucking sad, I know, I know. I’m really ashamed of it.
But, I once again get more reassurance (SINCE I CLEARLY FUCKING NEED IT BECAUSE I’M SO FUCKING STUPID) that my soon-to-be ex-husband is a no-good, lying piece-of-shit, even when he’s “begging” for me back. I say “begging” because he’s not even really fighting for me. Never really has. It was dead, but he had a sliver of a chance if he fought from the second it– holy fuck why am I even thinking about this?!
Here:
If you’re at all familiar with FB, you already know what this means. I added a little screenshot snip at the bottom of the date and time so I never try to kid myself that this screenshot is older. This is B-Skank’s friends list. Ryan has his hidden. HMM, WONDER WHY? Look who’s still friends despite “cutting all contact besides work”. I would really like to send a screenshot of this to him with his fucking drawing.
But no. That would show that I care. Which I don’t. I’m better off without him. I keep posting all this fucking shit on here about him to get it the fuck out of my head. The rest of the time, usually the time I, as my dad would call it, “go dark” I’m actually doing well. Funny because when my dad uses it, it’s the opposite. I “go dark” on my dad (aka, don’t answer texts or calls, or reply with one-liners) whenever I’m feeling like I’m thinking, doing, or have done something he would be ashamed of. But when I go dark on my blog, it means either I’m busy, lazy, or okay and don’t need to “throw up” lol.
I don’t know, I guess that makes for a hella depressing blog to read, but I don’t care. It works for me.
Anyways, as for Ryan, I’m going to try and leave this jealousy (ugh…) on the blog and not in my head. And the drawing… I don’t know. I both desperately want to send it, but not only do I not want to send the wrong impression to him about us and have him harass me again, I’m also feeling less and less giving towards him. Rightfully so, I know. I told a female coworker who I’ve been confiding to about all this that I owe him nothing. While in support of my decision to send the gift, she still flatly state, “No you don’t.” But she understands that I want to do this for me, not him. To send it and let a part of him go, I don’t fucking know. I WANT TO SEND IT GOD-FUCKING-DAMN IT. JUDGE ME.
I’m holding off for now. I don’t leave for another 8 days. I still think the best plan if I do decide to send the drawing to Ryan is to wait and drop it in the mail on the way out of town. By the time he receives it, I’ll be safely three states away. No matter how strong I think I am, he always finds a way to charm me. I’m 99.999% sure that nothing could send me back to that man after all this fucking fuckery… Better safe than sorry though…
My life is a light-switch. I live with 180° changes in my life on a minute-by-minute, hour-by-hour basis. It’s not a choice. It’s wiring. Black & white. Borderline at its finest.
…They should make the BPD mascot a panda bear.
–> PB
That’s how many hours Ryan has played Left 4 Dead 2 in the last 2 weeks. 12.5 hours. Let me explain this very clearly: Ryan has logged roughly 3000 hours just to that game. Like this fucking game has led to many fights where shit has gotten destroyed. Ryan literally destroyed his entire computer over this game because we had a fight about it. A bad one. Ryan could easily log 12.5 hours in one day even with working. So that only in 2 weeks is… It bothers me. It shouldn’t but it does. I want it to stop but it wont. So what is he doing? It says he’s online, so what is he doing? He probably is online on his phone. It doesn’t specify on Steam. But there is an app that allows you to get on your phone and will still say you’re online because you can chat. But that means he could be anywhere. I assumed he didn’t have the app because he was logged off when he was at work and sleeping. And Steam almost never logs you off. But it eats your battery like hell and Ryan knows that so he could be manually turning it off. And I’m way over thinking all this! But. I.. Cant. Help. It. It makes me so sad that I can’t. But the biggest thing that bothers me is where is he? Where’s he been the last two weeks? Exactly. At his fucking whore’s. I’m not surprised but that doesn’t mean I can’t be irritated about it. I’m so so sick of him because I’m so so sick of being reminded that I am second best to him. I’m second choice. I’m the fucking pity fuck. I’m the go-to when you have nowhere else.
I’M. NOT. SECOND. BEST.
–> PB
Woke up to this:
I have to admit, the second I read the word B-Skank I thought that he had found my blog. But then I remembered that that’s actually what I called her to him too. Because I couldn’t stomach her name.
He’s lying, he’s lying, he’s lying. I have to keep telling myself that or I will forget. Or rather won’t forget, but blissfully ignore. Part of me wants to believe him. But that part is getting smaller every single day.
Since I was out of pot anyways and couldn’t spend the time before work smoking, I took my time getting ready this morning. I ended up spending a fair amount of time dancing in the mirror lol. Its felt good. It felt good to smile. It felt good to feel good about myself for a short bit.
But now, here comes Ryan. I’m trying so hard not to react.
