This is my party, and you are not invited. This is my party, and I’ll cry all I want. This is my party, and I wouldn’t be having it if you weren’t a total douchebag. This is my party. I made the decorations. I made the favors. I made the invitations, and I sent them out. You, however, have contributed the games. I don’t like them, but I suppose you had to have some part lest you feel left out. But this is my party. I am in charge here.
This is an open-door party. I am aware that I flung the front door wide open and placed the balloons out front. I put up signs and arrows. The guest list is long and new attendees arrive regularly. I welcome them with open arms, an open mind, and an open story. But I do not welcome you. You are the party crasher. You alone hold that honor. You are the cancelled clown.
You have an insatiable need to be validated, but that is not what is happening here. Nothing here is to validate your actions as just, as deserved, as desired. Everything here is to chronicle the ongoing abuse, oh and yes sir this is abuse that I chronicle. It is the abuse then. It is the abuse now. It will be the abuse yet to come. I am no fool. I know there is more to come. Much more. A lifetime’s worth.
I am serving a life sentence for the mistake of allowing you into my life, for allowing you to make me feel a fool for finding the fabulous in the everyday. I am serving a life sentence for letting you see where I lived, where you moved in without discussion or warning. You just didn’t leave. I am serving a life sentence for not listening to the friends who loved me, and instead listening to a man who objected me. I am serving a life sentence for letting you talk me into sex I didn’t want, for not allowing you to talk me into an abortion, for caving to the pressure to marry a man I did not love, did not like, did not respect. I am serving a life sentence for believing that all was not lost when nothing could be found.
You see this as the vengeful, bitch ex-wife lashing out. You are wrong. This is not vengeance. You’re not wrong. I am lashing out. I am angry. I have every right to be. Your lies, your deceit, your manipulations, your threats, your put-downs, your control, your punches, your silence and your screaming, your hate, your anger, and your illusions of being the know-all, have-all, and be-all of all people, places, and things have given me much to be angry with.
You are a wife-beating, child abusing, drunk, sorry excuse for a man. You are the deliberate donkey. You have unleashed that which you tried to collar. I am a writer. I am writing. Again. You silenced my voice, but now it rings loud and clear, and quoting my blog posts to me isn’t going to quiet me, not anymore. It isn’t going to make me question if I should write. It is going to make me question how to write. Quit being a self-serving ass, and I won’t have anything to write about here; I won’t have anything to write about here. I will still write. I cannot be stopped. Not by you.
I have been writing here now for one year. It is my blogiversary. I am celebrating what you have given me, and that is this space. Don’t get too excited. It’s not all about you. It’s about me. It’s about my growth, my recovery, my process. This is my room of my own. It is a one-person room, though there are many here.
“The devil went down to Georgia. He was looking for a soul to steal.” But this Johnny lost that bet, though she is the best that’s ever been.
I am the best. I am the best me that’s ever been. I am smart. I am strong. I am brave. I am beautiful. I don’t just tell this to my kids. When I tell them “you are brave, beautiful, smart, and strong,” I am also saying this to myself. I believe it. I am smart. I am strong. I am brave. I am beautiful. Don’t you forget it. And that’s an order.
With no love and all sincerity,