Tag Archives: Marriage

Not So Easy Silence

*In a moment of weakness…. I am going back and making myself publish previously written posts… this one was written in September.  I think I even published it for a few hours, then came back and reverted to draft.  Maybe I’ll leave it out there this time…”

 

Horoscope September 04, 2012 (Today):  Sometimes in life, we have to settle for good when we really wanted great. You’ve got an intensely devoted, loyal heart — and a questing, independent spirit that just won’t be tied down. This is a tough combo for some people to get, but rest assured, there are those out there who cherish this quixotic and delightful mixture. Someone who wants to blend their life with yours will understand why it is you who possess both these qualities in abundance — and won’t ask you to get rid of one or the other to satisfy them. Hang in there.

I’ve tried to sit down a write many-a-blog here in the last couple of months.  I haven’t been able to finish one… the topic has changed… the mood has changed… there has been little consistency in my life.  There have been highs and lows as is the ebb and flow of life, and the life of an unstable marriage.  This weekend things definitely came to a head as we approached and “celebrated” our 5th year of marriage.  Two weeks ago, I sat my husband down at a local restaurant and told him the following:

1.  Emphatically, I do not want to end our marriage.  That is the last thing I have ever wanted.

2.  Our son deserves to live in a peaceful environment, a loving environment.

3.  You and I have tried to work things out, and I’m finally at a point where I feel I have done everything I know to do to fix us, and none of it has worked.

4.  Because we have an obligation to create a safe and happy environment for our son, I’ve researched divorce laws and think it’s time for us to separate officially inside the house until we either decide together to keep trying or figure out a way to legally separate and start the process of divorce.

Those were basically the points of our conversation.  He was taken by surprise, I could tell.  He said to me, “I just don’t understand why we can’t make it work.”  I explained that I’ve been trying to tell him for years that we need help – I’ve come to the table with so many suggestions, begging him to come to the table with me to try to make things more peaceful between us.  Each time we’ve come together temporarily, agreed that we love each other and “tried.”  I say that with hesitation, because really all that comes to my mind when I think of his efforts to “try” is the way he has always reacted to my telling him that we need help, that we need to work to actively love one another.  He’s told me so many times that we don’t really have problems… he’s explained, “You don’t like when people have different opinions from you…” and that’s how he’s summed up “our” problems.  He’s said a few hurtful things, but it’s been mainly his method of communicating that’s been the most hurtful over the years.  There’s been a whole. lot. of silence on his part.  So much that it’s essentially allowed the incredible abyss between us to survive so well.  I’ve told him many times that if I had the money, I’d have already been gone.  I’ve explained my thoughts, my emotions, my wishes to him in writing, verbally, through tears, through anger and lately, through incredible calm.  Most of the time I’ve been met with silence… no acknowledgement whatsoever of a letter, tears, a plea for discussion, a dissertation on what makes me, me and why I feel lonely and helpless at this point in our relationship.

This weekend we attempted to have a nice dinner to mark our anniversary.  We dressed up and sat down, we started talking… about us.  Obviously trying to keep things positive… it was very hard to do so.  Right before dinner, we’d argued about getting ready.  I wanted him to be excited about going out, I wanted him to have a realistic understanding of what getting ready took – with a toddler and a baby sitter arriving within 30 minutes.  He wanted to drink a beer and sit on the couch, 30 minutes before the babysitter got there.  I still had to finish getting ready and obviously, our baby needed to eat and be ready for bed.  Somehow, we actually argued about this because as usual, I was hurt by the fact that even 30 minutes before our fancy anniversary dinner, he responded with a “don’t try to control me” tone when I told him, “aren’t you excited about going out?”  I listed a few things that needed to be done, and all I got was, “I’ll be ready…” and a “leave me alone” look.  So, by the time the babysitter arrived and we got into the car, I had already resigned myself to the tone the evening had taken on.  I was hurt, and wasn’t going to be able to leave that hurt place just for the sake of our milestone anniversary dinner.  I’m really not very good at leaving that place, I readily admit.  So, as dinner proceeded and wine was consumed, I remained comfortable on my throne of “you can’t hurt me anymore” stature.

