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.
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