I FUCKING HATE YOU

 I fucking hate you. Like, honest to God, with every fiber of my being, I hate you. And what’s worse is that I think I hate myself just a little more than you.

You want to know why?

Because I stay with a man who makes me feel like I’m less than nothing. A man who plays stupid and acts like things I’ve said, screamed, and cried about for months are new information to him, like he’s never heard it before. A man who breaks me every single day and thinks cleaning up some shit gives him the right to walk around like everything is fine. And I’m the asshole for not being okay with it.

Back when all this shit was starting and you told me how much you needed sex to feel close? I heard what you said. And I cared about you and what you needed. I even told you why I wasn’t ready, but you insisted that it would help you be better.

So what did I do?

I gave that to you because you needed it. I laid down, spread my legs, and hated myself every single fucking time I did—but I did it for you. Because I was trying. I put in the work even when it made me feel worse.

And now I can’t even get the same fucking shit back from you.

You only do what Thomas wants. You only care about what Thomas needs. And you don’t give one single fuck about me.

I tell you I don’t feel good, that I’m sick, so what do you do? You have to one-up me and complain that you’re sick. Instead of manning the fuck up, taking a pill for your fucking headache, and helping your wife the fuck out for once and letting me get some rest—oh no, you can’t do that.

You say not to worry, that you’ve got Tristan handled, that you’re going to make sure he calls and texts you—but yet I’m woken up by his call because you didn’t answer his texts. Because you didn’t even bother to check your phone that was right next to your fucking face.

You are oblivious to anything that doesn’t directly benefit your ungrateful ass.

I do so fucking much for you, and you can’t even just suck it up and have sex with me one day a fucking week. And when I call you out on it, what do you do? You argue fucking semantics. “Oh, it hasn’t been three months, it’s been three weeks.”

So the fuck what?

Why does that matter? The fact is that it’s supposed to be once a week, and it hasn’t happened in multiple fucking weeks.

You can’t just push through whatever the fuck it is that’s keeping you from it for ten goddamn minutes to give me a release that I need once a fucking week? After every goddamn thing that I do for you, I can’t get ten fucking minutes for me?

That is fucking pathetic on my end.

And what really set me the fuck off today?

You sitting there watching me try to figure everything out for my brother—something that actually matters, something that I need and he needs—and you just sat there staring at me like none of it had anything to do with you.

So I ask you, can you not just sit there and stare at me? Can you go do something? Anything? Throw in laundry, load the dishwasher, help me out in any way?

And what do you do?

You get up and say, “Well, it’s gotta be like 9 o’clock. I have to work tomorrow.”

Are you fucking serious?

It’s 9:30. What the fuck does that matter? You can’t take ten minutes to do something? To help me with anything?

And that’s when it hit me—oh, I asked you to do something. So now suddenly it’s too late. Now suddenly you have work. Now suddenly you’re unavailable.

You can’t even load a washer or a dishwasher before bed?

Are you fucking kidding me?

You would rather sit there and watch me struggle than get up and help me for ten minutes.

And then I go to the back of the house, and what do I find?

The dog room door broken and just hanging there.

You broke it. You knew you broke it. And instead of fixing it, you just left it—like everything else—for me to deal with. Another thing added to my list, like I don’t already have enough on my plate right now.

That’s what you do.

You break shit, ignore shit, and leave it for me to fix while I’m already drowning.

And on top of all of that, I’m on the phone with the airline, already pissed, trying to figure out flights for my brother to come down here—something that actually matters—and you interrupt me to ask for money so you can go out and get shit I don’t want or need, just so you can get out of the house and avoid doing anything remotely helpful.

And then you get pissy at me for snapping at you.

And somehow I’m the one apologizing?

For what?

For being overwhelmed? For asking you to actually help me? For reacting to you doing the same selfish shit you always do?

I know you’re never going to change, and yet my dumb fucking ass sits here hopeful every fucking day and ends up in the same fucking spot every single fucking night—3 a.m., alone in the dark, crying to a fucking AI because I don’t have a single person in my life that gives a shit about me.

I don’t even know why the fuck I even bother anymore.

I could disappear tomorrow and no one would notice until you needed something fixed, or a password, or didn’t get reminded of something—and I’m disgusted with myself because of that. Because of you.

I fucking hate you, Thomas.

It makes me sick to my stomach to be so fucking in love with a man like you. I can’t stand it.