It isn’t true, that he can’t hurt me anymore.  I thought it was.  I thought I was so confident and ready for anything, including divorce and separation.  All I have to do is look at my son’s face or hear him tell us, “Stop it!” when we raise our voices at each other and I know that separation is the right thing for him.  For awhile, that made my attitude and disposition very easy.  It was easy for me to move into the guest room, the guest bathroom, to tell him I had come to the unfortunate conclusion that we cannot make this work and therefore it is healthy and right to give up at this point.  I felt like I was somewhat on top of the world after our initial conversation – so sure of myself and what I’d said.  I felt like I was doing the right thing, period.  I still think I did the right thing by bringing it to that level.  When he asked me why we couldn’t make it work, I told him that I don’t know, I wish I did or I’d fix it, but the point is that it isn’t working and therefore we cannot live like this for the rest of our lives so we just need to move on and accept it for what it is for the sake of our son.

That was then… this is now.  Right now, I think I’d give my right arm not to lose him, not to break up our family.  The question I think I keep asking myself is whether that is because I don’t want the relationship to end, or because I don’t want to live without him.  I am pretty sure I’ve been asking myself this question for almost the entire time we’ve been married.  The dinner conversation resulted in a hurtful exchange – and he finally told me that he would have left by now if things were different financially as well.  I brought it up, I told him, “I’m going to be very honest with you, I think it’s over.  I don’t see you coming to me and trying to make it work, I can see it in your eyes and feel it in you – you’re going to just let it end.” In retrospect, I wish I hadn’t said it.  I wish I’d just let the conversation flow and not put a statement with such accusatory finality sit there in the middle of our anniversary dinner.   And, it went down hill from there.  What I didn’t expect was to fall off of my pedestal.  But, that is what I did… I fell hard over the next few days.

The reality of living without him hit me like a ton of bricks.  Suddenly, all I could think of was our wedding day, the way he looked at me while we stood there promising each other that we would stick it out in the good times and the bad.  We wrote our own vows, together.  I love our vows.  The words are framed in our bedroom; I designed a print of them and gave it to him for our 2nd or 3rd anniversary – in part because I felt that we needed a refresher.  Is it normal to need a refresher that soon?  I didn’t think so – the fact is we need a refresher every single day it seems.  So, I’m asking myself if we’re holding on the idea of our marriage now or to each other.  I think the question is the same internally now for both of us.  I cried my eyes out the next day.  I haven’t cried like that in years… my eyes were all but swollen shut – I just couldn’t speak without crying.  When I saw him after one of my “calm” moments of the day, he looked at me and then seemingly went on with his day… showing what seemed like absolutely no concern for me.  So, yes, that just made me cry harder and not because he wasn’t showing concern but because I was actually still expecting him to show concern in the way that I’ve always wanted him to.  The question, “Why can’t I give up?” was like a broken record in my head and heart all weekend.  All.  Weekend.

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Reformation

It’s been awhile since I’ve posted and there are far too many reasons to explain why.  Ultimately, I am finding that blogging is getting harder instead of easier.  I realized that while I started this blog as an attempt to try and explore myself and write my own story, that instead I ended up writing the story of my marriage.  Which, I will never understand, has been easier.  The story of my bipolar marriage is not a fun one to tell, I struggle every day with what my love for my husband means and what his love for me means.  I struggle with the concept of a soul mate… whether mine really does exist out there.  I struggle with the lack of solid support in my life, I struggle with strength of self.  I struggle with the idea that I have settled for a life less than what I imagined it should be.  A very good friend remarked that having an oppressive marriage feels at times like your life is being stolen away from you, day by day, hour by hour.  I’ve felt that way.

But.

In the beginning of my blog journey, I wanted to to explore myself.  I wanted to tell my stories.  I didn’t want to harp and hound my marital circumstances.  I don’t think they will change, regardless of what drastic measures do or do not happen.  I don’t think my marriage is ever going to change.  I think this is the life I chose for myself and am still choosing to live in for the moment and so that I need to make the most of it.  I don’t mean this quite as cliche as it sounds.  It just is.  I’ve not accepted inexcusable behavior, nor will I fight for myself any less.  I am a different, stronger person than I was when I met my husband and that is irreversible.

