I'm really having a rough time tonight. Something happened that I thought would be a moment that my husband and I would end up in a knock down drag out fight or we'd at least talk about what happened, instead, like all the time. Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
He just sat there. For 30 minutes, we just sat there. I asked him to say what he was feeling, say what he was thinking. He said it wouldn't change anything. Still I felt like he blamed me. That somehow he reasoned that this thing, this thing that happened was mostly if not all my fault. That for some reason, I made it happend, let it happen or maybe in some way did it on purpose.
Still, he said nothing. I told him to say something because now was the time. He wanted to know why "now" was the time. I told him we were both together, quiet and serious. Now was the perfect time. He didn't offer up anything forgiveness, exoneration, disapproval.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
So instead of feeling relieved I feel angry, disappointed, alone and unappreciated. I feel discarded, disrespected, and most of all like this is just going to be another nothing between us.
Showing posts with label The Winter of Our Discontent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Winter of Our Discontent. Show all posts
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Friday, April 5, 2013
The Winter of Our Discontent: Don't Bring Me Down
There is something so devastating when you realize something about someone you've known for such a very long time. One of those strategic pieces of the puzzle that makes us sit there and with our jaws slack. We can't believe what we heard--or saw--we can't believe that in some weird way it makes perfect sense.
Then, we sit there and wonder, "Okay, now what do I do?" Meanwhile, an awareness washes over us that makes us see that what we might have waited and waited for never would have come. I found that out about my husband a few weeks ago.
He innocently told me he liked to ride around his neighborhood with a cassette tape player strapped to his bicycle playing the E. L. O. song, Don't Bring Me Down over and over again. I teased him about it for a few days, but I'm pretty sure he didn't realize what he had just revealed about himself and how much I had learned.
For whatever reason, he chooses not to know. He chooses not to hear about it, deal with it, or address it. He doesn't want to be "brought down." Where does this come from? To not want to be bothered to the point of letting someone else and other things dictate your life? I can't imagine. However, in my dazed amazement, I understand him a little bit more now. I understand that a lot of what I'd been waiting for, hoping for a sign of whatever it was that made him check out of his life and let others lead. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
That frustration of seeing him take my lead every day of our married lives. Experiencing nothing from him. Nothingness. That's more like it. Nothingness. I wondered why I can't talk to him about my concerns, my disappointments, my failures, my longings. Why we didn't feel like the "best of friends." Why wondered why anything but surface banter between us always ended in me getting angry at him and hating him. He's not interested in what makes me who I am or anyone who they are. He wants the surface, the exterior, the congeniality, the cordiality. Don't bring him down. Don't be real. Don't be sad. Don't be disappointed. Don't be angry. Don't want more. Don't strive for improvement. Don't expect anything from him.
Don't
Don't
Don't
Then, we sit there and wonder, "Okay, now what do I do?" Meanwhile, an awareness washes over us that makes us see that what we might have waited and waited for never would have come. I found that out about my husband a few weeks ago.
He innocently told me he liked to ride around his neighborhood with a cassette tape player strapped to his bicycle playing the E. L. O. song, Don't Bring Me Down over and over again. I teased him about it for a few days, but I'm pretty sure he didn't realize what he had just revealed about himself and how much I had learned.
For whatever reason, he chooses not to know. He chooses not to hear about it, deal with it, or address it. He doesn't want to be "brought down." Where does this come from? To not want to be bothered to the point of letting someone else and other things dictate your life? I can't imagine. However, in my dazed amazement, I understand him a little bit more now. I understand that a lot of what I'd been waiting for, hoping for a sign of whatever it was that made him check out of his life and let others lead. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
That frustration of seeing him take my lead every day of our married lives. Experiencing nothing from him. Nothingness. That's more like it. Nothingness. I wondered why I can't talk to him about my concerns, my disappointments, my failures, my longings. Why we didn't feel like the "best of friends." Why wondered why anything but surface banter between us always ended in me getting angry at him and hating him. He's not interested in what makes me who I am or anyone who they are. He wants the surface, the exterior, the congeniality, the cordiality. Don't bring him down. Don't be real. Don't be sad. Don't be disappointed. Don't be angry. Don't want more. Don't strive for improvement. Don't expect anything from him.
Don't
Don't
Don't
Friday, March 29, 2013
The Winter of Our Discontent: House Guest
I woke up this morning to a house guest. A house guest I didn't know about. My husband and my son went and picked up a family friend (his side of the family) from the airport and brought him back to our house at 11:30 or so at night.
I'm not sure where the line of communication broke down. I just know that I almost walked out of my room in some raggedy old pajamas and no bra. My husband had gone to work and left the bedroom door open, I wasn't thinking about company. I started out the bedroom door, luckily, He was sitting in a chair in our living room that had its back to the door I was walking through. I quietly closed the bedroom door and got dressed while I took a mental inventory of what had been said. I couldn't remember. All I knew now was there was a visitor in my living room.
I rummaged around and made some waffles and coffee. We'd been on vacation. There was very little food in the house. Especially the absence of syrup after I'd already started the waffles.
Turns out my son had offered to take him down to my mother in law's house some time that morning and they didn't tell anyone because my mother in law left her volunteer position to come get him at my house. Meanwhile, we were headed south to her house. She wasn't home, so we went out for lunch. It wasn't a huge deal. Just one of those things that no one communicated about.
I'm not sure where the line of communication broke down. I just know that I almost walked out of my room in some raggedy old pajamas and no bra. My husband had gone to work and left the bedroom door open, I wasn't thinking about company. I started out the bedroom door, luckily, He was sitting in a chair in our living room that had its back to the door I was walking through. I quietly closed the bedroom door and got dressed while I took a mental inventory of what had been said. I couldn't remember. All I knew now was there was a visitor in my living room.
I rummaged around and made some waffles and coffee. We'd been on vacation. There was very little food in the house. Especially the absence of syrup after I'd already started the waffles.
