I had a great night with my extended family tonight, and then my husband showed up. I didn't talk to him, but he wanted a ride home, so we all came home together.
As soon as I got home, my daughter pointed out that her dad wasn't happy about something. I didn't even know what it was. Apparently I said something which made him mad, so she got upset, so we talked about it.
Talking turned into arguing, which was my daughter and I arguing about her dad's feelings about ABSOLUTELY NOTHING! He was mad about nothing, so I ended up arguing with my child about ... him. About nothing.
He is toxic.
He said I don't even know her.
He said that about a child with whom he spends about an hour a week, but I'm the one who doesn't know her.
It's not that I don't know her, it's that she is just like him. Feeling words are "bad", so expressing them is " bad".
I fucking hate him with every fiber of my being.
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Douchebaggery
Tuesday, June 9, 2015
#18
Today is my 18th anniversary. The internet tells me that the appropriate gift for 18 years of marriage is porcelain. I assume that means something toilet-ish.
18 years, man. And we were together for a few years before that. Ridiculous. I want a refund for at least half of those years. Maybe just the last third. I don't see why something that doesn't work is so hard to shed.
But in the spirit of trying to put my best foot forward, I will try to share some of our best moments, without ruining them with my snarky commentary, even though what's in my head already seems like a movie montage rather than my actual life...
We met when I was 21, and he was only 20. I didn't realize he was younger than me until we went on one of our first dates to a bar, and he didn't order anything. He couldn't. It was cute, sitting downtown at a pub, with a guy too young to drink. We met at a restaurant where we both worked. I was a hostess, and he was a line cook. He was athletic and tall and had thick, beautiful hair. Even though I already had a very young child and a fiancee (who I didn't particularly care for), I wanted him.
Our "first date" was supposed to be a Grateful Dead show in Las Vegas. In the spirit of honesty, I went to the show with my then-fiancee, but we were very much in the death of whatever vapid relationship we had back then. I knew the ex-fiancee wasn't the one all along. But my other love interest (my current husband) lost my hotel information, so I didn't see him in Las Vegas, though I was looking for him the whole time.
Skip forward, and I broke up with the baby-daddy, and fell madly in lust with the new guy. We had ridiculously good sex for a long time. We hung out at his shitty house with his shitty roommates, but he got robbed by his "friends" one too many times, so one day he told me he was moving into a new apartment, and asked me if he should get a one-bedroom or two. This was his socially inept way of asking me to move in with him. We did, and we lived in a very cute little apartment in a seedy part of town, where we heard gun-fire every weekend. The place had French doors and an enclosed patio, and every time it rained, we would pull the couch out onto the balcony and make love surrounded by lightning, thunder, and rain.
This was the honeymoon period, but we weren't married quite yet..
I can't really remember if we were kicked out of that apartment (the landlord didn't like the pot smoke and our total inability to fix anything) or if we moved because of the increasing gun fire, but we moved into a "better" neighborhood, which turned out to be an apartment ghetto (too many apartment buildings in the same place, so crime ensues).
I fell in love with a different boy, but because he was just a boy and couldn't take care of me the way my boyfriend could, so I stayed. I wanted a bit of stability for my daughter. And then, well, my boyfriend started getting sent off to open restaurants in other cities, and somewhere along the way (I believe it was Hastings - what a shit hole) that he found crystal meth. I suspected there was a problem, but I didn't know what it was until a long time later.
You know what? I can't finish this story happily, because it's all downhill from there. There were moments of happiness; we had two more children, for example; but those were my decisions too. I asked him if he wanted more children, and his exact words were, "I don't care." So I stopped taking birth control and made some siblings for my daughter. Our whole relationship has been a series of reactive decisions, made by me.
We bought a house in a place I would NEVER had chosen, because his friend was selling it, and she was dying of cancer, and he felt bad for her. I married him, because my father made me feel like a shameful slut for having two children and no marriage license. I never got a proper marriage proposal - the ring was shoved in my face in a school parking lot, after a fight about said marriage. Fast forward a few years and another child, and our house went into foreclosure because my husband wasn't paying the mortgage, choosing instead to pay for his crystal meth addiction. I didn't know until we were days away from eviction. I saw the signs, but I was gaslighted - told I was the crazy one for even suggesting that there was a problem.
He lied, and I compromised over and over and over.
Which brings me to 18 years later, when I can't stand to look at his face, and his snoring (from the other room, since we have slept separately for the past five years) makes me want to cut his throat out, and his insistence on pretending nothing is wrong (when EVERYTHING is wrong) makes me physically ill.