For now, I need to stop focusing on what I can’t change.  I need to focus on what I can change.  The blog was titled “the colors of me” because I wanted to tell my stories.  I have so many stories to tell.  Telling them will no doubt bring me closer to myself.  I need to be there, I need to understand what makes my heart beat before I go blaming someone else for not making it beat stronger.  My strength needs to come from within.

I have come a long way in my search for understanding.  I’m still young and I have a long life ahead of me.  I also have a past that is filled with family secrets, denial, shame, fear, hypocrisy, tragedy, and abuse.  I need to write these stories down.  I’ve told them… many times… to many friends and therapists.  I don’t think I’ve ever told them to myself… so I’m going to make a promise to myself to start telling myself these stories in an effort to get to know myself through them.  They are ugly stories, but they are necessary truths that I must embrace.


Flowers and Jewelry (and a little hypocrisy)

Our latest argument was about money.  We argue about money quite a bit.  Mainly, this is due to the lack of money we generally have to do things that we have to do – such as grocery shop or pay for our newly established gym membership.  Last week we were too tight to pay the gym membership so I told my husband we needed to put it on the credit card until payday, when we could pay it right back.  His response?  “That’s not our money.  I don’t know what you’re going to do b/c we aren’t going to be able to pay it for another two weeks.”  Obviously, this meant I couldn’t go to the gym for those two weeks and he knows I am currently trying to lose weight (and doing very well!)  This absolutely infuriated me.  In my mind, it is just another way for him to try and control me.

Fast forward to Valentine’s Day.  He spent the day with a mutual friend of ours who I decided to clue into the recent (ha, recent) drama in our relationship.  Essentially I chose to let him in on the fact that I really believe that my husband is clinically depressed and needs a mentor or at least a friend to force him out of the house.  I knew this friend would be asking him what he was planning on doing for me for the big day in February that I’ve just grown to hate.  Excuse me for not sounding like a very appreciative wife here in the next paragraph.

I got a phone call towards the end of my work day.  He asked me to pick up the little guy even though he could’ve done so easily.  I figured that he could probably use some more time alone and as usual, held out a bit of hope that what he really needed the time for was so he could go home and prepare a romantic candlelight dinner, ya know, as part of his “I’ll do anything” campaign tour.  In my drive home, I tried to talk myself out of these expectations.  After all, I’d gotten him a card (because that was seriously all I could afford) and figured he’d probably done the same for me and that would be that.  I actually found a very appropriate card this year.  It essentially gently reminded him that I do love him without indicating that he’s this gigantic support system for me/the perfect man/my soul mate like most of them do.  I felt he needed that assurance because he seems to be convinced that I don’t want to be with him (although, I realize as well that this is a tactic part of his denial that our problems are real and therefore fixable if we just try to fix them).  I’ve somewhat shifted from anger to compassion as I’ve realized that his depression is real and true.  It’s the fact that he’s in denial and has always exhibited emotionally abusive behaviors that tips the scale to anger on some (okay most) days.  I can’t exactly use his recent depression as an excuse for that behavior, can I?  No, unfortunately.  Because, that would probably be easier.  Sigh.  I feel like I will never get to the end of this paragraph.  I think I have to start a new one now.

I got home.  No candles were lit, but I’d convinced myself not to expect that, right?  No, it couldn’t be that simple.  The house wasn’t picked up, but there were a dozen roses, two cards, and gift box on the table.  It was sweet, unexpected, but still fell short.  He knew what time I got home – I walked in the door to a mess and he was sitting on the couch talking on the phone.  It was almost like…. “See, I did it.  Here’s your freakin’ Valentine.”  See what I mean?  I sound a bit like a spoiled brat.  But that’s the thing – I’m NOT.  So what if I expected that he’d maybe have dinner ready?  The table set for us all to sit and eat together?  Maybe a frickin’ candle?  Instead, a box, that I knew would have jewelry in it, because he still thinks that I need things like this.  He is so convinced that if he buys me expensive things like jewelry, I’d feel better.  You can probably understand per the first paragraph why I felt like strangling him with whatever piece of jewelry was in that box before I’d ever seen it.  Seriously?  You got me JEWELRY?  You can buy me jewelry, but you can’t borrow money from the credit card to pay the gym dues so I can keep working out?  Oh, I see – what YOU think is important and not completely wasteful and unnecessary is acceptable, what I think is important is just little woman talk.  So, we opened each others cards and decided to save the jewelry for later.  When I opened it, I started crying.  As is the story of my life – I wasn’t crying tears of frickin’ joy – I was crying because the man is just so utterly clueless it literally hurts me.  It was a fancy, and beautiful choker (HA, the irony kills me).  It was great!  It will sit in the box it came in on top of my jewelry box and I’ll wear it maybe once a year; I don’t have clothes nice enough to match the damn thing for god’s sake!  I don’t care about expensive jewelry!!