Not to tell him, “So your girlfriend broke up with you and your running back to wifey?”
Not to say, “This took over a week after the fact because…?”
Fucked up thing about this all is that the thing I want to do the most is not to contact Ryan but to go after that bitch for defying what I told her. I wasn’t fucking bluffing. I am one bitch to seriously be reckoned with as Ryan has found out. But he already knew that. So yeah, I could hurt her. I could hurt her bad. Without laying a god damn finger on her. Those are the best kind of hurt, the best kind of revenge.
But why? Really. Why? Why, Panda? What’s the point? I have the best revenge. She got him. And what’s the point over going after someone for being with someone that I don’t even want to be with? In fact, them being together is actually a benefit to me. It keeps Ryan occupied while I have a chance to heal. And then when it comes time to sign the divorce papers when I get back from my work trip, I won’t even hesitate. He can say anything and I won’t hesitate, not even a flinch.
–> PB
I miss him. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. SERIOUSLY? He cheated on me not once, not twice, but THREE times that I know of, has lied to me for pretty much the entire length of our relationship, lied to my face over and over while taking advantage of my guilt and heartbreak to fuck me and still be with his mistress at the same time, lied, lied, and lied some more…
But then why have I been thinking about him today? I hate him for what he’s done. Especially recently, that really fucking hurt. Especially the whole shit with him wanting to impregnate me. Yeah. As previously mentioned, this is the first time I’ve really been without internal birth control since I was 17 years old; I just turned 24. I finally got my expired IUD replace a couple weeks ago, but it takes a month to be fully effective. I’m thinking, No fucking sweat, my husband’s a cheating bastard and I’m not exactly ready to ride the rebound horse yet. Yeah. Funny how fast things are flip-flopping lately.
Fast-forward about two weeks and insert Panda somehow somehow SOMEHOW ending up back in his arms. And God-fucking-damn-it the sex… He was like the husband I never married. Libido issues were pretty serious in our marriage. My sex-drive is far higher than Ryan’s, and he was so self-conscious and embarrassed over his body (nothing to be embarrassed about there, but try telling him that) that he’d go long periods of time without getting aroused, and intimacy was lacking, to say the least.
So. Insert new-and-improved, cheating-apparently-made-me-a-whore husband. And I don’t care what ANYONE says about my decision.
Was it a bad one? Absolutely.
Should I have chose to leave instead of sleep with him? Without a doubt.
Would I do it differently given the chance? Not in a million years.
I’m sure that makes me a horrible person in some sense even if only to myself, but I can’t help it. He’s my husband. Despite his actions and motives, I married him because I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. I wanted to see what he looked like at 40 or 50 years old to see if my suspicions of his alien-youth are true and he only looks 25. I wanted to see our child born, him holding her for the first time, a father. I wanted to hold his hand when our daughter graduates high school and college. I wanted to watch him walk our daughter down the aisle to begin her own adventure. That’s what marriage was to me: an adventure. I don’t know when that really changed…
I love my husband, God fucking help me, despite everything. The lying. The cheating. The heartbreak, hurt, deceit, and betrayal… I still love him. So when he wraps his arms around me and whispers into my ear while he’s hard, throbbing against my thighs. Every word he speaks tingles my ear and sends shivers down my spine. The butterflies and tingles I hadn’t felt in so long came back so powerful and vibrant, it was like a new high. His lips glide my neck. He says he loves me, that I’m his only; he needs me, he says. Those lies slip so easily through his mouth that I wondered again if maybe even he believed them at that moment. But I silence the truth in my head. I’m losing to the dream. I don’t believe him even for a second… but I want to. He presses harder. I turn my head but at this point I’m backed against the kitchen wall. He tells me he wants me, now, and grabs me. That was it. I was done. We crashed our mouths together, so hungry for him I couldn’t stand it, as we twirled around moving towards the bedroom. I had no chance. I knew I had no chance from the beginning. Maybe that’s why I had no chance.
The first time, I knew we needed external protection. A fucking condom. I hadn’t used one in so long, but I remember them feeling really weird. So although I mentioned it to Ryan, when the blaze took over I made no complaint when he entered without. It felt so good. Not just the sex, but the sex with him. I don’t get all sappy as shit on sex because of my past. I rarely if ever refer to it as “making love”. I mostly call it a fuck. But fuck or not, sex does still have some meaning apparently because I only think about him. The next morning was when, after a frightening moment of hesitation, I bought the morning after pill I mentioned in a post.
The next time we had sex we used protection, but of course using condoms sucked for both of us. Not only was it physically displeasing and ruin some of the connection between partners but Ryan and I are married. We’ve never had to think about condoms since I’ve had the IUD. We managed, though. Two or three sack sessions with condoms.