Turns out my son had offered to take him down to my mother in law's house some time that morning and they didn't tell anyone because my mother in law left her volunteer position to come get him at my house. Meanwhile, we were headed south to her house. She wasn't home, so we went out for lunch. It wasn't a huge deal. Just one of those things that no one communicated about.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Winter of Our Discontent: Defensive
My husband and I are back going through one of those phases I guess couples go through. He doesn't care and I pretend it doesn't bother me. I suppose I could end the discussion there and save myself some time writing a blog, however, that's not the reason people write blogs.
The big picture is I'm trying very hard to gently phase us into the time in our lives when I will be going back to work. It's going to be quite a shock for both of us and even though I've thought about it a lot. I'm not sure who will be affected most. The career path I have chosen is not going to be easy. It will take a while to gain momentum, but I think in a few years, I will be making some pretty good money. However, I don't think it will be an easy transition when it comes to our home life. So, consequently, I've been a little more critical that usual lately. Most of the time I just let it go. I'm home all the time I'll pick it up, wipe it off, clean it out, etc. Those days are quickly fleeting, so I have begun point things out like food left on dishes put away from the dishwasher. Toothpaste on the faucet. Facial hair around the sink. Picking up behind ourselves, etc. I tried very hard to make it a group effort. For months I adamantly stood by the "we" and the "our" in critical statements. As time progresses, nothing is changing and I will admit that I am stepping it up a bit. I am pointing out specific things. I try not to bring anything up two days in a row. I try not to bring up more than one or two things at a time. This process is so tedious.
Last night my husband had retreated to the computer room to watch hockey and pursue his hobby obsession while I tried to finish my homework for school. I made several announcements that I was done with my homework. What was I going to do with myself for the rest of the evening. I even made several passes through the computer room looking for something to do. I even stated that this was my only day off this week and I was trying to think of something to do together. He didn't catch on to my desire to find something to do together.
Later, he began to do the dishes in his usual half baked manner. When he left and went back to the computer room I came out to finish up. i.e. wash out the pitcher, clean the counters, and do some busy work. Then he suddenly reappeared and started moving papers around the counter. Piling up unrelated coupons and pieces of plastic with newspaper flyers and mail. I asked him rather rudely what he was doing. He said he was "finishing" the kitchen. This made me angry. He was done in the kitchen until I came in and decided to finish the job. Now he was pushing papers and junk around on the counter that had been there for a week. I simply wanted to know why. Why tonight?
He disappeared as soon as I turned my back. It took me about 15 minutes to go through the accumulated miscellaneous on the counter. I turned off the light and picked a book to read.
The big picture is I'm trying very hard to gently phase us into the time in our lives when I will be going back to work. It's going to be quite a shock for both of us and even though I've thought about it a lot. I'm not sure who will be affected most. The career path I have chosen is not going to be easy. It will take a while to gain momentum, but I think in a few years, I will be making some pretty good money. However, I don't think it will be an easy transition when it comes to our home life. So, consequently, I've been a little more critical that usual lately. Most of the time I just let it go. I'm home all the time I'll pick it up, wipe it off, clean it out, etc. Those days are quickly fleeting, so I have begun point things out like food left on dishes put away from the dishwasher. Toothpaste on the faucet. Facial hair around the sink. Picking up behind ourselves, etc. I tried very hard to make it a group effort. For months I adamantly stood by the "we" and the "our" in critical statements. As time progresses, nothing is changing and I will admit that I am stepping it up a bit. I am pointing out specific things. I try not to bring anything up two days in a row. I try not to bring up more than one or two things at a time. This process is so tedious.
Last night my husband had retreated to the computer room to watch hockey and pursue his hobby obsession while I tried to finish my homework for school. I made several announcements that I was done with my homework. What was I going to do with myself for the rest of the evening. I even made several passes through the computer room looking for something to do. I even stated that this was my only day off this week and I was trying to think of something to do together. He didn't catch on to my desire to find something to do together.
Later, he began to do the dishes in his usual half baked manner. When he left and went back to the computer room I came out to finish up. i.e. wash out the pitcher, clean the counters, and do some busy work. Then he suddenly reappeared and started moving papers around the counter. Piling up unrelated coupons and pieces of plastic with newspaper flyers and mail. I asked him rather rudely what he was doing. He said he was "finishing" the kitchen. This made me angry. He was done in the kitchen until I came in and decided to finish the job. Now he was pushing papers and junk around on the counter that had been there for a week. I simply wanted to know why. Why tonight?
He disappeared as soon as I turned my back. It took me about 15 minutes to go through the accumulated miscellaneous on the counter. I turned off the light and picked a book to read.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Winter Of Our Discontent: It's Been A While
It's been a little while since I posted something under this label. It's not because I haven't been discontent. I've been very discontent. I've also been very busy with school, so when it hits me, it hit me hard. It hit me pretty hard on Monday night and I've been grumbling ever since.
I wonder why I have the gift of being disappointed and discontent. Why am I not satisfied with status quo the way the men in my life seem to be? Why do I want more? Why is there always a better? I search my heart to find if this is wrong or selfish and all I find is more dissatisfaction.
So to sit back and be satisfied would be a disservice to me because I'm not satisfied. I want some thing back that I've lost and I want to be rid of some things I've gained. I want a different life and I want to be able to decide who's in it.
I wonder why I have the gift of being disappointed and discontent. Why am I not satisfied with status quo the way the men in my life seem to be? Why do I want more? Why is there always a better? I search my heart to find if this is wrong or selfish and all I find is more dissatisfaction.
So to sit back and be satisfied would be a disservice to me because I'm not satisfied. I want some thing back that I've lost and I want to be rid of some things I've gained. I want a different life and I want to be able to decide who's in it.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Winter of Our Discontent: Has It Been a Year Already?
On the way home from a trip to JoAnn Fabrics, my husband mentioned that it had been a year since we'd been up to see my parent's for fourth of July. For me, it is a much more monumental year. It has almost been a year since I decided to end the "affair". How do I feel? Strange. I feel strange. I look at the calendar and know that a year ago I was ready to do something so wrong with someone so wrong. I've changed this year.
