I have been giving some thought lately to just why it is I pay someone $45 a month to pour hot wax on my hoo-haa, and pull hairs out of my va-jay-jay. I admit I prefer the 'clean' feel that I'm left with after my monthly French wax, but even I wouldn't put it on my list of top ten 'fun things to do'. Yet every month, I trot down to my local shopping area (I believe Americans call this "downtown" but I honestly don't know what that word is supposed to really mean), park behind the cake decorating shop and a sex toy store (the cake decorating shop is closer to my idea of pornography - sometimes I go in there to just look at the mouth-watering pieces of art they have on display, and marvel at the many colours of sprinkles that are available) and visit my beautician for my monthly wax. She is pretty much the only beautician I've ever known, and by her own admission she's not a 'posh' beautician. We compare stories of partners, kids (she has a step son), houses, Tupperware (a shared passion), friends, news, families, joys and heartaches. And I believe this is where the value lies for me.
I could trim the ladyparts with a delicate little razor, or go to - as she calls it - a 'posh' beautician where they wear white coats and aren't allowed to talk to the customer unless the customer intiates the conversation. But, as my fabulous beauty therapist says, "Fuck that"!!! Because it is precisely this banter, this friendship and mutual sharing of burdens which takes me back there month after month, and is the reason I won't go to any other beautician.
Take this morning for instance. Since my last post 2 nights ago I've been swinging like a pendulum between immense sadness and overwhelming fury. Last night and this morning I was so angry at the soon-to-be-ex. It's almost 2 months since he told me he was leaving our marriage, and while he has moved to the couch, he still hasn't left our house and it's driving me insane. I can't move on, I can't grieve, I can't begin the next stage of my life because he's still THERE. And it hurts so much to see him every weekend, every night, and know I can't give him a hug, I can't rest my head on his lap while we're watching TV, I can't ask him for help or advice or open my heart to him at all. I feel trapped in the initial pain of being left after 17 years of marriage, and until I actually have been left, I can't move past that. I never knew limbo hurt so much.
As I got into the car this morning to head to my monthly wax appointment, the anger and hurt was so strong it was almost seeping from my pores. And then when I walked in for my appointment, my gorgeous beautician who loves to say the F word as much as I do, asked "So how is the bastard, has he left yet?" and immediately I was not alone. I had camaraderie, comradeship, I had someone who, by nature of the beautician/client relationship, was on MY side. I get to whinge and bitch to her and in return she offers me validation and acceptance.
So our banter continues through the 'hot wax torture' as I fondly refer to it, and by the time I leave the salon half an hour later, my journey to my car is significantly lighter than the journey from it earlier in the morning. I feel less alienated, less unsure and a hell of a lot less scared about the future, because there are people who have been through it and survived, and I will be one of them.
My questions about why I spend $45 to undergo sadistic rituals were answered today. I go because of the friendship that my $45 buys me. Half an hour of therapy with a fabulous looking hoo-haa to go with it. Even though my beautician's the only one that sees the lady parts these days, I still think it's $45 well spent.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Sunday, April 15, 2012
A crying day
I'm having a bit of a crying day today. Except, no actual tears are allowed to run down my face because I have to keep it together for my boys.
The soon-to-be-ex injured himself at football yesterday. I woke at 4 this morning to hear my car leaving the driveway. My first thought was that my car was being pinched, then I wandered to the lounge room (where he sleeps) to find a note saying he's taking himself to the hospital. Another tiny little stab through the heart. Because, as his wife, that's meant to be my job. I'm meant to take care of him when he's sick and vice versa. But it's incidents like this that remind me every day that he doesn't want me to be his wife anymore. He doesn't want to build a life with me, he doesn't want to live with me. In short, he just doesn't want me.
And so the tears have been very close to the surface all day today. And the anger. More accurately, the rage. I am so angry at him for backing out of what I thought was a contract for life. For better or worse he told me. Richer or poorer (we've certainly got the poorer part covered). He promised me he'd give 100%. That he'd stick with me no matter what. Him and me against the world. And instead, he's bailing. The ship has hit rocky ground, it''s fixable, but instead of working on it and making it once again not only functional but a thing of beauty and joy, he wants to get into a lifeboat and row into the sunset. Without me.
