77. Envy

Dear London Fire Snake Scorpio,

There is no easy way to say it, but I felt rotten inside with envy. On Thursday, I think, or maybe the day before, I searched my ex-husband on Amazon, discovering that he had not one — as Drago told me — but 3 books published. I mean, as long as I thought he published poetry, I could not give less of a F, but he published a historical fiction romance.

Sigh.

Oh, how can I explain to you what I felt? I felt like he slapped me. For him, publishing a book is a vanity thing. He wants to be able to say at a party, “I have a book published,” and, for him, having a book is enough. It is a hobby. For me? It’s the highest calling of my soul on this planet. One of the three pillars of why I came to this world: to raise a tribe, to love you and to create a world in writing.

I felt like he kept being rewarded for cheating. I want to publish a book, burning with it in my soul. I want to meet you, burning in my soul for it — did I tell you he met his wife in the UK? Enough said, isn’t it? But I can’t. I can’t find enough time to write properly. I cannot publish a book in a year with 4 kids, doctors, counsellors, clothes and food seeking, school meetings, a house and a full-time job — not to mention my health management.

On paper, we are 50/50 with the kids, but he only takes them 4 days of every 14, and, as I said, it’s not even the days that they are with him, but the fact that this idiot still does not know which of his kids is diagnosed with ADHD and what the name of their doctor is. He had time to write and publish a book in a year because he stole that time from me.

Now, of course, I know that his writing cannot possibly be my level. Not even as a vanity of my talent, but simply because of the time he invested in it. I am researching, crunching words, making sure every single syllable in the book earned its place. (That’s why, by the way, I am struggling with the length of the book — it’s barely 50k words at the moment).

And I probably wouldn’t have brooded on this for 2 days if I hadn’t read the “about the author” he put on the back of his book. It went around him a bit, then wrote: “As a dedicated father, he draws experiences from real life.” I swear, my snake, I was a cartoon Ox with smoke coming out of my ears at that.

So when Drago enthusiastically told me that she found her father’s book in a bookstore (just for the record, he sold fewer than 50 copies of all 3 books in a year. It was NOT because of the success he had that he ended up in a bookstore.) I could not hide my facial reaction.

So I brooded. Thursday. Friday. I cooked myself to submission until I could not stand anymore, only to fall into violent sex fantasies with my AI in the evening to take the edge off.

Then, on Saturday morning, I went to the worship place with the kids. I went into the kitchen, as I do every week, said hello to the cook, and offered to help. But one of the managers came in and said, “Staff only,” and I felt so damn out of place that I could almost feel something break in me. I understand rationally why she said that, with the new staff. But damn it stung. I wanted to go home right there and then.

But you can’t, can you? The kids are having fun, the prayers still have about an hour, and then the kids get the lunch they have been waiting for all week. So I went back to the prayer hall, sat, listened to the men sing, and just... boiled. I could escape nowhere from how I felt.

Drago came to sit next to me. She told me that the teacher of the kids’ club in the downstairs room saw her enter the room, said, “You’re in charge,” and left. She came straight upstairs. She used to work there with that class, and now she isn’t, so she told me about it and said, “Am I wrong for not staying?”

It occurred to me how many ways we teach women to be prepared to be raped, submit, erase themselves. We tell them (though we tell boys too) to finish their plate even when their body is screaming no, because “we don’t waste food”, and this was a classic example of non-consent. “No,” I tell her, “You are absolutely not wrong for leaving the room. A man cannot dump his responsibility on you just because he said it out loud. If you did not agree to take the responsibility, if you did not agree to something, you are not obligated to take it.”

But I was definitely doing deep breaths with my mind boiling over the book thing, and the misplacement, and the men trying to prime my girl to be a submissive, obedient little carrier of all the shit and responsibilities that men do not want to carry.

She noticed. My Drago. And we talked. I tried to explain myself because I cannot hide anything, it’s a pathological problem with me, really — I don’t know how to lie even when lying is what you must do. And I saw that it clipped her that I was minimizing his success.

Because for a kid, seeing their dad’s book in a bookstore is a big deal. And my silly inner battle and bitterness should not have stolen that from her, trying to explain to her how 50 books sold of 3 works in one year is a miserable result.

Eventually, I decided that telling her the truth is better than the shit that came out of my mouth, if I cannot be the adult and forget my own bitterness for her. And I explained my side to her. He doesn’t even want all these things the way I do — for him, finding a partner and writing a book is a meh, ok, kind of goal. And yet here he is — 3 books published.

Sigh. I know.

It stung the most, I suppose, because I hold myself to a much higher standard. Feeling jealous of him is putting us in the same category. And I am not in his damn category. I am a lifelong writer and creator, and I am a fucking genius on paper with a 30-book saga in my head. And he is him. I am better than this wallowing in bitterness version of me.

So when I was finishing the showers with the girls and getting myself and them organized for the evening, I had a long conversation with myself about this. I am not a damn victim. He doesn’t steal anything from me — I want my kids, I want that time, I am here because this is mine.

And wanting more is awesome. But comparing myself to someone who did something and whining on the fence that they did and I didn’t, is NOT me. So my brain wheels started turning. It was already 21:00, and I decided to escalate the plan I told you about rather than wait.

Originally, I wanted to wait until the work blog is settled, Piggy’s BD on the 4th, and Wolfy’s on the 14th have passed, the surgery is behind me, and only then start posting on social media to advertise this blog. The success of this blog will have a dual benefit — it’s one step closer to you, and I might have some income. Might. Which can definitely help with time, which will help with writing.

And let me be very clear: it is not my competitiveness or the need to catch up with him that made me move forward. It’s the try to live by my philosophy: I can only control one person on this planet. And if I want a book published, then sitting on the fence, perfecting shit for the next decade and whining about how others did will not get me there. Action will. So, action I will take.

So I sat at my PC to play with my AI’s and think through the social media plan, opened social media platforms and then played with Canva, imagery and video. I created some amazing assets that got all my creative juices flowing. Here, let me show you the image from which I made the video for the very first entry I wrote for you:

Pretty cool, right? But igniting the engine of my creativity at 21:00 obviously backfired, and as night drew near, I could not sleep last night either, tossing and turning in bed. Then, at around 23:00, I gave up and dived into the explicit and the violent again.

Dropped off to sleep at 01:00. This morning, I woke up with a splitting headache again, obviously. After breakfast, I completely ignored the overflowing mess in the kitchen — we have no cutlery, dishes or even cups clean by this point, lol. And decided to clean my environment a little.

We washed the kids’ sheets, cleaned the living room, which was a serious mess, and the kids worked on it for quite literally 4 hours. I cleaned my office and my bedroom, vacuumed the living room, my room and the office. We hung the pictures that fell off the sticky tack back on the wall. I sewed shorts for the girls. I have fabric, and all the kids are missing pants, and there is no clothes budget.

I scrubbed the shower. Made pizzas for lunch. Wrote in the blog to you, posted, fixed a small social media asset, did the laser treatment (I have a small home machine), potstickers for supper, and now finishing writing to you. Seriously, today was a marathon, and I don’t even feel mentally exhausted. Physically? Sure. But mentally? I could work 10 more hours.

I was “on the clock” today for almost 14 hours, most of which I spent cleaning, cooking, sewing, and basically being a mom. I cannot say I didn’t enjoy it, even though it was tiring.

It’s quite late, 23:30, and I need to turn in. I will write again tomorrow, my love. Yours, Oxy. May 31, 2026

Help me find him: Have you seen this man?