I didn’t really want her, but to use her, yes that would suit me. She was pretty enough in the face for me to keep my eyes there, though some of the time my wandering eyes fell on her other parts as well. Much of our time was spent flirting, using innuendos wherever and whenever we could.
We’d been put together at a very young age, “married” twice before we were 10. I’m certain that my mother had maneuvered us that way so that I would actually marry her later when the time came. It was during our childhood that I came to think of her as something to be used, to get my jollies, and move on. Ok, so as a ten year old, I did not say that exactly…but I did feel similarly. She was always there; during parties, gatherings, or just to come over. Our mothers were friends and I’m sure that the whole scenario between us made my mother drool for joy. As younglings, my sister and she were something of companions, possibly friends, and thus I saw her frequently, as both my mother and sister could lay claim to some form of relationship and it served my mother’s purposes to always have her around.
My mother was molding me. Because of that and because my mother could see what type of girl my young marriage partner was going to be, we were set up together. My mother knew that I would come to objectify women and girls – because that’s precisely what she was training me to do, and the little girl she wanted to set me up with would eventually just become a physically-older version of her toddler-self. She would objectify herself because that’s how she thought she should be viewed. It was only natural that a learned “objectifyer” would see her as an object. She was being fed thoughts, I was being fed thoughts, and that was how we navigated in the world and to each other.
It wasn’t until college and a while after that I began flirting with her. At the time, I was not interested in sleeping with her, or kissing her, or even touching her. It was enough for me to look at her, and use innuendo. She was something to look at, something to use. She became one of my Objects. I remember not liking the clothes she wore, but I wasn’t completely aghast at them either. She often wore revealing clothing, things that didn’t fit. She was overweight and frequently let herself hang out of her clothes. I did not like her flesh spilling out her shirt or over her waistband, or that the skirts she always wore would have been more suitable as tube-tops for toddlers. But at the same time, I was looking. I would have preferred something like that on someone skinnier. And that made me superficial – that I was only thinking about her in terms of her weight and what she wore.
Then again. There wasn’t much more to her than her weight and what she wore.
She was brought up to think of me as her own. I was her Object. When I met and married my wife, Exhibit A’s “best friend” was “taken away” from her. I was only allowed to be her best friend, not a husband or father. None of that. She had taken ownership of me because that’s what she and I were fed; that possession was nine tenths of the law of relationships. She latched on, and continues to do so, intoxicated by the liquor of our youth. My mother saw her as a template of all the other people that I should have in my life. My mother drove that point home with me, drove it hard so that I ended up only falling in line with people like that; those who exploit and those who are exploited. It wasn’t until my wife that everything changed – to put simply. She was essentially the opposite of everyone I knew – she had strong sense of self; developed thoughts and opinions; expectations to be treated with respect and kindness; expectations of her spouse as well. It was at this time that their War on Truth accelerated to Ludicrous Speed.
In hindsight, which has the eternal habit of being crystal clear, I am glad I never developed a romantic relationship with Exhibit A – although it wouldn’t have been surprising if I had. We both had similar outlooks at the time: to be as superficial as possible; and use sexuality as we see fit. Add social media, and in particular, the 150 character internet soap-box, and she damn-near has several Twitter-gasms a day.
She’s a hypocrite who preaches “love, not hate” but will proclaim her hatred for the next three people that annoy her. She’s a coward that will bully, boast and blaspheme, gossip and gloat, but never, ever participate in a face-to-face confrontation or say directly and clearly how she feels. There’s very little that would drag the truth from her in a face-to-face standoff, if anything. I believe her esteem is directly proportional to how much of herself she can let hang out of her clothes. And then of course, how much she can talk about how it’s all just an accident and she doesn’t really want gropey men ogling her. When, really… that is what she wants. Hey Exhibit A…when a cashier asks cash or credit, that is not a proposition. She flaunts herself then chastises those whose attention she’s caught. She’s two faced, befriending with not a sour word to say in person, but belittling and critical when your back is turned. She’s vile, with a habit of denying all realities but her own twisted one. Her very real problems are too difficult for her to face, so she hides behind her #princessprobs. She uses people in whatever way she needs at the moment. She’s got her clique of frenemies which she’ll either be embedded with or will turn on in a second if it suits her and she’ll get something out of it. I know she’s done that to me: spit out pleasantries to me but the moment I turn my back, she’s vomiting hellacious lies about me, and my family (of choice). She’s driven by how much drama she can cause or how much drama she can dig up. Then spreading it, or not spreading it, depending how the situation will best meet her needs. If she’s not being heard or she doesn’t have her world’s attention, then she will find a way to get it because she thinks she’s that important. She’s not.
I’d tell her to self-reflect, but why bother? In her, I see a decrepit attic, cob webs inhabiting most of the ceiling and the few nick-knacks that dot the floor. Oh, the floor is rotting out too, and I can see the air, heavy and burdened with dust particles and mold spores. Nope, no one’s been here for a while, and I doubt if ever there will be.
My extensive flirtations with her, my ogling, my perception of her “objectness” was a disgusting and degrading display of my perception of her, and women in general. I had no respect for her because I was taught she didn’t deserve any. She didn’t have respect for herself because she was taught that she doesn’t deserve any. Perfect match. Her lack of self-esteem translated to a disregard of proper fitting clothes, and a pervasive need to be the center of attention at all times.
I didn’t really have it out with her or a number of other people as I should have, but at the time I was unwilling – I didn’t see or want to see what I was or what they were. I let it go, all of it, not defending myself, or my wife. Now I feel like I’m missing something that I should have done. I feel that I haven’t taken some action that needed to be taken. It was having that confrontation and exposing them, exposing the truth of what they are, what they did to me. That was why I wanted to send the “invitation” of sorts to her; in order to have a possible bout of verbal judo. I’m still waiting, and I suspect I will be for some time.
They’re all wrong about me. About my wife. About my kids. The ugliness they spit is a reflection on the ugliness they have within themselves. I know what they have all said. I know what they have all done. I am not their possession, and they are not mine. I owe them nothing. And Exhibit A? Put some clothes on.
I see how twisted and foul my thoughts and behaviors were. I see how I treated others in my past and how that was a reflection on my outlook in general. I see it and I’m out. I’m out for good. That life is for someone else, someone who doesn’t care about himself, someone who doesn’t care about anyone else either. Someone who doesn’t care about integrity, honesty, love, esteem, honor, respect. Someone who doesn’t want those things. I am a better, more productive, more loving me because I see what it means to be honest, respectful, proud, to have integrity and such is the way of my life. I remember always how I thought, how I behaved, my objectification, and how I was treated. I will not go back to that. Ever. And that’s the difference between me and them.