She values education and career over marriage and relationship. At age 28, she has more liquor in her refrigerator than fruits and vegetables. At age 27, she’s quaffing neat whiskies like a sailor. She’s into cigarette smoking, or in worst case scenario, addicted to weed. Her idea of fun at age 30 is a night out with the girls. At age 30, she still insists on only dating a tall, dark and handsome guy who is monied and with a six-pack to boot. The idea of cooking for a man is a total turn-off to her. She has never forgiven her father for abusing her mother, or her first boyfriend used to abuse her and she now thinks every man is violent and controlling. She is so much into fashion, and her fortnightly combined expenditure on manicure, pedicure and hair-styling is enough to settle one month’s rent for a three-bedroom house in South C. She is turned on more by boardroom politics than the the pleasurable and humane joys of holding her baby. She can’t imagine giving birth naturally and would rather opt for a Caesarian section, and as far as she is concerned, breastfeeding is a three-week exercise before the kids are introduced to formula.
She fucks him on the first date, thinking that he liked her.
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It was June when I realized I’d been carrying bitterness I didn’t even know I had. See, this bitterness–it wasn’t the kind of bitterness people saw.
It was July when I first voiced it, early September when first prayed about it, October when i looked in the mirror and realized I’m just as beaten up and broken, and November when i finally inquired about counseling because I had believed for far too long I could beat bitterness with enough time, inspiring books, and good behavior. It was tucked behind closed doors and hidden behind smiling faces. It was the sneaky, barely detectable kind–even to me. It’s brutally difficult and some days it just wrecks you.