My First Time

I’ve always considered myself a single person. Throughout high school and college, I had very few “real” boyfriends and basically none long term. I kind of fell into my marriage; it was in no way a romance story for the ages. My husband was a boyfriend that simply never went away, someone that attached to me and my life no matter how much I fought it and eventually I just gave in. I guess the way to describe it would be gave up, on myself and the thought of being happy, on the idea that one day I would be in a relationship with an equal, someone who I shared responsibilities and respect with, someone I wanted to live with, and deep down, someone I actually loved. And because of that, I stopped loving myself. I let my weight get completely out of control. I never dressed up or put on makeup. I was completely unconcerned with how I looked or how I presented to other people. This went on for almost ten years.

Throughout our entire relationship, which started when I was 24, I didn’t travel. I couldn’t travel. Because he couldn’t travel. He was a Type 1 Diabetic. He was on an insulin pump, and because he didn’t take care of himself, namely keeping his insulin levels balanced, he was always sick. Nausea, vomiting, occasionally a seizure. He smoked weed to alleviate his symptoms, morning, noon and night. It was his “medicine”, and at the time it was illegal. Nowadays it seems so silly to think of it that way. Now I can order a couple hundred dollars in cannabis products and pick them up in a 24 hr drive-thru, but five years ago, it was a Schedule 1 narcotic. And because of that, he couldn’t fly anywhere. In a time before edibles and tinctures, he had to smoke, had to bring smoke with him, and couldn’t risk going anywhere where smoke wasn’t available. We stayed where the weed stayed, and he smoked constantly. His entire check went to his habit. He didn’t have enough money to live, or eat, let alone house himself. So, even if he could stand to travel without being high, how was he going to get anywhere with no money, and that was where I drew the line. Sure, I footed the bill for pretty much everything up until that, but to put his ass on a plane to go to Negril for a week? No fucking way! So WE stayed home. He high. Me silently loathing him for it.

We went on this way for many years. I never wanted to be married. I just wanted to be free. But he held me captive with guilt. He had nowhere to go, no money, no prospects. I was a cold hearted bitch. I didn’t love him because he was poor. Actually, I didn’t love him because he was a lazy slob who’d rather stumble through life high and drunk. But, regardless, the guilt kept me pinned down for years and years. It wasn’t until I’d lost almost everything: my job, my savings, my investments, and was struggling to keep a roof over our heads, that I finally could see things clearly. We were not a team. I was a provider, and he was a user.

The absolute dread I felt coming home every night eventually pushed me to the point of no return. I couldn’t stand to live this way for another moment. I would’ve rather died than stay in this place one more second. I had dreamt of saying the words for practically our entire lives together, but it was as if my mouth was sewn shut. I just couldn’t utter them until that fateful night. “I want a divorce.” Or rather a separation. Under the guise of it being semi-permanent was safer for myself and my animals, and so we separated. I just needed him out of the house. We had no kids, no joint assets, and everything was in my name, because, well, it was fucking mine. I worked for everything we had, and I was leaving this marriage with everything I came in with.

Eventually he left. He made sure to take the television, the expensive remote control car I bought him for Christmas, all “our” camping gear. He did not pack his son’s clothes or toys, any of the family pictures or school memorabilia. Hell, he didn’t even take his own medical records. Those boxes sat at my house for years, taking up space in my home and my heart. It was until a few years ago that I decided I was holding on to things for someone who didn’t even know they existed anymore. Tools for dirt bikes I’d sold for mortgage money. Countless boxes of medical supplies. Boxes of treasures: baby photos and holiday cards. Things that might be irreplaceable to a sentimental bitch like me. So I tossed ‘em. Took them to the trash, and that was it.

I had to rediscover who I was and what I liked. Not that I wasn’t my own person still, but I had struggled to discover myself in my twenties because I had a human amoeba attached to me. I hadn't done all the living and experiencing that I should’ve. My husband was broke, lazy, and I spent a lot of my own money paying for his hobbies, so those essentially became my hobbies too. I didn’t want to ride dirt bikes. I fucking hated camping. I only enjoyed gardening because it kept me outside when he was home. I had to find something that I really wanted to do, something that I’d never done before, something that brought me back to life. I circled back around to travel time and again. But where? I didn't know but one day I would meet someone and they’d want to travel too.

Years later and a string of pitiful" “situationships” behind me, I was no closer to becoming that person I was trying to find. Yes, I was less one miserable husband, and for that I’d be forever grateful, but I was still waiting to find someone to share these experiences with. So I waited, and as I waited, I began to grow more comfortable being alone. Going shopping alone, going out to eat alone. Most importantly, not having any fake relationships to occupy my time. Being ALONE alone. And it wasn’t that bad.

I had some friends that had moved to Australia and invited me for a visit. They badgered me for years to come down on holiday. I said ok, yeah maybe, we will see, but I knew we wouldn’t. How much would a trip like that cost? How long would I be gone from work? How could I justify such an extravagant trip to, well, everyone? I was consumed with all the what-ifs. But what if I did go? What if I did book a flight? What if I did make my own money? What if I didn’t have to explain myself to anyone?! I had to ask myself what I really wanted to do versus what I thought everyone else wanted me to do. I wanted to go snorkeling in the Great Barrier Reef. I wanted to hold a koala. I wanted to swim with whale sharks. So I took the leap, and I booked a ticket. I booked an incredible trip that flew into Fiji for five days before I moved on to Australia. Think big was the motto. I made an absolutely absurd itinerary that had me traveling up and down the coast, from the Whitsundays to Melbourne.

February 21, 2020.

I took the leap. I made the effort. I finally took a step in the right direction. And I never got to go.

For awhile I thought it was a sign. A sign from God. I finally decided to do something for myself, and the world breaks out in plague. What is a coronavirus anyway? Why me? Why now? But that’s just what silly people tell themselves to keep them stuck in situations. It was bad timing. A world wide pandemic happened, and it happened to everyone. Best way to get over something like that? Plan something else.

One day a customer that I barely knew was in the bar talking about how Covid ruined all her plans, and she just wanted to get out and go somewhere. She was going to Mexico with some customers from her bar. Did I want to go? To a foreign country? In a world wide pandemic? With a bunch of strangers?

FUCK. YES. Take all my money.

So I went, and it was amazing. I had to let go and allow myself to do something new. I had to try to have fun, and I did. That trip recharged me, invigorated me, captivated me. It showed me everything that I’d been missing for so long. It also showed me how stupid I’d been to think I needed anyone else to live this life with. I came back a completely different woman. I wouldn’t waste another day waiting for someone. And I haven’t. Not one more day.

“In the end, we only regret the chances we didn’t take.” -Unknown

xoxo, The Bitter Bitch