So ... sorry about the misleading beginning of this story. I thought I could be in love again for a minute, and I was mistaken. While I miss the touch of someone who loves me, I cannot bear the look of someone who disgusts me. I'd rather me celibate for another four years than to let him touch me, because I am repulsed by him. How's that for romantic?
I know he's a good guy - anyone who meets him would say the same thing. But it IS possible to be a good guy and a terrible husband. The best I can say is that I hope he finds someone who loves him for him as he is now, since I can't love him for all the things he isn't.
Happy Anniversary. Fake it until you make it, I guess.
18 years, man. And we were together for a few years before that. Ridiculous. I want a refund for at least half of those years. Maybe just the last third. I don't see why something that doesn't work is so hard to shed.
But in the spirit of trying to put my best foot forward, I will try to share some of our best moments, without ruining them with my snarky commentary, even though what's in my head already seems like a movie montage rather than my actual life...
We met when I was 21, and he was only 20. I didn't realize he was younger than me until we went on one of our first dates to a bar, and he didn't order anything. He couldn't. It was cute, sitting downtown at a pub, with a guy too young to drink. We met at a restaurant where we both worked. I was a hostess, and he was a line cook. He was athletic and tall and had thick, beautiful hair. Even though I already had a very young child and a fiancee (who I didn't particularly care for), I wanted him.
Our "first date" was supposed to be a Grateful Dead show in Las Vegas. In the spirit of honesty, I went to the show with my then-fiancee, but we were very much in the death of whatever vapid relationship we had back then. I knew the ex-fiancee wasn't the one all along. But my other love interest (my current husband) lost my hotel information, so I didn't see him in Las Vegas, though I was looking for him the whole time.
Skip forward, and I broke up with the baby-daddy, and fell madly in lust with the new guy. We had ridiculously good sex for a long time. We hung out at his shitty house with his shitty roommates, but he got robbed by his "friends" one too many times, so one day he told me he was moving into a new apartment, and asked me if he should get a one-bedroom or two. This was his socially inept way of asking me to move in with him. We did, and we lived in a very cute little apartment in a seedy part of town, where we heard gun-fire every weekend. The place had French doors and an enclosed patio, and every time it rained, we would pull the couch out onto the balcony and make love surrounded by lightning, thunder, and rain.
This was the honeymoon period, but we weren't married quite yet..
I can't really remember if we were kicked out of that apartment (the landlord didn't like the pot smoke and our total inability to fix anything) or if we moved because of the increasing gun fire, but we moved into a "better" neighborhood, which turned out to be an apartment ghetto (too many apartment buildings in the same place, so crime ensues).
I fell in love with a different boy, but because he was just a boy and couldn't take care of me the way my boyfriend could, so I stayed. I wanted a bit of stability for my daughter. And then, well, my boyfriend started getting sent off to open restaurants in other cities, and somewhere along the way (I believe it was Hastings - what a shit hole) that he found crystal meth. I suspected there was a problem, but I didn't know what it was until a long time later.
You know what? I can't finish this story happily, because it's all downhill from there. There were moments of happiness; we had two more children, for example; but those were my decisions too. I asked him if he wanted more children, and his exact words were, "I don't care." So I stopped taking birth control and made some siblings for my daughter. Our whole relationship has been a series of reactive decisions, made by me.
We bought a house in a place I would NEVER had chosen, because his friend was selling it, and she was dying of cancer, and he felt bad for her. I married him, because my father made me feel like a shameful slut for having two children and no marriage license. I never got a proper marriage proposal - the ring was shoved in my face in a school parking lot, after a fight about said marriage. Fast forward a few years and another child, and our house went into foreclosure because my husband wasn't paying the mortgage, choosing instead to pay for his crystal meth addiction. I didn't know until we were days away from eviction. I saw the signs, but I was gaslighted - told I was the crazy one for even suggesting that there was a problem.
He lied, and I compromised over and over and over.
Which brings me to 18 years later, when I can't stand to look at his face, and his snoring (from the other room, since we have slept separately for the past five years) makes me want to cut his throat out, and his insistence on pretending nothing is wrong (when EVERYTHING is wrong) makes me physically ill.
So ... sorry about the misleading beginning of this story. I thought I could be in love again for a minute, and I was mistaken. While I miss the touch of someone who loves me, I cannot bear the look of someone who disgusts me. I'd rather me celibate for another four years than to let him touch me, because I am repulsed by him. How's that for romantic?