I just let it go, though.  I said thank you, we watched a show, we went upstairs and finished every married couple’s Valentine’s Day ritual.  It was the first time I’ve ever gotten through it with the constant thought… “Is it over yet?”

Is it?


It is love that builds faith… not the other way around.

I’m not religious.  At all.  My husband says that I don’t believe in God.  Sometimes I don’t think I do – but I can’t look at my son without the belief that his presence is anything less than a miracle.  The moment of childbirth solidified my belief in a higher power.  I do believe… just not in the traditional, Southern way that I was encouraged to.

I was raised in a church.  I was baptized, went through all the ceremonies of First Communion, Confirmation… all that.  And then I was pretty much free to do whatever I wanted.  So I followed my sister to her church.  We were both vulnerable and passionate teenagers.  We loved our friends and having fun… we shared confusions and frustrations that we didn’t know how to verbalize.  We were “normal.”  We were as normal as two loving, spirited, vulnerable teenagers living in the South could be… so it was a perfect time to stumble across a church that would attempt to transform us into little Christian soldiers.  For awhile we were both hooked… to the point that I remember actually believing that because my parents didn’t approve of our attending the church, this meant that they were destined for the fiery depths of hell.  And all the pastors could tell me was that “not everyone is destined for the promise land.”   While I recovered pretty nicely from this temporary insanity in college, it changed my sister’s life forever.  She hasn’t been the same since.  We stopped going to that church right around the time we left for college.

We both left for college determined not to let the separation from our newfound baptism (that church) shake our faith.  I entered college as a Bible thumping, glorified Christian ready to take on all the sins that awaited me with a solid, “No.”  I left wondering if God existed at all… and believing if nothing else, that if he did exist, the last place he was to be found was inside a church/mosque/temple.  I don’t believe in Christianity.  I am not a Christian.  Calm down now… I promise you it’s okay.  I always feel so defiant and rebellious still when I “admit” to that.  It horrifies my husband.  It horrifies my sister.  My sister changed forever when she entered that crazy church – she is as brainwashed today as she ever was.  She once told me that the reason I was depressed was because I had a “hole in my heart where God belonged.”  She actually said that to me.  It was a strange moment in our history as sisters.  She felt so bad for me… and in a very different way I felt so bad for her.  We will never understand each other, and for the most part we’ve stopped trying.  I am sure that my way of life disappoints and confuses her much the way hers disappoints and confuses me.  I am sad for her, and I’m sure she is sad for me.

It’s an interesting study.  We were raised in the same house – and while I cannot say that my parents didn’t sacrifice for us or love us – I can say that we experienced the same level of hypocrisy and contradiction in our upbringing.  My parents tried, but not as hard as they could’ve.  Maybe that isn’t fair.  Their generation didn’t encourage self-reflection…rather I guess it was more about where and how they were raised in their own houses and less to do with the time they were coming of age… which would’ve been the 60s and therefore they should truly have no excuse for not having explored themselves and their limitations a bit more.  Regardless, as loving as they were – they weren’t and they still aren’t whole people.  They think that they complete one another – but truly I believe that they have grown to fill a space in each other that each of them gave up on in themselves.  My dad has been a functioning alcoholic for as long as I can remember.  My mom, although highly educated, never has been able to separate herself from the traditional “wife” role her Southern Baptist upbringing taught.  Although I did watch her rise against it in protest many times throughout my life, and she’d deny it and be utterly offended if I were ever to tell her, but my opinion is that she ultimately settled in defeat.  She decided, almost overnight, that her life would be less challenging if she stopped fighting and instead, allowed herself to fall second to my dad.  I am sure it was gradual, but sometime I am sure I will post a blog about the night I think she made this decision.  For now… back to religion.

