**Fair warning, it’s a swearing kinda day**
51 weeks ago, exactly, I wrote about Valentines Day Vs St Patrick’s day as a half assed effort to refocus myself from the Lenten/St Patrick’s season that I usually become depressed in. This year, however, Valentines day legit starts the actual season of Lent. Ash Wednesday and St Valentine’s Day are one and the same.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Not that Valentines day was ever a real distraction.
Wounds heal and the depressive episodes lessen in severity and timeframe the more the years go on. The thing is, though, is that St Patrick’s day 2018 will mark 10 years.
In any other category that would be an anniversary of note. 10 years married? Congrats! 10 years old? Look at you becoming double-digits! You’re growing so fast! 10 years sober? Strong work! We’re so proud of you!
10 years ago you cheated with an abusive, narcissistic, asswipe who threatened to murder you? Well, uh… Okay then. Glad you didn’t die, I guess.
Clearly it’s not an anniversary to celebrate or make special mention of… But it’s there, in my head regardless. 10 years less depressed, 10 years of scar tissue healing over old emotional wounds, 10 years of fears and anxiety ebbing away… so very slowly.
In 2.5 weeks or so I will be 35, and all I can think about it right now (besides groaning that I have actual grey hairs emerging already (OMG make them stop!)) is that I was such an idiot when I was 25.
I’m still kind of an idiot sometimes, tbh. I mean, I have the occasional moments of idiocy… Occasional irrational thoughts or acts. Fewer and further between than when I was younger at least, though.
I feel like I should have just fucking known better when I was 25. I made stupid ass mistakes with boys in my teens… not least of all getting involved with Patrik and Timmy when I was 18… 7 fucking years later I should have had my shit together… I should have recognized when a guy was bad news. I should have realized the magnitude of my actions and how it would affect not only me, but my husband.
I should have brought my repressed feelings out about Wyatt’s abuse years earlier.
OMG I just realized, when I was 25… That was 10 years from when the relationship with Wyatt ended. Well, close to it. Instead of March 1998 (which would be 10 years before David), we had broken up around October/November 1998.
What the actual fuck is wrong with me?
I know, I fucking compartmentalize. I pushed the Wyatt stuff down for another 6 years after that, so it was nowhere near the forefront of my mind at the time. But it seems too neat and tidy now that I’m realizing it. He read it in me, I’m sure of it. He had the sense of I would let him treat me that way, just as I had let Wyatt treat me that way. I suck so bad.
I know I’ve said before I didn’t realize the effects of Wyatt on me and my behaviours/personality until I finally admitted to myself and told others about him when I was 31… So I guess I can’t blame 25 year old me for not realizing that aspect of things at the time. I can’t blame her for not realizing that David was potentially dangerous. I can’t blame her for suppressing the memories of the movie Fear – in which the David character embodied both Wyatt and David’s personalities.
I can blame her for getting herself in the situation and rationalizing her stupidity, however. I can blame her for getting in that goddamn black Nissan Titan, both on St Patrick’s day and a week or so later when he assaulted her. She should have gone home when he wouldn’t take no for an answer, no matter how jovial he was being. She should have gone home when he threw his keys at her. She should have just gone the fuck home.