While we were on the way home we decided to visit a little wing place. It had been years since we'd been in. I was feeling carefree until I saw the car. A car I knew to be his. To seal the deal it even had a sticker on it from the university he went to. I had an easy time believing that he was in there and tried to swallow the irony that we would be discussing the year past and I would have the unfortunate task of enjoying my meal with the man I chose and the man I rejected in the same restaurant.
It would be the first time I'd see him in over a year. What would I do? Would I acknowledge him? Ignore him?
It was surprisingly empty when we walked in. I was able to scan the guests and tables quickly. I didn't see him, but that didn't mean he wasn't in a booth I couldn't see from my vantage point. I felt ugly and fat. There was a time there I'd felt confident that if I was to see him he'd "see what he lost" by being a jerk. He'd said I was fat. He'd said that it didn't matter--that it was the "whole package". I wondered what package he was referring to. I am five years older than him and fat. I think it was the "easy target" package.
We took the second booth we walked by and I continued to scan the restaurant as subtly as I could. I checked the bar area, the big tables the small booths. He was not in this restaurant. We ordered and I waited for him to come out of the restroom or from a corner I couldn't see.
Finally, I saw a young family leave the restaurant and approach the little SUV with the college sticker in the window. She had a tiny one holding her hand and the the man was definitely not him. Definitely. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Even though I know I went my whole life here without meeting him, I know that someday I am going to see him again and someday all those things I said and did are going to flood back. The only thing I can hope for is that when that day comes I will be ready and feel confident in my decision.
While we were on the way home we decided to visit a little wing place. It had been years since we'd been in. I was feeling carefree until I saw the car. A car I knew to be his. To seal the deal it even had a sticker on it from the university he went to. I had an easy time believing that he was in there and tried to swallow the irony that we would be discussing the year past and I would have the unfortunate task of enjoying my meal with the man I chose and the man I rejected in the same restaurant.
It would be the first time I'd see him in over a year. What would I do? Would I acknowledge him? Ignore him?
It was surprisingly empty when we walked in. I was able to scan the guests and tables quickly. I didn't see him, but that didn't mean he wasn't in a booth I couldn't see from my vantage point. I felt ugly and fat. There was a time there I'd felt confident that if I was to see him he'd "see what he lost" by being a jerk. He'd said I was fat. He'd said that it didn't matter--that it was the "whole package". I wondered what package he was referring to. I am five years older than him and fat. I think it was the "easy target" package.
We took the second booth we walked by and I continued to scan the restaurant as subtly as I could. I checked the bar area, the big tables the small booths. He was not in this restaurant. We ordered and I waited for him to come out of the restroom or from a corner I couldn't see.
Finally, I saw a young family leave the restaurant and approach the little SUV with the college sticker in the window. She had a tiny one holding her hand and the the man was definitely not him. Definitely. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Even though I know I went my whole life here without meeting him, I know that someday I am going to see him again and someday all those things I said and did are going to flood back. The only thing I can hope for is that when that day comes I will be ready and feel confident in my decision.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Winter of Our Discontent: Undeniably in Love
I saw them last night at a concert. They were cheesily, unashamedly, can't-look-away, why-don't-they-get-a-room, in love and they were quite possibly the ugliest couple on the planet. Her nose was so big it seemed to pull her upper lip away from her teeth. He hair was shocking and curly. Not that sexy, Andie MacDowell-from-the-80s curly either. This was finger in a light socket curly and pulled back in a tight pony tail behind her head so it formed a sort of frizzy fallen halo around her like byzantine art. When she spoke she had an obvious speech impediment. Maybe it was her nose.
He was no catch either. His afro-like reddish blonde hair seemed dirty and sweaty like the rest of him. His fat seemed to hang to somewhere around his thighs. He was wearing a generic rock groupie T-shirt from a group I didn't recognize. His oily face was peppered with light freckles that just didn't seem to go with his joke of a "bad boy" image from the neck down. He had a slouch and a smile that creeped me out. Like if I had a daughter, I'd never let her out of the house because of his smile. But these two were in love.
They couldn't have been more than 17.
There was an equally unattractive parent gushing about a "promise ring" that had been presented the night before. These two had found each other. What were the odds? These two equally ugly people finding each other in this crazy mixed up world fixated on appearance. Putting aside the idea that they were most likely minors, there was no way these two young people weren't doin' it and doin' it with regularity. Mom seemed to think it was awesome. These two "finding" each other. I was kind of grossed out.
So we walked back to our car. Me in my high-heels, matching purse, dress pants and dressy top. I thought about my sun-kissed blond hair that curled so nice in the night's humidity. I looked at the profile of my husband. His temples beginning to gray and the confidence it must take to accept that receding hairline.
I think we are a nice looking couple. We were handsome in our 20s and 30s. Now we have a luxurious maturity and comortableness about us that might make other young people want to be like us "some day". But I don't know what it feels like to love "in spite of".
To love in spite of body flaws or odor. A nose that makes people point or hair that encourages pity. To love someone with a concert t-shirt wardrobe and a short attention span. I decided on the way home, that to love in spite of these things would surely mean you were undeniably in love.
He was no catch either. His afro-like reddish blonde hair seemed dirty and sweaty like the rest of him. His fat seemed to hang to somewhere around his thighs. He was wearing a generic rock groupie T-shirt from a group I didn't recognize. His oily face was peppered with light freckles that just didn't seem to go with his joke of a "bad boy" image from the neck down. He had a slouch and a smile that creeped me out. Like if I had a daughter, I'd never let her out of the house because of his smile. But these two were in love.
They couldn't have been more than 17.
There was an equally unattractive parent gushing about a "promise ring" that had been presented the night before. These two had found each other. What were the odds? These two equally ugly people finding each other in this crazy mixed up world fixated on appearance. Putting aside the idea that they were most likely minors, there was no way these two young people weren't doin' it and doin' it with regularity. Mom seemed to think it was awesome. These two "finding" each other. I was kind of grossed out.
