I Can Do No Right In Your Eyes

June 16, 2006 at 7:40 AM | Posted in Personal | 8 Comments
  Wow.  Judging from the stony silence from the peanut gallery, with the exception of one, no one wants to say anything. (You’re pretty brave, Kim)  Well, this writing has to be for me, and me alone.  I have to get it out of my system.  I don’t want–sympathy?  Hell, I don’t know what I want.  Understanding maybe.  But this is how my marriage has been, what I am about to describe.  My best friend tells me she has been telling me for years.  YEARS.
  I am curious about my wife’s point of view on all of this.  More of a morbid fascination with the rationale, really.  My friend did tell me that I am partly to blame as well, for letting her get away with it, and letting it go on so long.  And I know–trust me, I know–I am not completely innocent here.  But it’s like something my dad told me.  He stopped buying her (mom) anything for Christmas, at all.  Nothing.  This was over twenty years ago.  He said, "Nothing’s to good for her.  So that’s what I get her:  nothing."  Hell, at the time, I thought he was joking.
  When does a marriage fall apart?  When is it over?  When can it still be saved, and when is the point of No Return?  How do you know?
  Well, each person’s situation is different, and each marriage is different.  I wonder how divorce lawyers and judges do it.  A guy on the radio used to be a divorce lawyer, and he quit.  Too much, just too much. . .
  So this isn’t about everyone else, this about me.  And my wife.
  You know, when I met her, I had just gotten out of a relationship.  My first serious one, Heather, the girl dumped me.  Good move on her part, and it helped me grow up a bit.  The second one, Joy, I had to leave.  She was an alcoholic, and older, and I was a pothead, in no condition to pass judgement, so I was just an enabler.  But there was no future, honestly, with a twenty year age difference.  Would I ever pass my seed onto posterity?  I was in a serious funk after that one.  We had only been together for about a year plus.  I always think of it as my "Year of Living Dangerously."
  I had a friend at Domino’s, Thomas.  Not Tom, not Tommy.  Thomas.  Weird guy.  To give you an indication of his personality type, he had aspirations of being a salesman. He was going out with a girl, but from the impression I got, he was kind of ashamed of her, because he was hung up on looks. He was pretty superficial, even for a guy.  She was a big girl.
  But when I broke up with Joy, well it was about the 7th of July.  Took almost two weeks for my dick to break up with her.  I would get off of work, go by and knock on her window.  She would let me in, we would fuck.  I wait till she went to sleep, and then leave out the back door.  But I knew I had to stop doing that, and I did.
  Thomas was there to help me, and he did.  What a pal.  Ultimately, he helped me more than he may have actually wanted to.  He took me out drinking, let me bitch, tried to hook me up with different girls.  He was a bit of a loser himself, having really just gotten lucky with a girl, but he thought he could help.
  His girlfriend had a friend, and they thought they could double date us.  So this woman, Linda, had a mother and daughter staying with her.  I don’t remember the mother’s name, but the daughter was Laura.  She was 16.  I was 22.  What the hell were they thinking?  The night we met, Thomas had to work, I guess.  So I was there with Linda and Laura, and some other various people I didn’t know at the time. 
  It turned out I had more common interest with Linda than Laura, and so we spent the evening talking together.  I guess there was a certain something there, you know.  And eventually we hooked up, and she dropped Thomas like a bad transmission.  He was a little relieved, I think, to have an excuse.  We remained friends for a while, although long before we got married, he disappeared.  I know he didn’t love her, he was just getting laid.
  Of course, at that point, so was I.  But it turned pretty serious, pretty quickly.  I honestly don’t know if she got pregnant on purpose or if the contraceptive gel we were using couldn’t keep up with all I was injecting her with.  Seriously, the first time we had sex, well, over the course of three days, or actually three nights–She says we did it over seven times the first night.  At least five the other two nights.  I am a fucking stud.
  And I don’t recall which happened first, but all these things happened around the same time.  We got together, I moved in with her, she got pregnant, we decided to get married.
  The early part of our relationship was defined by the wedding planning and the pregnancy.  We were close, she was hormonal, but love was still new.  I was forgiven for alot of the stuff I did.  She did what ever she did, and it was fine with me.  I thought she knew what she was doing.  She was a few years older than me, already had two kids.  Basically an adult, and I was a 23 year old kid, tagging along and learning to grow up.
  You know, most of the arguments and fights we had were about things I did that I wasn’t supposed to do.  She never did things wrong, but apparently I did, all the time.  And so the relationship was cast.  Basically, she was in charge.  It was pretty subtle, but yeah.  I heard a comedian explain it like this:
   You’re both in bed, and you’re both cold.  When you get up to get another blanket, if you look back at whoever is still in bed, that’s who is in charge.
  So it became little things, but still, I did alot for her, and I do alot for her.  Who goes to the grocery store most of the time?  Why, I do, actually.  Who does the running and fetching?  Who gets to stop on the way home and pick things.  In addition to the other guy duties, like the yard and the cars and so forth.
  And then we get into her physical problems.  More on her emotional and psychological ones later. . .
