Commence Swearing

I’ve fucking had it up to my eyeballs. I’m so close to the breaking point, I might actually have already passed it, but be currently unaware of that fact - not even walking two miles with the dogs, while carrying the long-handled frog net calmed me tonight, and that was after my stint at kickboxing this am, where we beat the shit out of “people” like kickbags with escreame sticks. Think: large heavy golf club hits ocibital bone. Instant blindness. Or, as I was hitting it, death.

Naturally, B would be at the heart of much of this - he’s totally fallen off the fucking wagon, and taken the wheels with him. He won’t file his divorce paperwork? Fine. I’ll go in, and change the grounds, thereby cirmventing this whole He’s Got Five Years To Dick Me Around Nonsense. Does it mean I have to give a deposition on all the shit he pulled while we were married? Yes. Wanna bet how I feel about that? You got it. Pissed to all hell and beyond. I filed a motion for child support; in the middle of all of this, I discover that he had ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS TO GET HIS GUNS BACK - something I was promised wouldn’t happen - he should be in jail for the suspended license to carry, for a RESTRAINING ORDER, but well. He convinced someone he was okay, and I was a nutjob, and well, now he’s armed to the fucking teeth.

Did I mention, he’s not taking his meds?

That’s right. The state of MA demanded through DSS that he remain medicated, for the rest of his natural life (which if you ask me, ended a long time ago, and now, he’s just on borrowed time til I figure out how to kill him and get away with it) so now I’ve also had to face down any mother’s worst nightmare, and go ask them to get involved. You know, because he doesn’t feed the kids, or he feeds them candy, and then when they crash, which inevitably will occur, he yells at them. They locked themselves in a bathroom, got naked, and stamped each other, along with a whole host of other questionable (to say the very least) activities, all with B’s gf’s daughter, who, and this is from BOTH kids, was the instigator. Where was B or C? might you ask. Good question. I suspect? Getting it on. On the kitchen counter. They didn’t even notice til nearly a half hour had gone by. They don’t bathe or brush teeth when theyr’e there, and, if M and I don’t bring over food? There isn’t any for the kids. DSS loved that.

To add insult to injury, I get a call yesterday, at about four or so, telling me the dogs, for whom he is supposed to be caring, have not eaten since Friday, and they’re starting to get pissy. Could I either fix his upsidedown bank account (to the tune of EIGHT HUNDRED DOLLARS) so he can go buy dog food, or, just come get them?

Enroute, I find out (thank goodness H fell asleep; he would’ve learned a whole new vocabulary) the truck will be repo’d, the house is going into foreclosure (again) and his electricity is seconds away from being turned off. Which will really piss him off, because he’s paid the cable bill. Are you serious??? Oh, right, he throws in, and his grandmother passed away. Yesterday, at 3pm. So. He’ll be coming north with me, and staying with me for the furneral etc, which isn’t til Thursday night.

Uh………NO. You’re not.

He looks dreadful; sounds worse, and his precious guns? Laying around the house, no trigger locks on, just laying there. Staring at him. Evidently, in some cases? Loaded. He’s not eaten. Not slept. No meds. Probably broke up with C; so really, we should reconcile. I called Claire. Honestly? And yes, I know this sounds bad: I don’t think that either his first ex-wife M or I should be the ones to find him, when he offs himself. That’s her job now. She said she wanted to take him on. She lectured me on what a horrific parent I am, how all this shit with B was MY fault; and now, the shit hit the fan? She’s history.

I’m fucking pissed. And, I feel guilty. He’s sooo damn good at emotional manipulation and blackmail, it’s unbelieveable! I know better than to get sucked in by him, but it’s soooo hard not to.

Funny. I left last night, feeling like the lowest of the low, leaving him to kill himself, which he all but told me he was going to do, twirling around a loaded gun, that I took out of his hands; I kept looking at H, thinking I’ve got to do something. Anything.

I’ve nothing to feel guilty for. I don’t know why I keep getting suckered in by his array of shit; I swear, all teh time, that that’s the last straw; but it’s so tough to outrun him.

But I’m trying. God knows, I’m giving it the best I’ve got. So far tonight? I’ve run two miles further from him. It’s at least a start.

Now, if I can quit calling him a m-fing cocksucker, in public, I might be making some REAL progress.