So we walked back to our car. Me in my high-heels, matching purse, dress pants and dressy top. I thought about my sun-kissed blond hair that curled so nice in the night's humidity. I looked at the profile of my husband. His temples beginning to gray and the confidence it must take to accept that receding hairline.
I think we are a nice looking couple. We were handsome in our 20s and 30s. Now we have a luxurious maturity and comortableness about us that might make other young people want to be like us "some day". But I don't know what it feels like to love "in spite of".
To love in spite of body flaws or odor. A nose that makes people point or hair that encourages pity. To love someone with a concert t-shirt wardrobe and a short attention span. I decided on the way home, that to love in spite of these things would surely mean you were undeniably in love.
Friday, April 15, 2011
The Winter of Our Discontent: Overdrawn Accounts and Burger King Whoppers
I haven't had opportunity to look at the account closely, but we somehow managed to overdraw our account by $287. I remember when that happened to us the first time. I thought I was going to die. I was so embarassed, I cried and cried. Then I was angry and blamed it on everything and everyone. My husband got an advance on his paycheck which meant the company he worked for knew what we'd done. I was truly mortified.
The truth is, money is a tough thing. I can watch it like a hawk for weeks and months at a time and even though I know I shouldn't, as soon as I let my guard down and decide to breath a little, this happens--every time. I imagine some time today, I'll have to toughen up and look at the account to see where we went wrong. We'll have to tighten up again. I don't know how. We haven't been out in I don't know how long. The most deviant thing we've done is Burger King. We have a school booster card that we can get a free Whopper with the purchase of a Whopper. We buy a triple Whopper, get the second whopper free and share the spare patty. We share a drink and a fry. Pretty ingenious, I'd say.
Well, before I get into my day, I better go see why we are overdrawn. I quickly peeked to be sure it wasn't a crime being committed, it wasn't. It was just us, thinking we could actually live like regular human beings. I just don't know where else to cut back.
The truth is, money is a tough thing. I can watch it like a hawk for weeks and months at a time and even though I know I shouldn't, as soon as I let my guard down and decide to breath a little, this happens--every time. I imagine some time today, I'll have to toughen up and look at the account to see where we went wrong. We'll have to tighten up again. I don't know how. We haven't been out in I don't know how long. The most deviant thing we've done is Burger King. We have a school booster card that we can get a free Whopper with the purchase of a Whopper. We buy a triple Whopper, get the second whopper free and share the spare patty. We share a drink and a fry. Pretty ingenious, I'd say.
Well, before I get into my day, I better go see why we are overdrawn. I quickly peeked to be sure it wasn't a crime being committed, it wasn't. It was just us, thinking we could actually live like regular human beings. I just don't know where else to cut back.
Friday, April 8, 2011
The Winter of Our Discontent #7: Clean Sweep
Yesterday, I believe I closed the door on leaving my husband. It feels like crap. It feels like giving up. You had to guess I'd tell you about it . . .
I decided to clean the TV/Rec room. It had developed an odor that is not funny at all. When I went in there it just smelled like body funk. My husband had been sleeping in there since December 2009 which isn't as bad as it sounds. Means something like 15 months. But that's another story.
I started one of my semi-annual (I think that means sometimes more than once a year) cleaning efforts where I go through the whole house top to bottom, cleaning windows, closets, under beds, you name it. Many times it's centered around the coming of winter and the coming of spring. I only do it once or twice a year, so it felt like a good time with school over. Anyway, back to the point. The room was a disaster. There was stuff piled everywhere. Clothes, shoes, dishes, magazines, receipts, papers and just stuff all over the place piled elbow high and hanging off of things. A suitcase from a trip in November still packed with winter clothes up against a leaning tower of crap. A basket of clean, folded sheets ready to be put in the closet that he couldn't manage to do. A pile of board games, including several card games and a metal tin of 15 dot dominoes was just spilled out onto the floor. I could have written my name in the cat hair and dust on everything.
I grabbed a small bin for the little stuff and started in on the room and then I got sad. Sad because this is the man I married. My husband. The one I decided 24 years ago I just couldn't live without. This is the man I married, left to himself for a year. The man I married on the verge of losing his wife and the life that he knows, living like a college student, or worse, like a rat, in a room with a gigantic TV and he was doing nothing to change it.
I cleaned the room about six months ago and it was the same story. Piles and piles of stuff he's too lazy to put away, wash, or throw out. Why does he have a problem walking from one end of the house to the other? Why?! Back then, I was just angry. I didn't care. Now I'm beat down, I'm tired and want it to be over, so I told him he could move back in the bedroom. I didn't tell him it was because I didn't want him wrecking another part of the house. I didn't tell him anything. I told him he was moving back into the bedroom. I'm sure he thinks he won. I'm sure he thinks he waited me out.
He didn't.
The truth is, I'm done. I'm going back to caring for the house and whatever else needs attention when it needs it, but the damage has been done here. A piece of me broke off when this mess began and I can't find it. I don't feel the same anymore. I can't overlook it anymore, I can't act like someday he will grow up and he will act like a man who owns a home and has a family. He has not tried to figure out what's going on. He says he's "trying". I don't understand how he could be trying when he hasn't asked me what to do. What I want. He has never asked me what was wrong. He's never come right out and asked me, in 24 years:
"What's wrong?"
I just blow up on him once every five years or so, and it's over. I wish it didn't have to be this way. I wish I could go on pretending I'm not married to a child, but I am. I'm married to a boy in a man's body. A selfish, lazy, immature boy. It's just a shame, but it is what it is.
I decided to clean the TV/Rec room. It had developed an odor that is not funny at all. When I went in there it just smelled like body funk. My husband had been sleeping in there since December 2009 which isn't as bad as it sounds. Means something like 15 months. But that's another story.