I snapped at my middle son this evening, it was a teeny bit deserved but largely an over-reaction from me. He asked me, "why are you so angry mum?" and I wanted to scream at him, "because your father is LEAVING US!!! That fucking c*** over there doesn't WANT US and he's FUCKING OFF to be a bachelor and leaving me with the shit and the tears and the vomit and the fevers, the tantrums and the arguments and all the endless, endless work of being a parent and he doesn't give a SHIT about what he's doing to us." But instead, all I said was "Sorry sweetheart, I'm tired and stressed," as I pushed down a thousand tears. Because if they started, I wouldn't be able to stop.
I was watching the Logies tonight (Australian version of the Emmys), and during the In Memorium section a name popped up that I knew. Years ago I had worked for an advertising agency, and one of the animators that we had frequently used back then had passed away, and was being honoured in Australian TV's "night of nights." And as he was in the same room, I mentioned my surprise and shock to my soon-to-be-ex. And then I realised, that despite the fact that he was four metres from me, I was yet again talking to an empty room. There were people "talking" (literally: typing) with him in the chat box of the game he's obsessed with, so as he's been for the last 3 years, he was oblivious to anything I said. I don't think he even heard me. So even though, for economic reasons, we are currently under the same roof, emotionally, spiritually and relationally I am alone. And it's so frightening.
I am 40 next year. I have 3 kids who I adore, but honestly they're a handful. They aren't Brady Bunch kids. I love them to pieces but they backchat, to be honest they're lazy because I just have no idea how to make them do chores, and the little one is so OCD it drives me fucking mental most days. Who would want that package? Maybe that's why my husband's leaving me. It's just not a very attractive proposition. There are days when, if I could bail out of my life, I probably would. But I'm the mum. I just don't have that option. I'm not the one that gets to do the leaving, I'm just the one that gets left.
The soon-to-be-ex injured himself at football yesterday. I woke at 4 this morning to hear my car leaving the driveway. My first thought was that my car was being pinched, then I wandered to the lounge room (where he sleeps) to find a note saying he's taking himself to the hospital. Another tiny little stab through the heart. Because, as his wife, that's meant to be my job. I'm meant to take care of him when he's sick and vice versa. But it's incidents like this that remind me every day that he doesn't want me to be his wife anymore. He doesn't want to build a life with me, he doesn't want to live with me. In short, he just doesn't want me.
And so the tears have been very close to the surface all day today. And the anger. More accurately, the rage. I am so angry at him for backing out of what I thought was a contract for life. For better or worse he told me. Richer or poorer (we've certainly got the poorer part covered). He promised me he'd give 100%. That he'd stick with me no matter what. Him and me against the world. And instead, he's bailing. The ship has hit rocky ground, it''s fixable, but instead of working on it and making it once again not only functional but a thing of beauty and joy, he wants to get into a lifeboat and row into the sunset. Without me.
I snapped at my middle son this evening, it was a teeny bit deserved but largely an over-reaction from me. He asked me, "why are you so angry mum?" and I wanted to scream at him, "because your father is LEAVING US!!! That fucking c*** over there doesn't WANT US and he's FUCKING OFF to be a bachelor and leaving me with the shit and the tears and the vomit and the fevers, the tantrums and the arguments and all the endless, endless work of being a parent and he doesn't give a SHIT about what he's doing to us." But instead, all I said was "Sorry sweetheart, I'm tired and stressed," as I pushed down a thousand tears. Because if they started, I wouldn't be able to stop.
I was watching the Logies tonight (Australian version of the Emmys), and during the In Memorium section a name popped up that I knew. Years ago I had worked for an advertising agency, and one of the animators that we had frequently used back then had passed away, and was being honoured in Australian TV's "night of nights." And as he was in the same room, I mentioned my surprise and shock to my soon-to-be-ex. And then I realised, that despite the fact that he was four metres from me, I was yet again talking to an empty room. There were people "talking" (literally: typing) with him in the chat box of the game he's obsessed with, so as he's been for the last 3 years, he was oblivious to anything I said. I don't think he even heard me. So even though, for economic reasons, we are currently under the same roof, emotionally, spiritually and relationally I am alone. And it's so frightening.
