I finally did it. I am changing my effing number.
All the domestic violence advocates out there would say what a good positive choice this is, would commend my strength and conviction to change...and I would unabashedly have to admit that, in my case, that is a big bag o' shit. It was more of an act of God, per say.
I dropped my cell phone in a full tub of bathwater while juggling phone calls, bathing my boys, brainstorming words that rhyme with "orange" (to no avail). This was the first in a series of events that culminated in the monumental phone number change.
The phone did not die. But it definitely short circuited. For weeks my text messages were sent haywire to everyone in my call list, my calls were dropped and muffled, my service was shotty at best...and then one morning I woke up and the screen said simply "SIM blocked".
Wtf does that mean?
The only option on the screen was "SOS". My thought process was as follows:
My SIM is blocked, whatever that means. I can't make calls. Pretty sure I won't receive them. I can't live without my phone. It is the epicenter of my life. "SOS", whatever that is, sounds like the appropriate choice.
It wasn't. Let me give those of you as ignorant to this sort of stuff as I am a tip: save "SOS" for incidents where you are at risk of being raped, murdered, or having a heart attack. It's just 911. Why they can't just put that on there instead is beyond me. So SOS is no help, my phone is boycotting my work, kids' school, and social life, it is 7:30am, and I am freaking out, legit. I don't care how pathetic it is. I love my phone like another child...
I put my kids on the bus, lamenting to the driver, then head over to my neighbor's to use their phone. I am put on hold for twenty minutes just to speak to a thickly accented Indian woman named "Anne" (yeah, ok) who asks me to clean the card, take it out, put it back in..like I hadn't desperately tried all that before calling. She informs me that if I have a SIM card assigned to another phone in my phone it will not work, because clearly I am a fucking idiot with twelve billion SIM cards floating around. She finally tells me they can send me a replacement card in 2-7 days, but that it will change my phone number when I get it.
TWO TO SEVEN DAYS?!?! I cannot live without a phone for that long! I am devastated. Utterly devastated. Then "The Meat"'s girlfriend, nickname still pending, drops the biggest revelation of the day on me.
"Maybe this is an act of God," she says, "Now you've lost all your numbers, you can't contact Bat Shit, he can't contact you."
True, true, true. I have a sick and compulsive need to engage with Bat Shit in every ridiculous capacity you can imagine. It's wrong and a waste of time, petty and stupid. Now, in one single SIM blocking divine intervention, it's a non issue.
The bigger blessing in this is, it's helping me to kick a pretty serious habit of mine. I am, I must admit, a verbal abuser.
The words "lazy", "useless", "redneck", "stupid", and "deadbeat" fly out of my mouth and Bat Shit is always on the recieving end of these verbal attacks. My words are my weapons, I sharpen them often. Yeah, yeah...all this is on the blog. But the point of that would be, to complete a variable binge-and-purge cycle on all these negative feelings, so they're out and I'm free and you all get a laugh at my expense.
But no. I aim them right at the people intended and let loose.
It's wrong. It's wrong to imagine one hundred ways the father of your children could die in an accident. It's wrong to fill your free time and night looking up new and interesting insult words in a thesaraus. It's wrong to speak bitterly of your ex with your children mere feet away. Kids are like wet cement. Everything that falls on them makes an impression. Oh, and they weigh you down and stick you at home. But that's another story...
But let's face it, it is normal. And unfortunately, even the unacceptable becomes excusable when it fits the conventional norm.
I endured physical, emotional verbal abuse from this man. I know what it feels like. So why do I throw these verbal daggers right back?? It's called reactive violence. Probably part of some PSTD, because I have it, thank you Bat Shit husband. But it's wrong and exhausting and leaves me in a state of constant anxiety.
My cell phone made a stand for me. Cut the crap, cut the contact, let it go. Forget about it. Stop letting this man get to you and consume your thoughts and feelings.
I've been having panic attacks lately. Or at least they feel like them, it's suffocating anxiety. At work, at home, out with friends...Bat Shit takes over my mind and I obsess and worry and self-deprecate, I live in "what if" and "if only" and regret.
But i haven't felt it in days since the phone passed away. It's a fucking vacation.
RIP former cell phone, RIP former life.
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