Since returning from my weekend getaway, I’ve kind of been in this strange place mentally. Like a bizarre mental purgatory if you will. I don’t really know how to explain it. Just a feeling of — weirdness. Drifting through the passing days unable to really focus in on work and, more likely than not, thinking way to much for my own good. Mostly on what my life has been, what needs to be done and what the future holds. Not much – only ALL of that. Sheesh…no wonder I can’t concentrate!
As I sit here now, totally procrastinating on getting my day started, which is absolutely neglectful of me since I started off Monday totally on top of things and by Thursday I am finding myself having to play catch up the entire day, my head is just flooded with a million thoughts. The one thing that has been on the top of my list for the past three weeks is…what the fuck is wrong with you? Not YOU you…my husband you. How the hell does a man who swears he loves his wife go through 25 years of not giving a shit? I mean, seriously? How does a person who seems to be able to maintain a normal life at work and home (minus the fits of rage) just carry on through his days as if he is truly a good man, who loves his family and believes that somewhere under their hateful glares his family loves him back? Can a person really be that oblivious? I just don’t get it.
Let me paint this picture. Aside from arguments, attitudes and assholery is a man who wakes up on a daily basis and goes to work – for his family. That needs to be stressed because everything he does in life is “for his family.” He has had a steady job since the day he found out I was pregnant with my first child. I will absolutely give him that much. In all these years, he’s only had two jobs and he only left the first for the second in order to be in the union. So in that sense, yes he has always been a provider. I too have always worked. I’ve been working since I am 14 years old and have contributed to paying all of the other “bills” while he maintained paying the “rent/mortgage”.
Never, since day one, were we a joint anything. No joint savings accounts, credit cards, etc. I remember when we first got married, I asked him for his check. He didn’t understand the question. Now I was confused. I said give me your check so I can combine it with mine and pay all the bills from it. He laughed. He said to me…that will never happen. Don’t forget, I was only 18 so what the hell did I know? Only what I had seen from my parents. Naively I said…isn’t that what you do when you’re married? We combine our checks, keep money aside for us to use to get back and forth to work and I pay the bills from the rest of it? He thought that was a cute notion. However, he quickly clued me in that it was never going to work that way. He would never hand his check over to anyone. Years later, I learned that this is what he witnessed his father do – hand his check over to his mother – and he vowed…never to do the same. And he stuck to it.
Now even though arguments and abuse were a very fertile part of our lives – or at least my life – there were many calm and rational moments. There still are. We can hold normal conversations. Well, he can. He talks so much that there is never really time for my opinion – nor does he want to hear it anyway. Plus his conversations are mostly about work related issues which I have no use for so I just nod and act like I am interested. To him these are wonderful family moments. Where I don’t talk and he is in a mellow mood. I can only guess that in his mind that means we are getting along which must mean there is mutual love and respect. Well, not really respect. He never faked that one. He told me when we first started dating he had no respect for me. Which if I was older and wiser would have meant something but at 17 who really has a true grasp on what respect actually means in a relationship? You don’t respect me? Ouch…that hurt.
When someone controlling and abusive says I love you what does that mean? I own you? I loathe you? You are supremely fucked? Or does it actually mean I love you? From my perspective in knowing both sides of him I do think that he believes that he loves me but I also believe he has no true idea what that means. I’ve asked him many times over the years…what is it that you love about me? He has no answer. Never. Nothing. A complete blank. I can tell you what he does not love about me. My attitude. My sarcasm. My big mouth. The fact that I never really have let him take over my mind and believe that I am a piece of shit. All of that bothers him. I personally believe that’s where the rage comes from. The anger is already there. The anger comes from I don’t know what. Childhood trauma would be my guess – but the rage – purely because I won’t break. The love though…yeah, he loves the “idea” of a wife and family. Those are his – things. I have a house, a car, a wife, kids, etc. His possessions. That he has complete rule over. So to a psychotic narcissist abusive piece of shit…he loves me. Golly gee, I’m a lucky gal.
When I let myself truly marinate in the thoughts of this bullshit life, I come across only one thing that hurts me the most. The thing that brings tears to my eyes even as I type this. What about me? Do you think in all these years he has once had a conversation about me? No. Not once. And believe me, I’m not an over exaggerator. Never. He knows absolutely nothing about me. To this day he will still ask me what flavor ice cream I want and if I want cheese on my burger. Yeah, those are minor things but give me a break. Simple shit like that you’d think someone would know. Does he know my favorite color? Favorite flower? Favorite song? Favorite movie? Favorite anything? Nope. What about my hopes and dreams? Does he know that I like to write? Or that I have written…anything? So what exactly is my purpose? I’m like the Queen of England. I have a title but no authority. Maybe I’m being petty. Does any man really know any of this stuff? C’mon. We all know the answer to that. It’s not like I haven’t tried over the years to ask him but when I do…he says I’m starting an argument.
I just wonder, is control that important that he refuses to believe me when I tell him I don’t love him? I mean literally…I say it. He says…I love you. And I say. I’m sorry you feel that way or thanks but no thanks or I don’t love you. Something to that effect and he says…wow, you hurt my feelings. I continue…really, I hurt your feelings? Wow. You’re so delicate, now imagine if I beat you on top of being mean. Then he looks at me…I only assume realizing what I have just said and usually he will walk away. Usually, when he’s not in the mood for an argument. These are the basic “good time” conversations we have when things are mellow.
It baffles me that a man can sit day in and day out with a woman he supposedly loves and not see she is sad and has no desire to be there. It’s beyond ridiculous to me. Why the hell do I have to plan an escape? Why can’t he just let me go? Man up already and stop living in oblivion.
To read from the beginning… my story starts here.