I am 40 next year. I have 3 kids who I adore, but honestly they're a handful. They aren't Brady Bunch kids. I love them to pieces but they backchat, to be honest they're lazy because I just have no idea how to make them do chores, and the little one is so OCD it drives me fucking mental most days. Who would want that package? Maybe that's why my husband's leaving me. It's just not a very attractive proposition. There are days when, if I could bail out of my life, I probably would. But I'm the mum. I just don't have that option. I'm not the one that gets to do the leaving, I'm just the one that gets left.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Brave New Blog
This is my third attempt at a blog. The first was about my old job, which was a job I loved, but quite frankly, blogging about it was just boring for everyone. The second I could have gotten into, it was a scathing critique of the blindness and stupidity of conservative Christians (actually all conservatives, but seeing Christian was the segment I belonged to at the time, they were my focus), but between you and me it just involved more work than I was prepared to put in. Which brings me, several years later, to my third blog.
A Brave New World.
I chose this title with my tongue firmly planted in my cheek. You see I don't feel very brave at all. In fact I feel so frightened that my bowels could turn to water at any minute as I dissolve into the unconsciousness that accompanies my panic attacks. Dentists send me into panic attacks - but it is not dentistry per se that I fear, rather the horrific feeling of being utterly devoid of any control of where my life is heading. And it is precisely this feeling that I have now. And it's not a "new world" I'm embracing with very much enthusiasm. Because this mock bravery, and this "new world," has come about because my husband of 17 years has told me that the life we're building is not wanted. That a life with ME is not wanted. That, in fact, despite the vows, and the ups and downs, and the struggles and the 3 kids, that I have been discarded. And it hurts like hell.
He tells me there is no other woman, and I believe him. His behaviour is not consistent with a man leading any kind of a double life. Even if he were having it off with his receptionist, I don't know that it would hurt any more than this. What there has been, in truckloads, is anger. Anger, resentment, stonewalling, judgement and sulking. And silence. Lots, and lots of silence. Silence so deafening and so tangible it is something I wish I could grab hold of and strangle. But it's impossible to build an argument against silence. Impossible to reason with it, and impossible to placate it.
When I met him 19 years ago, I realise now that there were signs of the man I have grown to be so disappointed in. Tiny glimmers. But there was so much love, so much adoration back then, that those glimmers just blended into the background like a stroke of dark paint in a magnificent work of art. Of course, now with almost 20 years of hindsight, I realise that those little signs were the tip of something ugly and dark. but that's the nature of hindsight isn't it - it's always too bloody late.
The first 10 years of our marriage were really happy. We had our ups and downs, but they were for the most part, really, really happy. We had 3 great kids. We still have 3 great kids, admittedly I don't know how to handle teenagers as well as I knew how to handle toddlers, but they really are terrific. We didn't own our own home, and I knew this ate at him in an emasculating way, I knew he felt that was a mark of success that had so far eluded him, but I didn't think it was a deal breaker. And then, seven years ago, something changed. And that something, to this day, remains a mystery.
Seven years ago, my supportive, loving, affectionate husband became moody, angry and bitter. And he wouldn't tell me why. Apparently, I was supposed to work it out. He was so angry with me, and he felt that my failings were so obvious, that he wouldn't tell me what was wrong. And to be completely honest, I was too afraid to go into it too deeply. I was too afraid to have my veneer ripped asunder to have my trembling, inadequate self exposed to the open. And so, in order to make things better, I tried everything I could bloody well think of.
What did I try? Oh, I tried fucking everything. Earning more money. That didn't work. So I stayed at home to dote on everyone more. Nope. No dice. Lots of sex. No sex. Lots of church. No church. We bought our own house. I left my job that I loved, which involved odd hours, and got a loathesome job with a loathesome company, that I HATED, in an attempt to make him happy. Nopetty nopetty no. Nothing was going to make him happy. I look back now and realise, he was determined to be a miserable shit. And that's exactly what he was. And he spread his misery like a rancher raking shit all over the farm. He spread his misery to the kids, who several years ago asked me to leave him, but most of all, he spread his misery to me.