Everyone in my life is full of contradictions.  As am I.  Maybe it’s unfair for me to talk about my mom giving up on herself because sometimes I feel like I am in the process of giving up on myself… at the very same time that I feel more empowered and strengthened than I ever have… I still can’t gather the strength to accept that I have changed and that my marriage hasn’t changed with me.  It isn’t my husband’s fault that we are unhappy.  He hasn’t changed.  It’s me who’s gone through an enormous shift – and while I’ll tell anyone who asks that I’ve become stronger and less insecure and aware of healthy boundaries… maybe the truth is that I’ve just gotten very good at telling myself that I don’t have to settle for what I’m settling for, even as I settle for it.  I know I’m not free of hypocrisy.  That’s my point.  But at least, I know it.  At least I own it.  This is something that many people do not even recognize in themselves.  I worked damn hard in therapy to get to this place where I do recognize it.

My sister goes to church nearly every Sunday… and between her and her husband they also each attend another church function at least once during every week.  She has always looked down on the rest of us in the family because we don’t share her “passion for Christ.”  I am sure that her heart genuinely aches when she imagines, through her religious goggles, that we aren’t destined for eternal happiness in Heaven as she and all her fellow church going Christian friends and family are.  She doesn’t know that I’m not even a Christian.  She’s fully aware that I don’t subscribe to the ways of any church.  A couple years ago I told her I didn’t believe in missionary work.  She nearly lost her lunch.  I explained that it’s not the “doing good for others” part that I don’t agree with, but the “doing good so that you’ll think Jesus is your savior” part that I cannot fundamentally support.  I believe in helping others because we should want to be helped if we were in need.  I believe that our desire and at times our need to help one another is fundamentally human.  In fact, it’s not just a human trait… we are animals, and just as most living things do, we are generally programmed to help and protect one another from harm.  I don’t believe that it is fair or genuine to help someone under the pretense that by helping them, they should then believe in the same thing that you do.  This steals the love out of the very deed you boast about to your fellow church goers.   I only pick on my sister because I have a window into her world.  I am therefore exposed to this religious vision of the world that she has.  It is draped throughout every area of her life.  Her blog makes me sick to my stomach… many times.  While I agree that I should let her live as she lives – it is painful to watch and listen to her put her all into something that doesn’t even bring her genuine joy.  All it brings is guilt.  Constant guilt – her blogs are filled with “I should’ve… I should…” and praising of those people in her life that agree with her and support her religious beliefs and her overall struggle to find God and Jesus in everything… right down to the Easter egg hunt that she put together for her very small children…she’s all about keeping Christ in everything.  While she’s busy finding Christ in everything, she’s worrying about how inadequate she is in every way – as a mother, as a wife, as a servant to God.  She is constantly apologizing and explaining and talking about how unsupported she feels and all at the same time she’s blogging about how thankful she is… wait… so am I!  So who is to say that we are so different?  I just went to therapy, instead of church.  I recognize this.  What I rejected about religion as I went through my journey, was the guilt it encouraged in me.  I grew up with so much guilt it took me years to find myself in all the layers that were so neatly put together over my spirit throughout years and years of being told just how “wrong” I was about pretty much every thought I had.  I’m not sure my sister’s experiences were the exact same as mine were – but they weren’t far off.  We were raised by a perfectionist whose pride caused immense pain and confusion in our hearts.  He loved us, but we were never  doing what we should.  If anyone did what she should, it was my sister.  Until she found that church.  My parents hate that church – ironically for much of the same reasons that I do.

I go to church, as I did this morning, with my husband from time to time, to show support to him… although he knows that I do not believe as he does.  When we met we were on the same page with religion.  We understood each other.  We shared the general believe that God didn’t belong in a church – that Christianity was just one of so many religions that claimed to be “the way, truth, light” when ultimately all they were doing was creating war against one another.  He changed a few years ago when his life took a devastating turn and he experienced something that few will ever know, including myself.  It’s not to be shared now, but I understand his turn toward religion, because it was the only way that he could make sense out of what happened to him.  And that’s okay.  Maybe that’s what the undertone of my sister’s search is as well.  And that’s okay.  It just doesn’t make logical sense – I wish it did.  But it just doesn’t.