I know he's a good guy - anyone who meets him would say the same thing. But it IS possible to be a good guy and a terrible husband. The best I can say is that I hope he finds someone who loves him for him as he is now, since I can't love him for all the things he isn't.
Happy Anniversary. Fake it until you make it, I guess.
Monday, June 8, 2015
Gardening Isn't for Pussies
Yesterday, I tackled a huge bush in my front yard. The fucking thing is pissing me off, because it looks dead, and it's my favorite thing in my yard. So I went at it with clippers. I now have a bunch of torn blood vessels in my eye where a branch stuck me (eyes wide open into a tree isn't a good idea, in case you were wondering), a hole in the web of my fingers where a different branch impaled me, about 100 mosquito bites, and a bush which looks far worse today than it did yesterday.
Today I trimmed things and pulled weeds. Once again, the mosquitoes feasted on me, a limb from a rose bush got stuck in my arm (blood everywhere), and I was sweating like a race horse (which attracts mosquitoes, by the way). While pulling weeds, I ran into my concrete bird bath, which one of my stupid children knocked over and broke last year (though no one will admit it), which took a chunk out of my knee.
Gardening is NOT sexy. Bleeding and sweating all over the place doesn't really make a girl look pretty. I'm sure the blisters from using the clippers yesterday doesn't really add to the hot-factor either.
I focus my attention on the garden, because I have nothing else to do, and I have no friends. I'm not trying to achieve some sort of pity-factor here; I'm just stating facts. I have no husband to speak of (on paper only), so I do what I have to do to occupy my time and make my surroundings more aesthetically pleasing.
So I am off again to tackle another corner of the yard. I am currently rubbing thyme on my arms, because the internet told me it repels mosquitoes. While I doubt the veracity of that claim, I'm up for suggestions.
Hopefully, I don't poke an eye out ...
Today I trimmed things and pulled weeds. Once again, the mosquitoes feasted on me, a limb from a rose bush got stuck in my arm (blood everywhere), and I was sweating like a race horse (which attracts mosquitoes, by the way). While pulling weeds, I ran into my concrete bird bath, which one of my stupid children knocked over and broke last year (though no one will admit it), which took a chunk out of my knee.
Gardening is NOT sexy. Bleeding and sweating all over the place doesn't really make a girl look pretty. I'm sure the blisters from using the clippers yesterday doesn't really add to the hot-factor either.
I focus my attention on the garden, because I have nothing else to do, and I have no friends. I'm not trying to achieve some sort of pity-factor here; I'm just stating facts. I have no husband to speak of (on paper only), so I do what I have to do to occupy my time and make my surroundings more aesthetically pleasing.
So I am off again to tackle another corner of the yard. I am currently rubbing thyme on my arms, because the internet told me it repels mosquitoes. While I doubt the veracity of that claim, I'm up for suggestions.
Hopefully, I don't poke an eye out ...
Saturday, June 6, 2015
The Social Animal
I am not, by nature, a very social person. I think I spent all of that energy in the first 25 years of my life. And then life events wrecked me, because all of that pretending caught up to me, and I realized that I never really liked people all that much. I tried to, I faked it, but I was always trying to be someone who wasn't really me.
So now, when I think about going out - being social - I feel a little sick. The social anxiety kicks in. Not because I am afraid of other people or anything like that, but moreso that I can't stand the pretense that everyone plasters on their faces in public.
Very few people (including myself) are true to themselves in social situations. Everyone is either trying to fit in or trying to get laid or trying to ingratiate themselves to other people in some capacity. I am so fucking tired of all that posturing.
I don't have the energy to shape-shift in order to put other people at ease. For some of us, being "NORMAL" is the most difficult social task. It would be nice if everyone simply accepted people for who they are rather than trying to fit other people into what suits THEIR needs. As individuals, we ought to appreciate the social outcasts, because we will end up in their memoirs.
So now, when I think about going out - being social - I feel a little sick. The social anxiety kicks in. Not because I am afraid of other people or anything like that, but moreso that I can't stand the pretense that everyone plasters on their faces in public.
Very few people (including myself) are true to themselves in social situations. Everyone is either trying to fit in or trying to get laid or trying to ingratiate themselves to other people in some capacity. I am so fucking tired of all that posturing.
I don't have the energy to shape-shift in order to put other people at ease. For some of us, being "NORMAL" is the most difficult social task. It would be nice if everyone simply accepted people for who they are rather than trying to fit other people into what suits THEIR needs. As individuals, we ought to appreciate the social outcasts, because we will end up in their memoirs.
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