Right now I wish I could die. I don’t want to kill myself, as such, but I want to not have to exist.
Last night, Ex and I went to see a movie. Hope Springs. The summary we had found online made it sound like it was going to be funny jokes about therapy/therapists. I mean, when Steve Carrell is playing the therapist, how could you assume it would be about anything besides how crazy therapists are?
But no, it was about the couple’s lack of a sex life, which is a huge part of why Ex and I aren’t together anymore. Sitting there in the theater, I did want to kill myself.
Before Ex, I never minded being asexual. In fact, I looked at people in relationships and was glad I didn’t have to deal with that drama. I thought I was better off than them.
Ex is the only person who’s ever made me wish I wanted sex. I love him, and I think I always will. I let myself imagine spending the rest of my life with him.
But he wants things I can’t give him. He said it was okay if I didn’t want sex, but I don’t think he really understood. I loved him, so I wanted to give him what he wanted: my body. We didn’t have sex, but I let him touch me and kiss me even though it was tearing me to shreds. I wanted to give him what he wanted. I thought he deserved it.
The problem is, he couldn’t have my body and me. One or the other, but not both. I left my body when I let him touch me. In my mind, he became my father. The big belly pressed against my hips, the scratchy beard against my face, the thick, clumsy hands against my skin. My boyfriend and my father became the same person, and I let him touch me however he wanted. My fear wouldn’t say no to him.
There were other problems in the relationship, sure. But most of them stemmed from the one.
I can never escape my father, not really.