This morning, and every morning that I sit in church I am utterly disturbed by the militant and mindless worship.  Repeating a creed while raising your hands in the air… is different than bowing towards a temple and repeating a different creed… how exactly?  Telling your “followers” that they are right and others are wrong… in the same breath that you tell them to have hearts filled with love… is teaching love… how exactly?  One thing the priest said this morning was true.  He said, “For it is love that builds faith, and not the other way around.”  This is true.  If I felt that what was behind this Christian movement was more about love and less about faith and whose is stronger/louder/more correct, then perhaps I’d sympathize with it a little more.  I’d understand and even sympathize with my sister a little more.  But the underlying message that she and all other religions teach is that it is faith that builds love… and only the “right” faith leads to “true” love.   That’s why my sister has built a protective wall between us… because my lack of what she calls “faith” contradicts her own, and the church teaches her that those who do not walk in the kind of love that they seek, will only lead them astray.  It’s a great analogy they use with the flock of sheep… genius, really… like everything else that’s brought the Christian empire where it is today.   It takes a certain genius to gain power and maintain it for so long.  They even change the sacred “word of God” every couple years by coming up with a new “version” of the Bible that helps translate their message through each and every era we’ve experienced as a culture… and few question it.  It’s okay to have doubts… God can help you with that.  But to question the word of God… that’s blasphemy.  It’s faith that she thinks she has.  All that she is truly searching for is the kind of love that we were never really shown.  The kind of love that comes naturally at the start of life… when a person who has experienced some serious radical self-love and acceptance can feel.  It’s the kind of love that I feel for my son.  The kind of love that is unparalleled and unyielding, selfless but with a healthy dose of selfishness too – because the only way you can truly love someone is to love yourself.  It’s that self love that religion frowns upon.  Because if taught to love ourselves with all our faults… then what would our faith be?  What good would that do the church?  If people don’t feel guilty all the time, they don’t give money, they don’t gather and worship, they don’t feed the insatiable need for power that every religion from the beginning of time has held.

So, that’s it.  Another great divide between my husband and I.  That’s not really why I blogged about it… I blogged about it because it’s been heavy on my mind.  Marriage is an offspring of religion… and I am still studying how and why I am so scared to imagine that it is as free of logic as religion itself.  Some things are so ingrained in us that even years of acknowledgement can’t cure our denial.  Maybe I’m not really that different from my own mother, after all.


Index Schmindex

Who created the BMI Index?  I’d love to know.  There’s nothing like a good sit down with your doc… except for the moment when she slides the BMI index across her desk and starts highlighting shit.  I’ve tried to keep it together pretty well this last week… etc.  I’ve been doing amazingly well.  Despite being paranoid that someone is mad at me allll the time (more on that neurosis later), I’ve been at the top of my game.  Willing to accept that my  marriage isn’t what I thought it would be, what I dreamed it would be… but that it is what it is.  I have to exist in it as it is, for now anyway.  There are lots of reasons I “have to” and they’re pretty obvious.  Financially it would be impossible to “create a new life” for myself.  And even if I could… I’m still not convinced I’d be better off in that imaginary life.  Of course now it seems simpler and less of a struggle.  I could just feel whatever I feel and not have to explain every intricate detail of why I feel that way when I feel that way.  I wouldn’t have to present mini-dissertations on every thought I have and where it came from.  I could just exist.  Happily.  I wouldn’t be told by someone who claims he loves me that I’m getting too comfortable in the job that I love.  I wouldn’t be told by my husband, while explaining the previous statement, that he “just meant” that “I’d rather tell people that my wife is a lawyer, or a psychiatrist.”  Sometimes I’m amazed at the shit I swallow.  It makes me angry and frustrated… and those words are miniature compared to how I really feel.  I digress.

The BMI Index.  I’d just love to meet the bastard who came up with those numbers.  I won’t go into the details of where I fall – but I can tell you that my “ideal weight” will never be reached.  And saying to me, “Now I know it seems like an impossible goal… BUT…”  isn’t comforting.  I know you’re a doctor and you’re supposed to tell me to watch my weight – but pointing out just where I fall on the ole’ index and reminding me, verbatim, that I’m in the “overweight” category is taking to a little too far, don’tchya think?  Plus, I just got done telling you that there is literally no time, and literally no money for a gym membership and radical health diet – so excuse me if I ask for a B-R-E-A-K break.  I’d be happy if I lost about 15 pounds – and most people I know feel the same way.  But this chic wants me to lose 35 pounds so I can look like I did in high school.  Nice as that would be – it’s actually not humanly possible for me right now b/c I don’t SLEEP at a gym.  And I happen to have the kind of metabolism and body structure that will gain weight if I am not CONSTANTLY exercising and eating lettuce.  Screw that – who does that?  Not me.  And not anyone I know.