I started one of my semi-annual (I think that means sometimes more than once a year) cleaning efforts where I go through the whole house top to bottom, cleaning windows, closets, under beds, you name it. Many times it's centered around the coming of winter and the coming of spring. I only do it once or twice a year, so it felt like a good time with school over. Anyway, back to the point. The room was a disaster. There was stuff piled everywhere. Clothes, shoes, dishes, magazines, receipts, papers and just stuff all over the place piled elbow high and hanging off of things. A suitcase from a trip in November still packed with winter clothes up against a leaning tower of crap. A basket of clean, folded sheets ready to be put in the closet that he couldn't manage to do. A pile of board games, including several card games and a metal tin of 15 dot dominoes was just spilled out onto the floor. I could have written my name in the cat hair and dust on everything.
I grabbed a small bin for the little stuff and started in on the room and then I got sad. Sad because this is the man I married. My husband. The one I decided 24 years ago I just couldn't live without. This is the man I married, left to himself for a year. The man I married on the verge of losing his wife and the life that he knows, living like a college student, or worse, like a rat, in a room with a gigantic TV and he was doing nothing to change it.
I cleaned the room about six months ago and it was the same story. Piles and piles of stuff he's too lazy to put away, wash, or throw out. Why does he have a problem walking from one end of the house to the other? Why?! Back then, I was just angry. I didn't care. Now I'm beat down, I'm tired and want it to be over, so I told him he could move back in the bedroom. I didn't tell him it was because I didn't want him wrecking another part of the house. I didn't tell him anything. I told him he was moving back into the bedroom. I'm sure he thinks he won. I'm sure he thinks he waited me out.
He didn't.
The truth is, I'm done. I'm going back to caring for the house and whatever else needs attention when it needs it, but the damage has been done here. A piece of me broke off when this mess began and I can't find it. I don't feel the same anymore. I can't overlook it anymore, I can't act like someday he will grow up and he will act like a man who owns a home and has a family. He has not tried to figure out what's going on. He says he's "trying". I don't understand how he could be trying when he hasn't asked me what to do. What I want. He has never asked me what was wrong. He's never come right out and asked me, in 24 years:
"What's wrong?"
I just blow up on him once every five years or so, and it's over. I wish it didn't have to be this way. I wish I could go on pretending I'm not married to a child, but I am. I'm married to a boy in a man's body. A selfish, lazy, immature boy. It's just a shame, but it is what it is.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Winter of Our Discontent: 6, It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over
Something happened yesterday that made me want to talk to him. Phone him, text him, go over there. I was scared to because of how I'd left it with him. At the same time, the feelings for him, that attraction to him, that powerful draw, beginning to weaken makes me so sad.
I felt silly later on last night. I'll figure it out. I also had a moment to think while I was in the icky moment of wanting to grab my phone and just hear his voice. Why him? Why not any of the other men that have openly found me attractive? Why was I attracted to this guy? There's nothing to look at about him. He's not even physically attractive in the slightest. I don't know. I really don't know. Maybe that is what I need to be dwelling on. What was it about him, or maybe even the timing that made me give in to what I was feeling? I remember while it was going on, thinking that he is only person I spend as much time with as I do. I remember being a little sad that I spent more time with him than I did my husband.
I don't think that's a very good excuse. It may be part of the reason, I just don't think it's the reason. He had confidence. An offensive amount of confidence. One might think it was ego or arrogance, but when I realized he could back it all up, I knew it was confidence and that was sexy. Oh crap, was that sexy. At this moment, I am surrounded by men that just never come through for me. I'm really, really, really--did I say really?-- disappointed in the men around me. Men I know personally, husbands of women I know, men I work for and with. What a disappointment. So maybe this is the beginning of a sad little list:
1. Time/Attention
2. True confidence
Ah, well, It ain't over. Might as well learn something from it.
I felt silly later on last night. I'll figure it out. I also had a moment to think while I was in the icky moment of wanting to grab my phone and just hear his voice. Why him? Why not any of the other men that have openly found me attractive? Why was I attracted to this guy? There's nothing to look at about him. He's not even physically attractive in the slightest. I don't know. I really don't know. Maybe that is what I need to be dwelling on. What was it about him, or maybe even the timing that made me give in to what I was feeling? I remember while it was going on, thinking that he is only person I spend as much time with as I do. I remember being a little sad that I spent more time with him than I did my husband.
I don't think that's a very good excuse. It may be part of the reason, I just don't think it's the reason. He had confidence. An offensive amount of confidence. One might think it was ego or arrogance, but when I realized he could back it all up, I knew it was confidence and that was sexy. Oh crap, was that sexy. At this moment, I am surrounded by men that just never come through for me. I'm really, really, really--did I say really?-- disappointed in the men around me. Men I know personally, husbands of women I know, men I work for and with. What a disappointment. So maybe this is the beginning of a sad little list:
1. Time/Attention
2. True confidence
Ah, well, It ain't over. Might as well learn something from it.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
The Winter of Our Discontent, Part 5: Does Fort Worth Ever Cross Your Mind?
I thought about him today and it was not in a positive light. I really thought I was attracted to him. I daydreamed fantasies about him. Naughty ones I wouldn't tell my best friend. I was so excited to be having those kinds of feelings after so long I was even naive enough to tell him. I was immediately ashamed. I wanted to be with him so bad. When I think about it, I'm pretty sure I told him because I was afraid of losing him. He was my secret. My special way of feeling alive in a sea of disappointment. The thing that occupied my thoughts so that I didn't have to think about other unhappinesses in my life.
I suppose thinking about him the way I did today was healthy, but it made me sad. It meant that chapters of my life are closing. I think about how great it felt to know he was attracted to me and that I might get a text from him or a call from him. That I might come up the stairs to his floor and find him waiting in the stairwell for me. I know all he wanted was sex. I know that now and it hurts pretty bad. But then, oh my, it was all I could think of. I spent many a Saturday morning snuggled down in my blankets just thinking of moments I would see him again. I lingered in bed many times wondering what it would feel like to wake up next to him instead of my husband. Or, in a different angle, to wake up in his bed on a forbidden afternoon together.
