Have you ever had a problem with a relationship? I feel like I want to stick with it but it’s not going well. I don’t think it’s going anywhere. Is that really my fear? Is that what I’m truly afraid to admit? What do you think I should do?
—Timid and Tired
Dear Timid and Tired,
Once upon a time, I never felt more powerless in a relationship. My need to be with him intensified.
I’m embarrassed by it, tales of sex with a stranger behind the dumpster was easier to say. The hours spent wondering about my relationship alarmed me. Was there more to life than obsessing over it?
I’m done rationalizing red flags or taking the high road whenever he had an episode.
I have to go back to being a selfish, narcissistic bitch who refused to put up with any man’s bullshit.
That’s life for you, living large enough for two like I’m pregnant with his fetus. Sex then love. He gave it to me slowly. At least until I pass out from passing too much gas.
Oh, the agony and ecstasy of anal sex lubed up. He filled my hole, which had me singing, “Make You Feel My Love.”
I longed for him, waiting for an appearance to make the wait worthwhile.
I was high on his love drug. It tested my gag reflex and sanity. Was I in love?
I hated it like basic cable and the fables that suggested that fags go to hell, checking in like a gay hotel.
Pretending to be straight would make me suicidal—slitting my wrists to this, while jamming his fists in — blissful and full of blisters like my twisted sister who shot crack in cigarettes. She nearly blew her face off at the cost of self-esteem. She’s a tough act to follow.
Now she’s married with half-a-dozen kids living in a hotel because the shelter was overcrowded. It was like winning the housing lottery. But to lose would have you singing the blues, while stacked in a shack.
I didn’t want to end up like that. I’m reduced to self-pity because I wasted my pretty on a married man—two weeks until his divorce decree.
I was smitten, broken and dreaming of being in love again. My fairy tale was when this fairy shook his tail while rocking Chanel. The two interlocking “C’s” on my chest would slay any hood boy in the vicinity. My life lingered like a homeless woman with red lips and botched butt injections.
Kardashian it up like glitter on trash. I guess we all want to shine. Even in the dim lights that mark late night.
I was tired of being ignored. I’m not the enemy but from my vantage point, I felt discarded and alone.
Excuses piled up like Trump headlines. An abuse of power brought a tinge of sadness.
But in the end, I will emerge reborn. 10 pounds lighter and with a future a lot brighter.
Sometimes you stay or sometimes you have to find your own way.
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Got a question? Email your letters at [email protected] His advice column will appear on Wednesday.