The longer Ryan and I spent together [over the four days], the more lost I got in the fantasy. Ryan mentioned at one point that he was kinda sad when I bought a morning after pill. Of course, I’m a practical girl. I’ve been through everything in the world except one: pregnancy. Thank fucking God I did one thing right. So, I thought this comment proved how immature and impulsive Ryan was. But… again… some part of me allowed myself to consider it. Fantasize. God, his beautiful red/light brown hair raining down our daughters back as she looks at me with Daddy’s eyes. Ryan and I talked about life plans and children a lot. Not meaning that we wanted them right now, or even at all, just that we liked to dream a lot. Ryan’s a dreamer.
Weeeell, the next time we were in bed together making out and touching each other, this came up again… As it became obvious that I was almost primed to go, he started breathing heavy that he wanted to cum inside me. He wanted me to get pregnant. I’m like, Are you fucking kidding me? I told him, trying so hard to talk without quivering, that we couldn’t, but he was as persistent as I’ve ever seen him. (Now maybe I know why, seeing how this ended.) A few solid minutes of back and forth over this, me begging him at one point to please let us talk about this later, I felt myself coming dangerously close to a lifelong regretful decision; I breathed out and said that if he didn’t put a condom on, we couldn’t have sex. He got visibly irritated. Clearly not just about the condom, but my reaction to his “idea”.
Fast-forward a short bit. (By “short”, I literally mean an hour, two tops.) Ryan is cooking dinner for our cheesy, fake “date” night. He sits in his chair and pulls me down into his lap. I end up sitting straddling him. I stared at his almost-familiar, almost-not features; ran my fingers through his lush hair that I so loved. I made a comment that we never take videos anymore and he suggested we take one. We proceed to film for about 15 minutes. It was us sitting like that looking at each other talking about us; him saying we need to stay married; me saying we can’t; him saying he only wants his child with me; me saying that’s crazy, a child is not a fix for a broken marriage, and I can’t handle having a child right now; him saying I’m his only one, he’ll never, ever, never, never, NEVER even look at another woman again; me saying I don’t believe him (but wanting so desperately to). He couldn’t even cut contact with B-Skank. Everytime I asked why he can’t just stop talking to her, he would just say, There’s nothing even going on. Typical Ryan bullshit and it was so obviously stinking up the room. He kept saying all he cared about was me, yet when I would explain that it makes no sense why he would not cut this bitch from his (our, since I’m still stuck married to him) life since it so clearly upsets me, that was the response I kept getting. I tried to pay no attention. I didn’t have to care. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t real. This was a fantasy. It will end. I don’t care.
But I did. I do.
After the video, I turned and took a quick pic of us together. I thought it would make a cute background. Ryan had a picture of him and B-Skank as his Lock wallpaper until I saw it a couple days earlier and… tried very hard to keep my composure and show none of the hurt that exploded inside me like dynamite. To remedy this, I asked Ryan for his phone. I wanted to set that pic as the background. He stiffened, then immediately reached for it on the desk before I could touch it. I raised my eyebrows and saw him close his text messages. I grabbed it and looked. Sure enough… sure the fuck enough, right there at the top was “B* Baby” with a last text of “Love you night”. From today. From just before then. I take a single second, not one more, to check the recent texts for content and dates. I had to scroll through an… I don’t even have the word.. infuriating? Fucking horrible?–amount of texts to find even just the most recent date on the texts, which was Sunday, then Monday. This was on Monday night. He was still, STILL lying and cheating on me. SERIOUSLY?
Now, many of you may think, Fucking DUH, you dumb ho. Right, I feel you. I only blame myself. This should have not been such a shocker. And really, a “shocker?” Not really. More a very hurtful, angering stab of betrayal on the already gushing wound in my chest. To say that I lost it would be a bit of an understatement. All the “You’re handling this really well!” from the big discovery got well made up for.
**I’d like to note before continuing that although I don’t at all justify my actions, they sound much worse without past context. Ryan and I were extremely… I don’t know a better word than just crazy, together. I love doing super fucked-up shit and he loved doing it with me. Almost everything he’s done to me, I’ve done right back, usually harder. We’ve punched, choked, scratched, slapped, ragdoll’d, thrown things, held knives against each other, pretty much anything. Let me stress this was not like a DV situation. We choked each other for the high. We punched each other to see who could get a bigger bruise. It’s just fucked up shit like that. So what happened here, although in different feeling, was nothing that had not happened before.**
I’m still straddling Ryan on the chair, holding the phone. I have no words and my face has this astounded, “Really?” look on it. I was waiting. For him to do something. Anything. His facial expression reminded me of a possum in the road. He knows he’s dead but he’s hoping that by some miracle I don’t see it. I don’t remember the exact order of events that followed. I don’t know if I slapped him first, or if he tried to speak and that’s why I slapped him, but it had some force. It was the first time I remember hitting someone with anger. Like, really hitting someone. I also don’t remember if this happened before or after the slap but I grabbed Ryan by the throat with my right hand. He had been saying something like, “Let me explain–” when I cut him off. He kept repeating himself, whatever it was since I wasn’t listening, while I squeezed his neck harder. He wasn’t choking or anything; my hand is not very strong. But I was putting a scary amount of force behind it with a blind rage that I’ve never felt before. I think he was saying to listen to him because I remember leaning into my grip and tightening while asking him between clenched teeth why. After what felt like forever (realistically, probably about 10-15 seconds) I let him go.