  She is heavy.  She is a big girl.  But I am a big guy.  She has never been in great health, but I have had my share of activity.  I have been active in martial arts, and things like that.  She has done some dance, which she needs, because she has arthritis.  If she doesn’t keep moving, she will lock up.  That is my biggest fear once I leave her.  Her mother had arthritis really bad, and was in a lot of pain.
  Well, so Linda is as well.  Did I write this before?  This sounds familiar.  Let me know if I’m repeating myself.  She is on a lot of meds.  Arthritis meds, and prilosec for heartburn.  High blood pressure.  Other pain pills as needed.  Was on thyroid medication, but that’s done.  Not on anything for her epilepsy either.  Hasn’t been for 18 years, and whatdyaknow, no seizures for 18 years either.  Lots of Doctors don’t know shit about epilepsy, never mind the general public.
  Her job is pretty grueling, pretty physical.  She lifts heavy boxes of paper and moves them around all day.  She gets home, her ass gets planted on the couch.  That has become a routine, and that’s not healthy, I think. 
  Every time she gets sick–and she gets sick a few times a year–it is for days or weeks,  it takes everything out of her, everything comes to a complete fucking halt.  Life just stops dead cold.  (The converse of this is, when I get sick–which, other than seasonal allergies, I have been sick once in the last three years–I get over it in a matter of days and move on.)  Honest to fuck.  She can’t let go of anything.  Grudges, illness, past transgressions, old knick nacks.  Nothing.
  But all of this has laid the foundation for how she is.  She has problems with depression.  Even when she’s not having a problem with it, she’s still depressed.  She tried taking some meds, didn’t like what they did to her physically.  Why would she?  She doesn’t LIKE anything, for fuck’s sake.  Nothing I do, nothing I have ever done, has made her happy.  I thought getting the house would, but it didn’t last.  There were still things to bitch about.
  I don’t think she has any real friends.  Her closest one is her daughter, Melissa.  It’s a love-hate thing going on there, too.  Melissa is hard to deal with, in her own way.  I told her recently, "You know, your were 14 years old when I met your mother.  I married her anyway."  Meaning, despite how she was.  Melissa is on some mood meds now, much more balanced.
  She may have a few through dancing school.  But they are in Florissant, and only sees them one night a week.  In contrast, I work for one of my best friends at one job, and with the other one at my other job.
  I have said before that I do what I want.  Outside the house, in the world, I do what I want.  Things go my way.  Mostly it’s how I treat people, smile, and talk to people, and take their feelings into consideration.
  These might be the opposite of what she does, because she couldn’t get pissed on if she was on fire.  And then she sees how I am, and how I get what I want, and it only makes her more bitter, and more resentful.  If she needs something, or wants something, I can find a way to do it.  If she needs a miracle performed, she calls on me.  Now, I find myself stuck in that capacity.  If she needs something ridiculous and impossible, she asks me, and I can do it.  She has no reason to believe I can’t, because I perform miracles all the time.
  Yet still remaining is the dicotomy where she feels I can’t do a fucking thing right.  I can’t pick up my dishes.  I can’t bring her the dirty clothes so she can sort laundry.  I can’t make the kids listen to her.  I can’t cut the grass or trim right.  Whatever it is, there is an exact proper procedure for it, and I don’t do it.  What the hell is wrong with me?  .  . .What, indeed.
  She is almost done with the cast on her foot, from when she broke it almost two months ago.  I should have left her then, when, as she is sitting on the ground after slipping on the ONE GODDAMN PATCH OF ICE IN A 600 MILE RADIUS, she blames me because I didn’t salt the driveway.  She still does.  She still blames me, and will bring it up once in a while.
  So, for the first month or so after she broke her foot, she did absolutely nothing.  I was working two jobs, and going to school, trying to finish my degree.  Then I still had to do every other thing.  Make the kids help with laundry and chores around the house.  I did all the grocery shopping.  Hell, I did before anyway.  I was constantly running and fetching, running and fetching.
  In a normal situation, you might think there would be some understanding about what I was going through, trying to take care of everything.  There was plenty of sympathy for her and the broken foot.  Some extra compensation in the bedroom would have been nice.  I mean, after all, she broke her foot, not her cunt.  And her mouth?  Definitely not broken, because I heard that thing all the goddamn time.  Now that I had to do ABSOLUTELY everything, it only menat that ABSOLUTELY nothing was done right.  Nothing takes the steam out of a hard-on like being bitched at for something I didn’t do because I was taking care of every other motherfucking thing in the goddamn house.  I stopped trying.
The Sigh:
  She would mention something in passing, like a need to go to the store, or to put gas in her car, or she needs cigarettes.  Or she needs the laundry, or something.  Anything.  I’m in the middle of doing something, probably something else for her–what the hell else would I be doing?  I’m either doing something for her or I’m wasting time.
  So, yeah, some time goes by.  Deep sigh.  Maybe I didn’t hear it, so, after a timed wait, a slight shake of her head over all that she has to put up with from me.  Obviously–OBVIOUSLY–I have fucking forgotten this very fucking important fucking thing that she fucking wants me to do.  How goddamn insensitive of me to forget her very important fucking needs.  What a worthless prick I am, it’s a wonder that she can put up with me.  But she keeps trying.  Eventually, with perserverence, she can make me the man she wants me to be.
  A walking vagina.