So I have to thank the BMI for this most recent mental disturbance… because it has brought pretty much every insecurity that I have been having over the last year, right to the surface!  I just went in for a yearly pap – and I came out with a nervous breakdown.  Who knew the lady doc had so much power.  First, she asked me why I wasn’t on birth control.  “Because… (hahaha??) my husband and I pretty much don’t have sex anymore.”  Yeah… okay so you’re sorry to hear that.  Thanks?  “Is it because of your libido?  Or because of everything you’ve told me about how things are going…??”  Can’t you answer that yourself?  So, the thing is I really do like this doctor who was asking me all these questions.  And I was great at my answers… stating the obvious at times and other times sincerely stating things like, “Well, I’ve just come so far emotionally over the last few years and my husband doesn’t seem to be as comfortable as I am with the newer, stronger me.”  Ha!  It’s true… right?  I’m newer, and stronger.  I have worked amazingly hard to get to where I am today.  And where am I?  Sitting across from my lady doc coming apart just a little bit with every question she asks.  Yes, there are some major life changes that have contributed to the difficulties that my husband and I have had.  Yes, it’s a libido issue – I don’t want to have sex.  Ever.  And yes, I guess those lubricants can help… on the rare occasion that I do feel sorry enough for my husband to give into him.  It’s not that I don’t enjoy it once it’s started… but the desire and the interest to get it started is non-existent.

He thinks I don’t love him anymore.   So sometimes I wonder if I do.  Sometimes I ask myself, what the hell there is to love.  I don’t feel emotionally supported.  I don’t feel strengthened… nurtured… admired.  I don’t feel anything I think I’m supposed to feel in a marriage.  I just feel trapped – in many ways, for many reasons.  I trapped myself – emotionally – years ago.  And I’m just trying to think myself into acceptance and lower expectations.  It’s not really working.  He says I can’t let anything go.  But how do I let it go when it’s in my face all the time?  He ALWAYS wants to have sex.  “Doesn’t it make you feel good that I want you all the time?”  My response?  “You are a man.  Seriously?  I breathe… that pretty much is all you need to be horny.”  He thinks that’s harsh – and maybe it is.  But he’s not exactly interested in doing what I’ve asked him to do to help me be more interested.  I know that men connect physically rather than emotionally – or so the story goes.  I don’t entirely buy it.  Women connect physically as well – but not without some freakin’ effort.  I’m always supposed to meet him halfway – have sex with him.  But he never has to meet me halfway – take me on a date every blue moon – dress up!!!  Tell me to dress up!  Surprise me!  Get me a card for no reason.  Tell me I’m beautiful!  Ask me for advice!  Aren’t these normal things that couples do?

No wonder I have such good “other man” dreams.  I’m pretty much as low as I get now – tears are stock piled and I can’t breathe out of my nose.  It’s okay.  I’m used to his place.  I feel somewhat comfortable here – and I’m okay with letting myself cry it out.  It’s necessary.  Especially when the hope for change is nearly nonexistent.  He’ll never change.  He’s firm in who he is and he’s always been that way.  It’s me that’s changed.  I don’t want what he has to offer anymore and he isn’t willing to give me what I need.  It just doesn’t add up anymore.  But here we are existing and trying to make the best of it.  I wonder how long and how much harder we will try.  I wonder if it’s the effort that matters, and not the end result.  Of course there’s no such thing as a happy marriage — err…. a perfect marriage.  I just want some basic needs met.  That’s all.  Just for him to say the right thing at least some of the time.   And when he doesn’t?  I just want him to be able to say, “I said the wrong thing.  I’m sorry.”  Show some vulnerability for god’s sake.

I think it’s time for bed.  Man, I could use a good escape dream tonight!  Summoning the other man dreams lol.  🙂