I tried to get off of him when he grabbed me hard. He was yelling at me to please listen, let him explain, blahblahblah. As soon as he grabbed me with that force, I knew he was going to make leaving difficult. I don’t know why, maybe just to scare him, maybe to show him I’m serious, I don’t know, but I grabbed my knife off my waist and flicked it open. Ryan and I both carry very nice, very sharp Kershaw knives on us. When the knife clicked open, Ryan didn’t even flinch. He saw it, grabbed my hand, and pressed the 4″ blade to his throat. His eyes were wide with tears forming. He would have let me too. Really. He would rather let me kill him than live with what he’s done. I pulled away and quickly closed the knife.
As I again tried to get up off him, Ryan stood up quickly and tossed me back into the chair. He leaned over me and pinned my arms, ordering me to stay. I noticed my knee was only a few inches shy of his crotch with a clean shot. I did a brief back and forth before deeming it a justified action to get him off me and using a small bit of leverage to get a decent enough hit that he recoiled, giving me the opportunity to wiggle out from under him.
Through some maneauvering, I managed to escape his grasp. I started grabbing my bag and packed up my things while he went from yelling, to crying, to screaming, to pleading me to listen/talk/let him explain/don’t leave. It took about 10 minutes to get out of there, but not before I added one more flattering punch to this cocktail of fuckery.
Before I left, I did the one thing I’d been wanting to do for so long. I grabbed Ryan’s phone and demanded he bring up her contact info. He was in full hysterics at this point. He did the typical delete-it, I-feel-so-bad-I’ll-just-delete-it-all (thus also deleting the evidence so Panda-wife will never know what was said, oh, coincidence?) on his messages. I didn’t care, thought. That wasn’t what I wanted. I’ve read enough of my husband’s cheating chat-chatter to last me a hundred years. After another prod, he brought up the contact page. I grabbed the phone and hit Call. Once Ryan saw was I was really getting after, his eyes first went wide, then glue to the floor while he mumbled that she probably won’t even answer. Good. Counting on that. If she answered, she’d just hang up on me. But a voice mail. Everyone will listen to the whole thing. They have to. Curiosity.
Now, once again, being a logical, rational person under most normal circumstances, I realize this was the dumbest idea because I was not only making a clear threat to someone else, but I’m leaving it on a voice mail. Why do it then, you ask? Well, obviously answer: at that point, I didn’t care. But, more than that, B-Skank (who is 18, let me remind you) never told her parents her boyfriend that they apparently like so much is already married. Yeeeah, that’s kind of a shameful thing, HUH? So I figure, either way I win. Either she’s frightened by me, rightfully so, or she has to confess the situation to her dad when she asks his help with me. She’s not going to the cops or some shit. She’s a daddy’s girl. Never met the whore, but I can tell by what I’ve seen and heard.
I didn’t threaten to kill her or anything. But I did say that she needs to stay the fuck away from my husband, whether I’m with him or not (don’t ask why this matters to me because I don’t know) and that if she doesn’t, she will regret it. I also mentioned Ryan and I had been fucking for the previous week since I doubt he shared that little detail with his love.
—— SIGH. That was a lot. I needed to get it out, but when I started this particular entry, I was not intending to get into everything. It’s just bothersome I guess because the couple people who do know what happened don’t know all the details. The pregnancy things. The knife. Just didn’t think that would be a good thing to share around… If Ryan were genuinely afraid of me, he’d file charges. Trust me. That kid loves a fucking fight. He threatened to call the police when I wouldn’t return his calls after I found out about the affair. Dumbass.
The real point of this post, now that you know EVERYTHING, is WHY THE FUCK DO I STILL MISS HIM? What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck! I get it. I got hit with the fucking DUH! hammer enough times. He’s a cheater. A Liar. There will never be an “us” again. We will never be together again.
Yet… this longing is still here. Not just loneliness either. No, I can finally mostly tell the difference now. This is longing. I miss him.
Fuck. Him. He can go to fucking hell.
…just promise I can meet you there and be yours, finally only yours..
–> PB
Panda's Privates 