cunt power · Onward and upward

Mad on a Friday

There is the story in Al-Anon that goes something likes this:

A woman complains that her man is always drunk on Friday nights, and she is always irate on Friday nights.

She is always mad on Friday.

He is always drunk on Friday.

Both have the power to choose, of course, but only one can influence your response, and that is you.

But it is most difficult. It is even more difficult when your ex and his family have decided that you are Enemy #1 and have drawn you into an inexplicable legal war.

It is not unlike Trump and his sordid relationship with America, where he is set up to avoid his responsibilities and gets out of taking responsibility for  fucking people over. He is one spit-shined turd. His grievances keep coming and coming, as do his followers. If your heart sinks at the thought of this man becoming president, then imagine being married to him. What if you divorced a litigious man? What if your marriage was like being in a court of law, where what the judge dictated was law and you were always breaking the law? And sometimes, the law was completely unknown!

An then, what if you divorced this litigious, my-way-or-the-highway person, and you suddenly had your own personal little Trump? Someone to kick your ass legally for no apparent reason, someone to fuck you up the ass when you need it the least, someone to pretend he is the best motherfucker since sliced bread? Someone who struts like he is a gift to the very air around him.

So recently, when my personal Trump was “drunk on a Friday” where the kids were concerned, I held my ground. I did not dissolve into tears in front of him, but I did expose my vulnerability of wanting to be included in my children’s lives. That was my one mistake. Otherwise, I held strong.

It was completely appropriate for me to be “mad on a Friday”. There was every reason for me to be angry, and my anger fueled me into rightful action. It is never a black-and-white proposition. But the catch is when one hopes they will change, or orients one’s behavior towards getting them to change in some way.  They won’t, they can’t, they choose not to. The raging disappointment, the powerlessness, and the pain of having loved a fucktard comes crashing around you. The pain of having enabled a fucktard to BE more fucktard-y is unreal. In fact, because you are so much smarter than any fucktard, he probably got his ideas from you and then turned them into pure shit. The thought of being smeared with toxic fucktard slime is unbearable sometimes. Ugh! Ewwww! Get it off of me!

Those are the times to polish your crown, call all the power of your cunt, including your anger, and get ‘er done. Call on your friends. Call your therapist. Go to yoga. Call on your knowledge. Call on your sweet men, the ones who are completely safe. But don’t hope he will change.

 

 

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