Earning money, keeping house, mowing lawns, raising kids, cooking food and trying to create some kind of normal atmosphere for my kids eventually took their toll. Bursting out crying over the sink and howling for hours when it all became too much managed to get his attention - for a day or two. Then it would be back to the sulking, the passive aggression, and that god-awful silence that was like the death of a thousand cuts. I used to be a happy person. Not any more. The phone would ring and I would be gripped with fear about who would be on the other end. What did the caller want from me? Even if it was just a friendly chat, I couldn't cope with another demand on me so I would let the phone ring and go out into the yard so I didn't have to deal with it. Eventually through hours of amateur therapy with my BFF we worked out that what was going on was depression. Fan-fucking-tastic. The love of my life has driven me to medication.
Antidepressant medications are like a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it's lovely to wake up every day and not be terrified to get out of bed. On the other hand, the dizziness, lack of libido, constant sweat and sleeplessness are not recommended. I was on antidepressants for three years before a friend of mine introduced me to an amazing nutritional supplement that makes me feel better than the drugs ever did. But that's a story for another time.
But even on antidepressants, my life pretty much sucked. Not only was I going through the motions, but in order to protect myself and my husband and most of all my kids from the horrible reality of what our marriage had become, I was the queen of the brave face. I've always been brilliant at that, since I was a child, sadly. But man it sucked.
Until one day I suggested marriage counselling. Now, my husband is a stubborn, stubborn man. Early in our relationship I could always chip away at his stubbornness with logic, and charm, and lots of love. But since the big change seven years ago, his stubbornness has only increased, and just manages to make me hurt more each day. So I knew the suggestion of marriage counselling was a long shot. His answer of course was "no"- just what I'd expected - so I suggested, "why don't we go to check out a marriage counsellor, you don't have to say a thing." His response, and quite astutely I might add, was "But I know what they're like. They WILL get me to talk." Because, apparently, talking is akin to water torture or being burnt at the stake.
So I asked him to think about it. He agreed. Fantastic. I felt better after that talk than I had in years. I felt like maybe there was a glimmer of sunshine at the end of this very dark tunnel. And then, four nights later, he came to me with his decision. Yes, he HAD thought about marriage counselling. But really, the best thing would be not to work on our marriage, not to provide a great home life for our kids, not to save our 17 years together. No, the best thing would be for him to leave. And so, his decision was made, the fragile rope tying me to the only pier I have known in adult life had been severed, and he had cast me adrift.
Fucking prick.
And so, these are, in a nutshell, the events that have brought about the birth of my third blog. And it's a fucking doozy kids! Writing is quite cathartic for me, as I suspect it is for most bloggers. So, enjoy the ride fellow travellers, try not to be too scathing if you choose to criticise me, I am a wounded pained soul right now, and let's get through this shit-fight together.
And if you don't like swearing, you're in the wrong fucking place.
A Brave New World.
I chose this title with my tongue firmly planted in my cheek. You see I don't feel very brave at all. In fact I feel so frightened that my bowels could turn to water at any minute as I dissolve into the unconsciousness that accompanies my panic attacks. Dentists send me into panic attacks - but it is not dentistry per se that I fear, rather the horrific feeling of being utterly devoid of any control of where my life is heading. And it is precisely this feeling that I have now. And it's not a "new world" I'm embracing with very much enthusiasm. Because this mock bravery, and this "new world," has come about because my husband of 17 years has told me that the life we're building is not wanted. That a life with ME is not wanted. That, in fact, despite the vows, and the ups and downs, and the struggles and the 3 kids, that I have been discarded. And it hurts like hell.
He tells me there is no other woman, and I believe him. His behaviour is not consistent with a man leading any kind of a double life. Even if he were having it off with his receptionist, I don't know that it would hurt any more than this. What there has been, in truckloads, is anger. Anger, resentment, stonewalling, judgement and sulking. And silence. Lots, and lots of silence. Silence so deafening and so tangible it is something I wish I could grab hold of and strangle. But it's impossible to build an argument against silence. Impossible to reason with it, and impossible to placate it.
When I met him 19 years ago, I realise now that there were signs of the man I have grown to be so disappointed in. Tiny glimmers. But there was so much love, so much adoration back then, that those glimmers just blended into the background like a stroke of dark paint in a magnificent work of art. Of course, now with almost 20 years of hindsight, I realise that those little signs were the tip of something ugly and dark. but that's the nature of hindsight isn't it - it's always too bloody late.
