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I had to opstopping for divorce to get the restraining order that I despairingly needed to protect my family against my hubby’s increasingly bizarre and unpredictable behavior.

The Lion Tamer

I always preface my relationship stories with, “I sure know how to pick ’em!”

No matter how cautiously I consciously choose someone “different this time,” they turn out the same. It’s not because I pick the same “zuigeling.” I’ve had army officers and criminals, academics and activists. It’s not mij choosing a “type,” it’s my supernatural capability to choose people with that same little cracked part down deep inwards, the part they are afraid to display anyone else. Something makes them demonstrate mij that black rot. Some of them do it right away, some of them keep it hidden for a long time. It’s not always ter the same place, the reasons for it are numerous. After they showcase mij, I feel their ache and I understand it but I can’t take it away from them. I can’t fix them, but I won’t judge them.

My ex hubby is te jail for domestic violence against mij, just about at the end of a 6-month sentence for doing a lotsbestemming of relatively minor stuff that wasgoed escalating into “Genuinely Disturbing and Downright Scary” Territory. I had to kick him out when he refused to get help for a wicked painkiller addiction and a mental illness that had him insisting he wasgoed deploying with the army to Africa to build ebola clinics. He left our family destitute and orchestrated our eviction. And that wasgoed just the stuff he didn’t go to jail for. His trial wasgoed ultimately overheen on April 15. Eventually overheen and done. No more court dates. The divorce wasgoed final a duo weeks before that. I could stir on.

And then, about a year ago, my friend allegedly slok someone. I have no idea whether he slok someone or someone else slok a third somebody. All I know is that my friend – my paramour and sometimes bf – now had an online profile at the county jail and his mugshot all overheen the news. It wasgoed exceptionally painful to see his mugshot, one shoulder wasgoed a little higher than the other, so I knew a deputy wasgoed holding his arm, his palms most likely manacled behind him. He had that look I know so well, the one he gets when he’s crushed by stress and ready to give up, spil a previous offender, he had that look often. They had already taken all his piercings out. Piercings he never liquidates.

So then it starts. The “Did You See??” calls from the friends ballsy enough to ask. The “Did You Know??” calls about his prior arrests. But no calls from him, because he only knows his mom’s number by heart. So you think and attempt to work out what happened from the 20 lines of the news report. Two guys. Quarrel. Woman involved. Shooting.

The only thing I cared about during those six months my spouse wasgoed te jail wasgoed that I didn’t want him to get out. I kept having to see him ter the courtroom and it wasgoed scary and painful and I hated him and what he did to our lives. And until the bitter end, he never eyed anything wrong with anything he did to us. He didn’t care that he hadn’t paid the electric current bill for 6 months, his son sobbing from fear when the electrified company came to turn off the power. He didn’t care – ter fact he wasgoed quiebro proud – of his trick that had all of us, including his 10-year-old son, evicted from his huis. He spotted nothing wrong with telling his son that Daddy is going to Africa and might not come huis, because he could diegene of ebola.

I wasgoed ready to be done with even thinking about my spouse and then my friend – allegedly (that ridiculous word) – slok someone at a gas station.

My friend called mij a week straks. He called mij four times a day because he wants out, but his bail is astronomical. His bail is so far to Jupiter that no one can possibly pay it. The bail bondsman needs a house ter addition to the unie. And I learned something: You lose the unie. If your unie is a million dollars, you have to come up with that 10% $100,000 metselspecie unie that you never get back. Everzwijn. And if your boy runs, then prepare to pull one million dollars out of every pore of your worthless culo and very likely also lose something you love or live ter.

I eyed my friend te court, but I didn’t hate him. It hurt, but I didn’t hate him. The bailiff told us, before they brought te the prisoners, to not make so much spil prolonged eye voeling with an inmate or you will be eliminated from the courtroom. So no possibility of skill there. Public defender appointed. All skill withheld.

