My Pants Are On Fire
I am at work. I didn’t want to come to work with this shit on my face, but what choice did I have? You can only hide from shit for so long, and it will take days for all of this to fade. Sitting and eating lunch, one of the guys jokingly asks if my boyfriend beat me up. I tell my lie, saying the patio umbrella hit my sunglasses, as I was trying to close it in the strong Kansas wind. My boss knows the truth, and maybe others will see through my lie too. I don’t know. I hate that The Cowboy has forced me to lie, because I am a truth-teller. I was born a truth-teller, and I shall die a truth-teller. The Cowboy has his own skewed version of the truth, soaked in Bud Light, whatever other beer he can get for free.
I am a mess right now. I am mentally and physically exhausted. My entire body hurts. I alternate between missing him and hating his guts and hoping he hits rock bottom and seeks help. I want to cry every few minutes, but I tell myself not to. I am replaying it all in my head; every cruel word and every second of choking. When I think about missing him, I touch my throat because it’s so sore from where he choked me and I hope this reinforces the fact I can’t allow him in my life.
***I want everyone to know how much I appreciate the outpouring of support!! You all are so amazing!! It’s quite ironic how supportive all of you, who have never met me, are so kind with your words, but The Cowboy, who has been a recipient of so much from me, can’t seem to do nice things for me.