I’ve already made the threat that I’ll divorce you if you go on another shopping spree. I don’t think I will, I don’t have it in me. I’d probably kill myself first. But what I WILL do and you can damn sure count on this is that I will wait until you go to work, send the kids out with my parents, and then go through the house and gather up every single stuffed animal, toy, and “collectible” and fill my car with them and make a few trips to the dump. Not even Goodwill. I don’t want anyone to enjoy all this shit and I don’t want to sell it. I just want it to be gone from my life so I don’t have to see it in EVERY room of my house. I don’t want to see it covering up my few small islands of identity with YOUR shit. I don’t want to be reminded of how weak I am when I look at the space that we agreed would hold all your stuffed animals and then see how much you’ve outgrown that space. It sickens me and it enrages me and so help me fucking christ it will END next time.
That’s my vow to myself, to you, and to our family. This will NOT continue. If by some miracle you’re able to control your impulses and keep from losing your mind and blowing our savings again then great. I’ll choke back my rage and deal with a house full of bullshit for the rest of my life knowing that ultimately I won the war. But if you DO lose control then I will slash and burn every last thing until our house is as clean and bare as an empty hospital room. The only toys left will be the ones the kids play with.
And towards that point, I’m going to sell all my Nightmare collectibles and my Mario plush. I never wanted any of it and it’s just a reminder of your craziness. That’s not true I wanted the Mario stuff but I don’t need it. And I’ll be happier without it. Then I’ll move my books down to my office and that will become my sanctuary away from any trace of your sickness.
It’s probably where I’ll end up living anyways.