Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
And I did what many others who had to go home had to do. For some, that meant trashing old photographs, for others it meant hosing down the blood of loved ones off the driveway.
For me, it meant making what changes I could to make my space feel like mine again.
I rearranged my living room, donating all my old throw blankets and pillows, replacing them with new. I got rid of every item in my cupboards that had belonged to Jameson. I cleaned the box he'd left out of my closet. I got a new computer. I got my wedding dress cleaned to remove the mascara, then donated that as well. Out, too, went the dresses that Jameson had made comments on. They were the ones least like my wardrobe anyway, the too short or too low cut ones, the ones that clung like a second skin in thin material that meant nothing was left up to the imagination, that meant I had to invest in panties that were laser cut to avoid any kind of lines.
Once all that was done, the air in my apartment felt lighter, easier to breathe.
Then, finally, I did the unthinkable.
I got a TV in my living room. Sure, I attached it to the wall then hid it behind an oversized canvas print so it wasn't an eyesore all the time, but it was there. It was part of my new normal. Where I planned to continue watching the crime shows I had suddenly found myself hooked on.
I also signed up to take lessons from Janie and Lo at the local self-defense gym. I'd settled on Krav Maga because that was what Gunner had suggested. And I had plans to go visit the local shooting range over the next weekend. Instead of cleaning my already clean oven.
Maybe those things sounded fear motivated, and maybe that was a part of it, but it was more about excitement. When the idea of self-defense came to me, I was exhilarated. It was something I hadn't felt in so long that I almost didn't recognize it. So when I finally did see it for what it was, I knew it was something I had to pursue.
I needed to start having a life again.
Not plans, not goals to reach, a life.
I had agreed to go out for drinks with Miller after work the following Friday too.
Actually, things with my coworkers had changed entirely.
And, what's more, I knew it wasn't because of what had happened to me, per se, that it wasn't pity attention from them. It was because I was suddenly just open to connections with them. They sensed it. They pounced on it.
They had all always been a close-knit group. And I had been keeping myself as the outsider. For reasons that didn't truly make sense to me even as I tried to analyze it. It really came down to the fear that if they got to know me, they would think less of me because I wasn't from the same world that they were. Which was ridiculous. Quin and Gunner were with women who were not from this world. Lincoln dated a never-ending line of women who weren't familiar with the darker areas of life.
It all came down to useless insecurity.
For someone who had always thought of herself as self-assured, everything kept coming up as pure, undiluted insecurity.
It was why I had my life mapped out so perfectly, why I wanted this flawless little picture of a life. Not because that was truly what I wanted, but because it looked right. From the outside. It was why I settled for Jameson who I didn't love, who didn't even manage to please me in bed. He looked right from the outside.
Because I was worried what others thought about my life, my choices, my likes and dislikes.
What a ridiculous, unfulfilling way to live.
Once I saw it clearly, I became determined to make changes, to make my choices based on want and desire and a pinch of prudence - because I was still me.
I had never really realized how tense I was about, well, life until I decided to make changes, to open up, to live more honestly, more joyfully.
I had to let in my family and friends on the insanity that was the reality of mine and Jameson's relationship.
My mother and father had gone red with rage. My sister had wept, being a soft soul that way. My friends had regaled me with stories of how they thought he was a creep, how he had a wandering eye.
Instead of coldly taking that all in, stewing on it, internalizing the outrage and embarrassment, I had demanded that in the future, they tell me if I was dating a scumbag, no matter how infatuated I seemed to be with them. Surprised, they had agreed. And just like that, my relationships with them went deeper as well, became more honest.