Now I am angry because I believe now, that he knew what he was doing from the first time we "met". He figured I was vulnerable. Married, but sleeping alone and not wearing a wedding ring. A little chubby, a little melancholy, a bit of a loner. A perfect, needy target. He seemed so attentive. He listened to my struggle with desiring sex and asked me personal questions my husband has never asked. He asked me if I'd had a bad experience, if I enjoyed it, or even liked it. I didn't know, no one had ever asked and I'd never thought too much about it. Now I know the questions were just a way to work an angle. They are all working angles.
Well, after today, I may be able to start writing again. It's possible I am that much closer to leaving that wonderful moment in time behind me and accepting the fate that has been laid out for me here in a marriage that is void of true interaction and, in my opinion, love.
I suppose thinking about him the way I did today was healthy, but it made me sad. It meant that chapters of my life are closing. I think about how great it felt to know he was attracted to me and that I might get a text from him or a call from him. That I might come up the stairs to his floor and find him waiting in the stairwell for me. I know all he wanted was sex. I know that now and it hurts pretty bad. But then, oh my, it was all I could think of. I spent many a Saturday morning snuggled down in my blankets just thinking of moments I would see him again. I lingered in bed many times wondering what it would feel like to wake up next to him instead of my husband. Or, in a different angle, to wake up in his bed on a forbidden afternoon together.
Now I am angry because I believe now, that he knew what he was doing from the first time we "met". He figured I was vulnerable. Married, but sleeping alone and not wearing a wedding ring. A little chubby, a little melancholy, a bit of a loner. A perfect, needy target. He seemed so attentive. He listened to my struggle with desiring sex and asked me personal questions my husband has never asked. He asked me if I'd had a bad experience, if I enjoyed it, or even liked it. I didn't know, no one had ever asked and I'd never thought too much about it. Now I know the questions were just a way to work an angle. They are all working angles.
Well, after today, I may be able to start writing again. It's possible I am that much closer to leaving that wonderful moment in time behind me and accepting the fate that has been laid out for me here in a marriage that is void of true interaction and, in my opinion, love.
Friday, March 18, 2011
The Winter of Our Discontent, Part 4: He Just Doesn't Realize How Good He Had It
I had to stop writing for a while about the emotional affair I had last year. It's just too tough and it wasn't just making me feel worse. I thought I was over it. It's just brought all the memories back and I'm not as ready to acknowledge my choice to walk away as I thought I was. However, I was needing to fill some gaps this week with the school crunch, so this topic came to mind. I wrote this March 14,2011.
I'm in a bad place tonight. I'm a little tired, so that is probably what is fueling this train of thought. Last Saturday, my husband and I stood up to our Bismarck Palm. Those of you that know what it is know this is one of the most majestic of the palms. It grows a wide trunk and has silvery green fronds. We bought it as a seven dollar tree in a small pot. There was no way we could afford anything larger than a foot. These palms are very expensive. We brought it home and I've watered it, fertilized it, salted it and protected it from freezes while it was small. It is now taller than the house and seems to be thriving. It is one of the focal points of our yard. Every spring we stand in front of it and argue about cutting off the "dead" fronds.
One spring, right after I told him not to hack at the Bismarck until the fronds were truly dead. He walked around the house and cut off everything he could reach. I was so angry I couldn't see straight. The little girl that lived around the corner asked me what happened when she saw the pile of fronds. I answered. "He did what he wanted to do. That's what men do."
So every year we argue about that damn palm tree. I tell him don't cut the fronds off until they are dead all the way to the trunk. Don't rip the fronds off, let them fall on their own. This is how the trunk of a palm tree grows firm and healthy. "LEAVE THE BISMARCK PALM ALONE." I say in my mothering voice as he heads toward it with a saw. Still, he goes over there and hacks at it. I get pissed off and don't say anything. This year, he wanted to chop on that thing so bad, he was sawing on last years leftovers. Then I saw it. He'd cut down two fronds that were obviously still alive. They were silvery green all the way back to the truck. They were not ready to be removed. Then he stands there and with a token gesture "asks" me if he can cut "these two" fronds down. I say no, they are not dead all the way back to the trunk. Leave the tree alone. I point out the fact that he already cut down two fronds that were not dead yet. He said the leaves were dead. And it's spring 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009 and 2010 all over again. He makes some kind of remark that I'm never happy and that sends me through the roof. He REALLY doesn't see how often I bite my tongue and choose my battles. He does exactly whatever he wants, whenever he wants and how he wants.
I'm ready to be angry and not say anything like I always do, instead I said, "If you had a real wife, you'd better appeciate what you've had." He thought it was funny. He laughed and asked me if I knew what I'd said. Oh, I knew what I said and I knew how I felt at that moment. I didn't feel like a wife. I felt ignored and disrespected.
I'm in a bad place tonight. I'm a little tired, so that is probably what is fueling this train of thought. Last Saturday, my husband and I stood up to our Bismarck Palm. Those of you that know what it is know this is one of the most majestic of the palms. It grows a wide trunk and has silvery green fronds. We bought it as a seven dollar tree in a small pot. There was no way we could afford anything larger than a foot. These palms are very expensive. We brought it home and I've watered it, fertilized it, salted it and protected it from freezes while it was small. It is now taller than the house and seems to be thriving. It is one of the focal points of our yard. Every spring we stand in front of it and argue about cutting off the "dead" fronds.
One spring, right after I told him not to hack at the Bismarck until the fronds were truly dead. He walked around the house and cut off everything he could reach. I was so angry I couldn't see straight. The little girl that lived around the corner asked me what happened when she saw the pile of fronds. I answered. "He did what he wanted to do. That's what men do."
So every year we argue about that damn palm tree. I tell him don't cut the fronds off until they are dead all the way to the trunk. Don't rip the fronds off, let them fall on their own. This is how the trunk of a palm tree grows firm and healthy. "LEAVE THE BISMARCK PALM ALONE." I say in my mothering voice as he heads toward it with a saw. Still, he goes over there and hacks at it. I get pissed off and don't say anything. This year, he wanted to chop on that thing so bad, he was sawing on last years leftovers. Then I saw it. He'd cut down two fronds that were obviously still alive. They were silvery green all the way back to the truck. They were not ready to be removed. Then he stands there and with a token gesture "asks" me if he can cut "these two" fronds down. I say no, they are not dead all the way back to the trunk. Leave the tree alone. I point out the fact that he already cut down two fronds that were not dead yet. He said the leaves were dead. And it's spring 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009 and 2010 all over again. He makes some kind of remark that I'm never happy and that sends me through the roof. He REALLY doesn't see how often I bite my tongue and choose my battles. He does exactly whatever he wants, whenever he wants and how he wants.