The first 10 years of our marriage were really happy. We had our ups and downs, but they were for the most part, really, really happy. We had 3 great kids. We still have 3 great kids, admittedly I don't know how to handle teenagers as well as I knew how to handle toddlers, but they really are terrific. We didn't own our own home, and I knew this ate at him in an emasculating way, I knew he felt that was a mark of success that had so far eluded him, but I didn't think it was a deal breaker. And then, seven years ago, something changed. And that something, to this day, remains a mystery.
Seven years ago, my supportive, loving, affectionate husband became moody, angry and bitter. And he wouldn't tell me why. Apparently, I was supposed to work it out. He was so angry with me, and he felt that my failings were so obvious, that he wouldn't tell me what was wrong. And to be completely honest, I was too afraid to go into it too deeply. I was too afraid to have my veneer ripped asunder to have my trembling, inadequate self exposed to the open. And so, in order to make things better, I tried everything I could bloody well think of.
What did I try? Oh, I tried fucking everything. Earning more money. That didn't work. So I stayed at home to dote on everyone more. Nope. No dice. Lots of sex. No sex. Lots of church. No church. We bought our own house. I left my job that I loved, which involved odd hours, and got a loathesome job with a loathesome company, that I HATED, in an attempt to make him happy. Nopetty nopetty no. Nothing was going to make him happy. I look back now and realise, he was determined to be a miserable shit. And that's exactly what he was. And he spread his misery like a rancher raking shit all over the farm. He spread his misery to the kids, who several years ago asked me to leave him, but most of all, he spread his misery to me.
Earning money, keeping house, mowing lawns, raising kids, cooking food and trying to create some kind of normal atmosphere for my kids eventually took their toll. Bursting out crying over the sink and howling for hours when it all became too much managed to get his attention - for a day or two. Then it would be back to the sulking, the passive aggression, and that god-awful silence that was like the death of a thousand cuts. I used to be a happy person. Not any more. The phone would ring and I would be gripped with fear about who would be on the other end. What did the caller want from me? Even if it was just a friendly chat, I couldn't cope with another demand on me so I would let the phone ring and go out into the yard so I didn't have to deal with it. Eventually through hours of amateur therapy with my BFF we worked out that what was going on was depression. Fan-fucking-tastic. The love of my life has driven me to medication.
Antidepressant medications are like a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it's lovely to wake up every day and not be terrified to get out of bed. On the other hand, the dizziness, lack of libido, constant sweat and sleeplessness are not recommended. I was on antidepressants for three years before a friend of mine introduced me to an amazing nutritional supplement that makes me feel better than the drugs ever did. But that's a story for another time.
But even on antidepressants, my life pretty much sucked. Not only was I going through the motions, but in order to protect myself and my husband and most of all my kids from the horrible reality of what our marriage had become, I was the queen of the brave face. I've always been brilliant at that, since I was a child, sadly. But man it sucked.
Until one day I suggested marriage counselling. Now, my husband is a stubborn, stubborn man. Early in our relationship I could always chip away at his stubbornness with logic, and charm, and lots of love. But since the big change seven years ago, his stubbornness has only increased, and just manages to make me hurt more each day. So I knew the suggestion of marriage counselling was a long shot. His answer of course was "no"- just what I'd expected - so I suggested, "why don't we go to check out a marriage counsellor, you don't have to say a thing." His response, and quite astutely I might add, was "But I know what they're like. They WILL get me to talk." Because, apparently, talking is akin to water torture or being burnt at the stake.
So I asked him to think about it. He agreed. Fantastic. I felt better after that talk than I had in years. I felt like maybe there was a glimmer of sunshine at the end of this very dark tunnel. And then, four nights later, he came to me with his decision. Yes, he HAD thought about marriage counselling. But really, the best thing would be not to work on our marriage, not to provide a great home life for our kids, not to save our 17 years together. No, the best thing would be for him to leave. And so, his decision was made, the fragile rope tying me to the only pier I have known in adult life had been severed, and he had cast me adrift.
Fucking prick.
And so, these are, in a nutshell, the events that have brought about the birth of my third blog. And it's a fucking doozy kids! Writing is quite cathartic for me, as I suspect it is for most bloggers. So, enjoy the ride fellow travellers, try not to be too scathing if you choose to criticise me, I am a wounded pained soul right now, and let's get through this shit-fight together.
And if you don't like swearing, you're in the wrong fucking place.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)