When the idea to write a post came up, I had about a good hour and a half to do so before the madness of motherhood begins. In the interim, I had a load of laundry washing and a pot of cold water on the stove awaiting a flame to boil it. After sweeping off a thin layer of dust from my computer and then twiddling my thumbs on my phone for nearly fifteen minute while it slowly started up, I finally have access…
Until I realized I had about 20 updates and 52 comments to filter through on WordPress before it can function properly for me to begin writing on (currently writing on my computers notepad). So now with less than an hour to spare and a pot of water coming to a boil on the stove, let me see if I can type out something other than “We need milk” and “I’ll see you when you get home.”
Life lately has been incredibly domestic. Not that it wasn’t before; the only difference before was me fucking other people and that definitely tends to shake things up. A year ago today there was a huge family crisis that put a lot of things to light about the man who had been living in my home. A man who claimed to consider my husband as a brother, who at one point I also considered family when I told my son to call him uncle. The same man who I had even developed feelings for and whom my best friend began fucking behind my back and lied to me about it. It was the first time we had ever stopped talking and the first time that I had ever thought about not being her friend anymore. It culminated with the authorities knocking on my door and partially threatening to remove my child because neighbors had complaints about activities that he was involved with. He never took the blame nor did he apologize. Instead he left to another state to be with a woman he had been speaking to for a few months, and as he told Chloe,
I’m just seeing her to forget about you…
About a week later, after nearly resorting to threatening him with a separation, I convinced Henri to go against his word and call him to tell him he couldn’t live here anymore and he needed to pick up his belongings. A month later he came to my home. He did not greet anyone, said “Thanks for holding my stuff,” and we haven’t heard or seen him since. Two months later, our case closed with the label “unfounded,” meaning that we were not the neglectful parents some anonymous person had claimed us to be. Instead, the caseworker had applauded our parenting and told us that for “a child who is clinically diagnosed on the autistic spectrum, he is well-behaved, well spoken, incredibly smart and talkative! You’re doing a great job mom.” As kind as her words were it helped little when this can still show up on my personal record and can take up to ten years to be expunged. It also does not repair the nights I lay awake, thinking that at any moment someone would ring my doorbell and take my son away. I couldn’t eat, I obsessively cleaned my house, I cried every day for a month, and even when I tried to sleep I would have nightmares waking me up at four in the morning. It was hell.
After the summer, Chloe could no longer contain her silence. By this time, she was in love with someone who was different from any other man she had ever been with and perhaps it made her question her previous liaisons, Maurice being the most recent. She told me that he said he was helping us pay bills, contributing with food, and even that he lent us money. All lies (minus the one time we had to ask him to pay half a bill that he ran up. One Fucking Time).
Still, the worse part had to be when she told me then that he had been giving Henri advice on how to be a man. How not to take shit from me, calling him out during moments where he felt his that his “brother” was being talked down to or disrespected. That I had to be put in my place and he would never allow a woman to talk to him the way I speak to Henri. But she also told me that he made a statement along the lines of “If I were attracted to Scarlett, I would have tried to fuck her by now…” And then it all became a little clearer: He was a partial reason as to why my marriage almost collapsed. He encouraged him to deal with things the way a “man” would, and sometimes would resort to calling out his manhood and taunting him. I thought that his taking advantage of our hospitality for two years was the worst thing he did. But giving unnecessary relationship advice while still sleeping on my sofa and causing an investigation where I have strangers hovering in my life to make sure I’m a good mother just blew away anything I could have ever known about one person.
The term Fuckboy has been floating around for more than a year or so, mostly on social media. Used by many of the youth of this generation, I find a fitting title to give him. Of all the definitions that I could find online, Urban Dictionary gave me one that was precise and made me giggle:
The fuckiest of the fucks, a “fuckboy” is the lowest possible form of the vile, degenerate waste pouring from the proverbial asshole of society. Calling some a fuckboy is the verbal equivalent of orally penetrating their mother, their dog, and their girlfriend in the span of approximately 3.94 seconds, and is only to be used on people who make pre-school slurs like “fucker” and “cunt” look like tokens of sainthood.
And then there was the simple “A manipulating dick who does whatever it takes to benefit him, regardless of who he screws over,” but I enjoy the one above better.
We have not heard from Le Fuckboy since the day he left, almost a year ago. He sent Chloe one message completely unrelated to this situation or theirs, and despite having the urge to verbal assault his character via text, she resisted and simply did not reply.
Shit. So much can change in a year…
P.S: In case you’re wondering, Henri and I are doing fine, but that’s an update for another time.