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  1.    After reading a few of your posts, I wasnt sure if I should laugh or cry…. 
      I think the biggest thing that comes to mind here is,  Why not date your best friend?  (after you divorce of course).  Ive always been told its best to marry your best friend.  Best of Luck.  Take care ..and..you have a very interesting way of writing. 

  2. Hi, I already told you how familiar this all is. Scarey.
    Bitter angry people will always be bitter and angry. I\’ve found there\’s nothing you can do to ever make them happy, no matter how hard you try. I, like you, do my own thing, and enjoy my friends. It took me a long time to realize I could be perfect at everything and it still wouldn\’t matter, he would still complain and I would still be screwing up. Once you realize that it\’s kind of freeing. It\’s not me, it\’s him! I know it takes two, but, you can only do your best and that should be good enough. She expects perfection, and that\’s just impossible.
    The Sigh…. oh how well I know and HATE those sighs.
    BIG HUGS, Steph

  3. ok wow again. I don\’t even know where to start with this. My first thought was "please don\’t let my ex feel this way about me?" My second thought is… what the fuck is wrong with her that she can\’t do shit? I am sick all the time too, but guess what I am still taking care of my child. I have to, there isn\’t anyone else to do it. I don\’t want to beg his father to help, so I do it. I don\’t do laundry anymore because I don\’t have a washer and dryer, but I did do it when I had it, for all three of us. And cleaned and cooked dinner every night. My house my not be the cleanest but God damn if I am not going to do it eventually. In fact last weekend I did four loads of laundry while my son and ex slept, and then we all went back to my house and I made dinner. A good dinner. I enjoy doing things like that for people.
    I am also on anti depressants and there isn\’t a damn thing wrong with it, I guess I realized early on, the more miserable I am the more miserable everyone else is, and I do not want my son to be miserable. I was growing up, not my child.
    Wow sitting here reflecting on it all, life is a bitch but that doesn\’t mean someone has the right to make your life that way too.
    Hope you like my paper? LOL

  4. I had to laugh, SHE slips on a patch of ice and it\’s your fault? LMAO LMAO Doe she realize how stupid that is? Probably not. BIG HUGS, Steph

  5. You asked when a marriage falls apart…well in my case it started to fall apart the FIRST time he told me that if he had to choose between his job or me, he would choose his job.  He not only told me this once but TWICE!!.  Nice, huh? 
    As far as him doing anything around the house…please.  I am physically disabled (I wear a brace on my left leg because of a stroke) and I get to do everything.  In his mind since he works outside the home he doesn\’t have to inside the house.   Hell, I have to ask him and my 16 year old son when they are going to finally take the garbage out; after it\’s been overflowing  for a day or two. My son is starting to think just like his father, he as much told me that it\’s my job to cook and clean for them, \’what else are you here for?\’
    Sickness is a whole other story: by God if I happen to get a cold or anything else for that matter, I\’m still expected to do my\’ chores\’.  Do you think they could do them?  FUCK NO!!!  But, I \’ll be damned if he gets the slightest  sniffle he can\’t get out of bed and do a fucking thing for himself, I\’m supprised he can go the bathroom .   
    Little do they know what is in store for them in the near future; it will be the shock of their lives, and I can\’t wait to deliver it.

  6. yeah, she sucks.
    oops… no, I guess she doesn\’t, huh? well damn..  stuff her mouth and she can\’t bitch…. oh… wait, she\’d probably bite.
    not a good thing.
    next woman in your life might have plans for that part of your body.
    ah well… think of it as a learning experience. and don\’t ever put up with shit like that again, no matter how perfect you might think that next woman is. she\’s gonna have her days… we all do.
    now… to answer what you left over at my place… sure, I\’ll landscape for ya. just let me know where and when. I work pretty cheap.
    hugs and love

  7. You got balls my friend… BIG BRASS ONES…  that are inscribed with "This pair belong to one bad ass mofo!"  Keep up the great writing…

  8. The upside to your personal life falling apart is that your writing is wonderful (?).  I don\’t just throw compliments out there easily, but it feels like you just let us into your soul, and..here\’s the big AND, some phrases you used and things you said made me laugh.  That, my friend, is an essential part of life: being able to laugh when in pain.
    My ex- sounds an awful lot like your wife…he was 100% negative energy and all it did was suck me dry. Nothing was ever good enough for him.  When we finally decided to get divorced, my friends and family asked what the hell took me so long.  I think of the years I wasted, waiting and hoping for things to get better, for him to change, because I was too scared to head out of my own.
    BUT…you\’ll know when you\’re ready.  It won\’t be easy, \’cause negative people need someone to feed off, and she\’ll make you think she needs you.  Yeah, she may, but you\’ve got to live this life and find happiness where you can…what else is there?

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