I'm ready to be angry and not say anything like I always do, instead I said, "If you had a real wife, you'd better appeciate what you've had." He thought it was funny. He laughed and asked me if I knew what I'd said. Oh, I knew what I said and I knew how I felt at that moment. I didn't feel like a wife. I felt ignored and disrespected.
Friday, March 11, 2011
The Winter of Our Discontent, part 3: You Can't Handle the Truth
This is part three of a Friday series. Although this particular post could stand alone, you may understand the "he" I refer to better if you skim through parts 1 and 2. Use the label: "The Winter of Our Discontent, or find parts 1 and 2 in the sidebar.
I can't handle the truth. I've been working on the installment for this Friday. I've rewritten it four times. One of those times were complete. Two were titles and a few sentences and one was just me saying I couldn't do it this week. I didn't realize I was still so close up on it.
Facing the truth is a difficult place to be. Staring at ourselves and realizing what we thought we were over isn't quite over. I made a choice--the right choice--but that doesn't mean I get to snap my fingers and have those feelings go away. In those first days and weeks after the decision I wanted to die. Not in that way people say, "I could just die". In that way your feel it in your soul, like it's been ripped out and rearranged right before your eyes. All I wanted to do was sleep. I didn't want to hear about other people's problems. Mine were so huge at the moment, I couldn't even think of having compassion for another human being. Things became disproportionate, as though walking through a circus fun house. My head screamed and I couldn't think. I was scared everyone could tell how I was feeling and at the same time, I was hurt that no one knew how I felt.
Don't get me wrong, I'm getting better. There's a lot of obsessive things I was doing at the beginning like parking in strategic spaces and timing my entrances and arrivals in hopes of having a candid moment with him. I lingered after social occasions to try to cross paths with him. I wanted him to pull me aside and ask me what happened. I was going to tell him, "I already had plenty of people in my life willing to screw me and act like I didn't exist, I didn't need another." He would be visibly hurt that I felt that was what he was offering and we would make up. He'd tell me he wanted to work it out. He'd tell me he was sorry if he came off like an ass. He still really cared for me, he missed me and wanted to be with me. The reality was he seemed to drop off the face of the earth. It was as if he'd ceased to exist.
I went through a few months when I was pretty angry he didn't show up at any of my performances. I thought he should be watching the papers for where I would be playing next. I wanted to think he was in the audience when I didn't know it. Secretly giving his approval for that night's show. He'd approach me in the shadowy parking lot backstage and, well, my mind kind of takes it from there.
I thought most of that nonsense was behind me until I decided to try to write about it as a final chapter in the healing process. I realize I'm not healed and I don't like it. I hate it. I realize that if he was to call or text message me tonight, I'd be there. Wherever he wanted. I'm ashamed. My mind has returned to so many of the intimate talks we've had and the funny moments we shared.
I wanted to share the experience. Certainly there is another woman out there that's been where I am that might benefit from knowing she is not alone. That it hurts like hell, but with time it hurts less and less and you think about him less and less. The truth is, it still hurts like hell and it's been about seven months since our last phone conversation. I haven't seen him in nine months. I still think about him everyday and hope the phone will ring and I will hear his voice. I hate what happened. I hate how I feel and how I acted. I'm embarrassed and ashamed.
That is my truth and I'm not handling it very well. I am no where near the winter of my discontent. It's in full bloom.
I can't handle the truth. I've been working on the installment for this Friday. I've rewritten it four times. One of those times were complete. Two were titles and a few sentences and one was just me saying I couldn't do it this week. I didn't realize I was still so close up on it.
Facing the truth is a difficult place to be. Staring at ourselves and realizing what we thought we were over isn't quite over. I made a choice--the right choice--but that doesn't mean I get to snap my fingers and have those feelings go away. In those first days and weeks after the decision I wanted to die. Not in that way people say, "I could just die". In that way your feel it in your soul, like it's been ripped out and rearranged right before your eyes. All I wanted to do was sleep. I didn't want to hear about other people's problems. Mine were so huge at the moment, I couldn't even think of having compassion for another human being. Things became disproportionate, as though walking through a circus fun house. My head screamed and I couldn't think. I was scared everyone could tell how I was feeling and at the same time, I was hurt that no one knew how I felt.
Don't get me wrong, I'm getting better. There's a lot of obsessive things I was doing at the beginning like parking in strategic spaces and timing my entrances and arrivals in hopes of having a candid moment with him. I lingered after social occasions to try to cross paths with him. I wanted him to pull me aside and ask me what happened. I was going to tell him, "I already had plenty of people in my life willing to screw me and act like I didn't exist, I didn't need another." He would be visibly hurt that I felt that was what he was offering and we would make up. He'd tell me he wanted to work it out. He'd tell me he was sorry if he came off like an ass. He still really cared for me, he missed me and wanted to be with me. The reality was he seemed to drop off the face of the earth. It was as if he'd ceased to exist.
I went through a few months when I was pretty angry he didn't show up at any of my performances. I thought he should be watching the papers for where I would be playing next. I wanted to think he was in the audience when I didn't know it. Secretly giving his approval for that night's show. He'd approach me in the shadowy parking lot backstage and, well, my mind kind of takes it from there.
I thought most of that nonsense was behind me until I decided to try to write about it as a final chapter in the healing process. I realize I'm not healed and I don't like it. I hate it. I realize that if he was to call or text message me tonight, I'd be there. Wherever he wanted. I'm ashamed. My mind has returned to so many of the intimate talks we've had and the funny moments we shared.
