Month: January 2023

Be What You Seek

Such a simple concept in the quote above, but one that is completely and obstinately missed by so many. I know people who lie every chance they get, cheat, use people, but when they deservedly get dumped, suddenly they are maltreated princesses who just aren’t appreciated — manhandled saints who are woefully unlucky in love.

When you get a small taste of what you repeatedly and happily serve up to others, you are not a victim; you are a jackass having a tantrum because someone treated you the way you treat others. When you are single because you are an insufferable asshole, you are not a poor, undervalued woman, used by heartless men; you are a classless bitch with nothing of value to offer. When someone tires of your games, your lies, and your abuse, they didn’t mercilessly leave you; they escaped.

When you are incapable of being honest, giving, loving, and loyal, what right do you possibly have to expect that from others? The perpetual victim act is as old and dusty as the jokers playing it.

Broken Record

I have set into motion several steps toward positive changes recently, was even offered a new position at work (still thinking about it), have dived back into some hobbies that I let fall to the side, and have been enjoying making plans with my husband and trying new things.

So it is even more baffling and stunning to me when I see people like Psycho, my stalker, still trotting out the same old song and dance, still playing the same mind-numbingly stupid games, stuck forever in one dysfunctional spot like a broken record, on repeat. Never growing. Never changing. And, quite frankly, too trashy to even care.

Psycho has two ex-husbands, and I have learned that she has added the second ex’s girlfriend to her growing circle of stalking targets. I won’t say much about it, since that is her story to tell, not mine. But I would laugh if it wasn’t so sad and pathetic: same tricks. Same tactics. Same obsession.

The first time I saw Psycho’s car in a parking lot as she followed me, many years ago, or the first time I saw her IP address blow up my blog stats, I was shocked. Who does that? Who is loony enough to actually do that and not be humiliated by her own actions? Who has enough free time and absolutely nothing better to do?

I’ve had over 16 years to see exactly who. Someone with no identity of her own. Someone who is severely insecure and pathologically envious. Someone with no skills, talents, or positive traits she can call her own, because she has never developed herself, too boorishly intent on watching someone else. Someone with the emotional maturity of a stunted toddler, quick to tantrums, incapable of adult thought processes, growth, or genuine connection.

I have watched Psycho lie endlessly, shamelessly manipulate her own children, lash out at my husband simply because he is happier now than he ever was with her. She has been married again and divorced again, in and out of sketchy relationships, and brags about sending questionable photos to men on dating sites.

After 16 years of her stalking, obsessing, gossiping, projecting, and bitching, I now just roll my eyes at her nonsense. She is never going to change. She lacks the ambition to even want to be better than the classless fool that she is. I don’t understand it, but I don’t need to and don’t even want to.

Sometimes, when I look at my blog stats, I see that Psycho was humping my blog at the exact same moment that I was completing a project at work, having lunch with friends, taking a steamy shower with my husband…basically, living my life and being happy, while she drools uselessly over a phone her daddy pays for, hoping desperately for a new post from me, something to clutch onto and live through vicariously and pretend, for one moment, that she is something, anything, but what she really is.

She won’t stop stalking me. I know that. She knows that.

I will log off after posting this and go back to work, go back to my friends, go back to making plans with my husband for the evening, talk about our weekend. I will go home to someone who adores me, who will wrap his arms around me, grab my ass with both hands, and kiss me like he means it.

And her? She will read my blog with a tight-lipped, bitchy glower. She will go back to a mindless job, to an inbred hick town where more and more people know all about her, to a dumpy home that isn’t even hers, and fill her time with rage, tapping angrily on her phone, bullying the kids, and harassing the women that her ex-husbands upgraded to and of whom she is devastatingly, endlessly jealous.

I almost feel sorry for her. But she chooses to be the way she is. She chooses pettiness, bitterness, and delusions each day of her empty life. She has earned each deep frown line and sour wrinkle with her perpetual negativity and nastiness.

Life is for living. It’s about change, growth, improvement, adaptation. It’s about enjoyment, love, discovery. Each day, we are given 24 hours to do with what we choose. I choose to wrap up this post, log off, get back to a productive work day, and look forward to heading home for a fun weekend with my loving husband.

And as for Psycho? Well…I already know what she will choose. Some things (and stagnant people) never change.

Snooze

My favorite part of each day happens first thing, as soon as I wake up. My husband and I got into the habit a long time ago of setting the alarm clock at least 20 minutes before we actually have to get up, for the sole luxury and pleasure of pressing snooze.

That might sound strange. Why give up precious sleep just to hit the snooze button over and over? Well, because as soon as I hit snooze, I roll over, and my husband is already reaching for me. We tuck in tight against each other, arms around each other, legs tangled together, and we hold onto each other in the peaceful dark. It’s serene. Quiet. Just us.

Before the day starts, before the noise and traffic and meetings and demands, we have that moment together. Most of the time we don’t even say anything, maybe an occasional “I love you” or a joke here and there. But mostly, we just enjoy the tranquil stillness, the feel of each other’s skin, simply being as close together as we can be.

This morning, I pressed the snooze button one last time, sighed, and told my husband, “I need to get up.” I started to sit up. He didn’t let go, whispered, “Just one more time.”

I hesitated. I didn’t want to be late to work.

He added sleepily, “I’m not ready to let go of you yet.”

I had to smile. How could I resist that? I would just to rush a little once we finally got up. There’s always time for just one more.

Sixteen More Years

It doesn’t take a degree in psychology to easily recognize my stalker, Psycho, as a full-blown narcissist. Lack of empathy, self-centered, blaming others, self-glorifying, endless lying, entitlement…all the telltale traits are there in full, raging color.

Narcissists are emotionally stunted, and they never change. Growth and improvement are impossible, because those require introspection, a willingness to learn, a desire to be a better person. Narcissists prefer to hide in their fantasy world where they have no shortcomings, and everything is someone else’s fault and responsibility.

After more than 16 years of the exact same irrational behaviors and absurd tantrums, Psycho is the same undeveloped person she was long before I met her. It’s bewildering, and more than a little sad, to observe. She learns nothing. She changes nothing. She improves nothing. Shoveling more lies to justify mounting failures is not living. That’s pretending.

And 16 more years from now, she will still be exactly the same. She will continue to lie to herself to bolster her starving ego, but there is no denying the truth: she is pitiable. Malfunctioning. Toxic. She made herself that way and has no one blame but herself. She etched her disgrace into stone with each selfish action, each refusal to move on, each lie.

I am not concerned with how she feels about flatlining through her remaining days. She gave up the luxury of my regard long ago. But as usual, the ones paying the heaviest price are the kids. They’re not babies anymore. They recognize the dysfunction and chaos that are ever-present in interactions with their mother. They may not know precisely how to diagnose or categorize it, but they know something is wrong…off…not right. That she can’t maintain a sane relationship with anyone, romantic or otherwise. That she is unstable, raging at nothing, shockingly infantile. And that nothing is being done to improve any of it, least of all by her. What are they supposed to make of that insanity?

Sixteen more years from now, Psycho will still be stalking me and god knows who else. She will still be envious, spiteful, petty, fake. In short, she will still be just like she is now, a dead soul driven only by jealousy and hate, desperate for attention and validation, forced to bully, bribe, and trick people into tolerating her presence.

And me? I pray I never stop feeling horrified at how she chooses to exist. I will let her continue to serve as an example of what not to do, what not to be. It’s impossible to help someone who doesn’t want to change, but I can make damn sure I stay on a much different, higher path.

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