So I wake up at my godmother’s house. I’m in bed looking up at the ceiling of this bedroom that I’d never seen before. I was super nauseated, so I got up to go to the bathroom just in case. When I got there, I looked in the mirror and I was completely bandaged up and had a girdle on. I realized that I wouldn’t be able to take it off to pee.

I never again want to explain that they, too, are in the hell of patriarchy and the cage of masculinity and the only way to get out is to listen and learn and change. I don’t want to keep begging the men in my life to read books by women. I don’t want to repeat the statistics of how many rapes get reported, tried, and convicted when someone’s fucking dad tells me he feels bad for all the accused men out there.

We stayed together for many years. We were not actually really “together” for all of them, and when we were, he was cheating on me. There were always girls. A college girl he met on Instagram. She was 17, and by this point he was nearing 30. A girl who lived in California who I think was maybe also his girlfriend somehow.

But how do you know your worth if there isn’t an agreed upon worth? And we all have ways our own worth is measured. Your job pays you for what you are worth to them. When you die, the life insurance people will calculate the cost of your life. Worth literal $. What is your net worth, worth?

At the end of the week, I spiraled. I canceled my plans. I relapsed on bad behaviors I had stopped years ago. For the next 6 months, he and I dated casually as I hid my descent into deep depression and then depressive psychosis. I was still scared to go home at night. I was always so scared. We never talked about that week he didn’t show. I didn’t hold it against him. Work is work, right? We all have bills to pay.

She professed her love for him. She was in love with him. My best friend was in love with my husband! She claimed that if he did not feel the same way, she would have to separate herself from him. Hence leaving the chat. But somehow in her sick mind she thought he would never tell me and we could remain best friends.

A profound sense of loss. Dad. The man who taught the shy little girl to go up to children on the playground and introduce herself. Told her to never be afraid of raising her hand in class. Whose last conversation with his priest was that he wasn’t afraid of death but wasn’t ready to stop being a father yet.

Behind closed doors we fought, things were thrown, threats made. I was left on the street, no keys, wallet, or cell phone – completely locked out. I slept on the floor, the bathtub, I was forced to throw up, to purchase, to submit. I had a curfew. I couldn’t go anywhere alone and if I was alone I needed to be picked up.

You have to let go of yourself. You have to mourn you, your body, everything you once knew about yourself, and who you once were.