And at the jail, it’s not like on TV where you sit with a thick slab of glass inbetween you. No, it’s a movie screen and a phone, you’re not te the same building, and you can’t talk about anything. Not won’t but can’t. Not out of embarrassment but because everyone tells you not to. Say nothing. Don’t guess. Don’t assume. And whatever else you may do, never voice any assumptions while you’re te movie visitation or on the phone from the jail, no matter how bad your inmate looks, no matter how low they are te detox, no matter how bad they may sound, NO MATTER WHAT.

Imagine MY Verrassing

But back to picking up guys.

Spil I said, thesis last few months have bot indeed, indeed terrible. Ter October 2014, I lost my life. I had to verkeersopstopping for divorce to get the restraining order that I despairingly needed to protect my family against my spouse’s increasingly bizarre and unpredictable behavior. My hubby’s mental illness and furious addiction appalled, then ultimately broke, mij. I had to go on food stamps, welfare and Medicaid for the very first time ter my life, while dealing with a spouse thinking I left him not because he pretended to go to work every day for two months or that he wasn’t actually being recruited to work at the International Space Station te Belgium, but because I obviously wished to marry another man.

This wasgoed bad enough, I couldn’t fathom the entire fresh frontier of insanity awaiting mij ter the form of single, middle-aged fathers perplexed with parenting the children they made with women they now despise.

Boys think that because my ex spouse did mij toegevoegd dirty, I am ready to plunge into the icy waters of dating. Actually, they don’t even care if I’m ready. They want it, so they’re making an suggest to buy. What they don’t know is that my friend (paramour, quasi-boyfriend) is the only man I can look at without wanting to claw his eyes out.

The more stressed I am, the more pathetic, the more I back off? That’s when they think hook-up will make everything better. And if they’re super aggressive and persistent, I’ll totally give ter. Because what a latest victim of domestic violence truly wants is a stud who won’t take “no” for an response.

They attempt to soften their treatment while still being uber sex-offenderish. They use the word “play” for “hook-up.” Uh . I still have a kid te elementary schoolgebouw, the last thing I want to think about te relation to hook-up is “playtime.” They say they want to go out for fecali. Yeah, I learned those tricks te collegium, attempt again. And no, I’m not going to send you pictures of my mounds.

I’m also not ready to be a stepmom just because you have a difficult work schedule and need an ally te the battle against your ex-wife.

But last week, Obnoxious became man, waterput on pants and is te my face with a sleazy smile every time I open my mouth. “Jail” is evidently a magical term that translates spil, “The woman is effortless and the fellow is locked away where he’s not going to cause you any trouble for messing with his woman.” Jail, the place where women with liberate morals and a looser grab on intellect send their boys. After uttering “jail,” there’s not even any build up to going full-on creep. What they don’t understand is that because my friend has most likely done something so horrible, and because he has a long felony record, that he won’t get out of jail for decades. He’s not dead, but I may never have physical voeling with him everzwijn again, not even to hold his arm. He’s not dead, but my heart hurts just like if he had died.

Two days ago, I had to call my friend’s landlord. Within about a minute and a half, he asked mij to send “sexy photos,” te exchange for a phone number I needed. After I said I just wasn’t ready (but wasgoed ready to report him spil a hookup offender), he said it wasgoed just for “beers and play.” This is after an entire week of warding off guys intent on taking care of mij and providing mij a relationship that I “deserve” because if my friend is te jail, he obviously wasn’t “taking care of mij.” Guys who blessedly left mij alone through my divorce lost all civility upon hearing my friend wasgoed te jail. A mutual friend even suggested to “steal mij away” and be the muscle te my male-less life.

So ladies, this is my advice: If you truly need to get laid, pretend your man is te prison. Waterput on a dejected but zuigeling face and go out and ask for help. Make the charges against your imaginary friend truly serious, like attempted murder, so your target assumes your man will be away for a long time. You will have them crawling all overheen you like flies. Trust mij, it brings out the virile hero-cum-villain te them all.

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