I wanted to share the experience. Certainly there is another woman out there that's been where I am that might benefit from knowing she is not alone. That it hurts like hell, but with time it hurts less and less and you think about him less and less. The truth is, it still hurts like hell and it's been about seven months since our last phone conversation. I haven't seen him in nine months. I still think about him everyday and hope the phone will ring and I will hear his voice. I hate what happened. I hate how I feel and how I acted. I'm embarrassed and ashamed.
That is my truth and I'm not handling it very well. I am no where near the winter of my discontent. It's in full bloom.
Friday, March 4, 2011
The Winter of Our Discontent, Part 2: The Wooing
This is part two of a series. You can find part one by clicking on the labels or clicking on it in the archives.
In later days when we were in the same room together again, I noticed how skillfully he moved through the crowd--what he said and who he said it to. He was working these people. He flirted with the women and impress the men. I would not be "worked". I avoided his presence and his gaze. We weren't required to speak to one another and I was thankful. He did his part and I did mine. Still I watched and listened.
He was free with stories about himself. Adventure and fortune seemed to follow him. Friends and fame were a byproduct. He had led a glamorous life, there was no denying that. He'd found fortune and profit. He spoke of it as if it were a natural occurence. I changed my socks, I made money, I changed my pants, I made more money. The cards had been dealt in his favor.
On one particular occasion, I hung back from the departing crowd as I always did. He addressed me in his easy going manner. I made a harsh remark concerning his adventures. I could tell he was not impressed, but at the same time, he was unaffected. He said nothing when I know that he could have vicerated me with his quick wit and sharp tongue. He was the much more worthy opponent. I backed down and walked away from him, but I'd seen it flash across his eyes. He was attracted to me. I knew it and a single, tiny, deep seated vein in my body liked it--a lot. The game was afoot.
In later days when we were in the same room together again, I noticed how skillfully he moved through the crowd--what he said and who he said it to. He was working these people. He flirted with the women and impress the men. I would not be "worked". I avoided his presence and his gaze. We weren't required to speak to one another and I was thankful. He did his part and I did mine. Still I watched and listened.
He was free with stories about himself. Adventure and fortune seemed to follow him. Friends and fame were a byproduct. He had led a glamorous life, there was no denying that. He'd found fortune and profit. He spoke of it as if it were a natural occurence. I changed my socks, I made money, I changed my pants, I made more money. The cards had been dealt in his favor.
On one particular occasion, I hung back from the departing crowd as I always did. He addressed me in his easy going manner. I made a harsh remark concerning his adventures. I could tell he was not impressed, but at the same time, he was unaffected. He said nothing when I know that he could have vicerated me with his quick wit and sharp tongue. He was the much more worthy opponent. I backed down and walked away from him, but I'd seen it flash across his eyes. He was attracted to me. I knew it and a single, tiny, deep seated vein in my body liked it--a lot. The game was afoot.
Friday, February 25, 2011
The Winter of Our Discontent, Part 1: The Stars Align
Quite possibly one of the worst and best things that could have ever happened to me began and--in reflection--ended, with a simple invitation to breakfast. Since it involves breakfast, I assume you've figured out it isn't bungie jumping or sky diving. So yes, it involves a man.
I will spoil this for you Jerry Springer types and give away the ending. Nothing happened. Although he was not the perfect gentleman, he was gentleman enough to let me make the final decision and--since nothing happened--you know what I chose.
It is no personal challenge to decide that I will share no details to embarass or identify the other actor in this most despicable play. I will even take an author's priviledge of stretching and contracting time. But I assure you, what you will read in the coming weeks is true. For both actors knew well their role: predator and prey. As a critic reluctantly leaving the theatre, I am convinced that one actor's role was much more rehearsed to the point of appearing ad lib.
It is this easy going delivery of lines that begins our story.
We crossed paths on a purely professional level. In honesty, I more than likely met him before I knew I'd met him. So many social circles interlock in the world--even in a city. We were probably introduced many times before. But the circles grew smaller with a returned phone call, a missed appointment, a colleague and an agreement, "To see me". It was in the flurry of the post Christmas rush. That first brush with his abrasive bravado proved quite the deterrent for the next few encounters. I'm not so sure I even wanted to hear his voice again. He would take care of everything. I was in good hands. (Yeah, right.) I remember walking away thinking: "Who is this guy? I bet he was a total punk in high school." I hate this term, but in my mind, I literally blew him off. I would temporarily tolerate his behavior but that would be it.
Ah, but with a long sigh I look back and see even as I walked away from him, our circles were already small enough. My contempt for his over inflated ego and his curiosity at my contempt. The stars were already aligning.
I will spoil this for you Jerry Springer types and give away the ending. Nothing happened. Although he was not the perfect gentleman, he was gentleman enough to let me make the final decision and--since nothing happened--you know what I chose.
It is no personal challenge to decide that I will share no details to embarass or identify the other actor in this most despicable play. I will even take an author's priviledge of stretching and contracting time. But I assure you, what you will read in the coming weeks is true. For both actors knew well their role: predator and prey. As a critic reluctantly leaving the theatre, I am convinced that one actor's role was much more rehearsed to the point of appearing ad lib.
It is this easy going delivery of lines that begins our story.
We crossed paths on a purely professional level. In honesty, I more than likely met him before I knew I'd met him. So many social circles interlock in the world--even in a city. We were probably introduced many times before. But the circles grew smaller with a returned phone call, a missed appointment, a colleague and an agreement, "To see me". It was in the flurry of the post Christmas rush. That first brush with his abrasive bravado proved quite the deterrent for the next few encounters. I'm not so sure I even wanted to hear his voice again. He would take care of everything. I was in good hands. (Yeah, right.) I remember walking away thinking: "Who is this guy? I bet he was a total punk in high school." I hate this term, but in my mind, I literally blew him off. I would temporarily tolerate his behavior but that would be it.
Ah, but with a long sigh I look back and see even as I walked away from him, our circles were already small enough. My contempt for his over inflated ego and his curiosity at my contempt. The stars were already aligning.
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