Hate. It's not a word I like to apply to many areas of my life, but every time my husband leaves on another work trip, it slips back into my un-trusting mind like an insipid thief. It burns me, twists me into thinking the darkest thoughts and drives me to push my body to its limits. It is my control.
It is an odd feeling to both loathe and love someone at the same time. While I still care very deeply for my husband and still have the occasional overwhelming rush of love for him, his actions will forever be burned into my memory. He fucked someone else. Each time he leaves, the feeling of love goes with him and all I'm left with is my hatred. Hatred, my old friend.
In my mind, I can curse her as much as I want to. Stupid Canadian slag. Her name is Cam. She's a slut. A fucking whore slut who, one day, will get her just rewards. One day, before the most sacred and validating day of her and her partner's lives, he will vanish for a few days and fuck someone else. Karma's a bitch, slut. But it still doesn't make me feel any better. I'm the one who was made the fool. And it will never stop hurting.
So in the end, hatred becomes my ally. It pushes my husband away, making him realise that he has done wrong, and that he must work harder for me to love him again. It pushes me to keep my temptations at bay, resist the calories, resist the pathetic human desire to eat. It makes me beautiful. Every time he comes home, I'm thinner. Every time he comes home he finds me more and more attractive. Every time he comes home, I love him a little less, but I love my hatred a little more.
It is a terrible juxtaposition, but one for which I am grateful, for without it, I would have no control.
Bless to all,