A Thousand Little Cuts

Netflix is the only noise breaking through the silent room. The man on the Netflix original series, Mindhunter, says the words:

Marriage is a thousand little cuts.” 

I speak out.
I agree with him.

Bloodletting love where we go into a relationship completely naive and our eyes are closed. We wear a veil for a reason, because the truth isn’t a wedding. But yet, we plan elaborate and expensive parties where we invite friends and family and strangers. We say words we probably don’t understand. One of us might not even mean the words. They just say them, because it’s a play in a church and people are staring. The girl and boy are front and center stage. Principle actors playing the lead roles.

Lips touch, and it’s pronounced: Man and woman become husband and wife.

Happily ever after begins as they dance the night away while cutting into a tiered buttercream frosted cake. I decorated my cake in fleur de lys. I had hoped for a French romance. Looking back, the symbol represented a white Lilly. Innocent and naive and an all encompassing belief in every fairytale I had once thought existed.

We fought on our honeymoon.
We’ve fought every week of almost every year we’ve been together: a thousand little cuts.

My face is scarred with tear-streaks. My heart is a broken shattered organ. No matter how long I wait or how hard I try, it refuses to heal properly. Like a broken wrist which rotates a little towards to the right after the doctors set it. Just isn’t healing right. Too many cuts, I suppose.

I stomp.
I fume.
I demand.
I am bitter.
I am angry.
I am hurt.
I am exhausted.
I don’t know if there is love left in my heart for this man.
I don’t understand.
I am confused.
I am rage.
I am cold.
I am distant.
I am tired of his whiskey breath.
I didn’t sign up to be married to a functioning alcoholic.
I can’t sleep.
My heart hurts.
I cry.
I wanted better for my child, our child.
My bed is tainted.
My trust has entirely vanished.
Every promise is broken.
I don’t know the person I married.
I guess we quite possible never know anyone.

I thought…
I truly believed…
I thought he loved me.


Mama will tell you, I’m bleeding out when I write. I stopped writing. Too many cuts. When I stopped writing, I stopped publishing. He owned half. How one owns half my words and my heart, I cannot understand. It felt like a damn foolish move to publish, to earn, while a man owns half my work. Especially when that man degraded me and ridiculed me and never supported what my hands could do.

Because he is not a man at all. Cut. 

Men don’t wreck women. They don’t set out to intentionally destroy them. They own their blame. They know when there is a time to lay down masculinity and admit wrongdoings. Men don’t blame a woman for their mistakes. For their shortcomings. For not cherishing what eagerly loved them with a whole heart.

Men… men don’t do these things, do they?

Tomorrow I send my engagement ring out to be sold at auction. Cut. 

He never wanted to give me a ring, or get married. I’m woman enough to admit these things now. The marriage, the home, everything existed because I wanted it to. I believed in happily ever after. I don’t believe anymore. I’m sorry.

I won’t lie to you.
I won’t tell you what you want to hear.

Marriage is a thousand little cuts.
Least mine happened to be.


I will apologize.

This year… I’ve written more hurt than I ever imagined existed inside of me. I want to be funny again. I promise one day I will be sarcastic, and witty, and the Misfit will return. Not today. I didn’t sign up for this. You didn’t either. I understand. We used to have fun, and we laughed. And we made fun of life. Then life caught up with me. And my hands. And my words. And all these cuts just need to bleed. These thousand little cuts have added up. They’ve ripped in me a thousand different emotional directions. They’ve made me into a thousand things I never wanted to be. I don’t recognize my own face or these words as my own. They pour, as they wish. I let them. There’s a thousand little cuts covering my body. I’m sorry I can’t hide them better. Or pretend. Or be different. Or tell you happy tales. One day, I promise to bandage up this heart and this body, and smile. I may even laugh. Today is not that day, friends. 


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3 Comments on "A Thousand Little Cuts"

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Love you lady. Write whatever needs to be written, for YOU.


You be whatever you need to be, and we will be right here with you. <3

jeremy - thirstydaddy
jeremy - thirstydaddy

took a pretty big knife to the heart myself this week. Love this

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