Another late morning, but no guilt, because I was awake half the night. Sore neck though; hoping toast and a fried egg will get rid of it.
It’s not even guilt, it’s disappointment in myself, even though I know better. Funny thing. I seem to expect more from myself than I’m capable of. I need eight hours of sleep, so to get up by 8 o’clock, for instance, I’d need to be asleep by midnight, and when does that happen? Rarely. So to be disappointed is silly. It’s setting myself an impossible expectation that would be out of character to meet.
So. I’m trying not to think and write about things I don’t want in my life. I don’t succeed 100%, but I’ve improved considerably.
For instance, I go through most days assuming that Fella and I will somehow get back on track. Every once in a while I get reminded that this may well not be the case. I’m such a Pollyanna that this still comes as a mini-shock.
Though I haven’t slept in our bed since sometime in November and since I have stopped kissing and caressing him every day, it becomes more and more clear all the time just how little affection he ever extended to me during a regular day or evening. It’s always been me reaching out in these small ways, and him insisting that I never do. It’s very weird, I think, that he sees this so differently than I do.
He’s all about eating, working, telephoning, and surfing the internet. I am pretty much ignored unless there is no one else to reach out to, or unless I am willing to have sex, which I no longer am. Or unless he can give me shit about something — the other day it was “What’s the matter with you that you didn’t turn that switch off immediately instead of coming out to get me? I told you!” etc —
Well I had my reasons, which were my uncertainty about details due to my lack of understanding the workings of pumps and my fear of wrecking something by doing the wrong thing — he doesn’t “get” that — much like I don’t “get” why after 10 years he still can’t fry an easy-over egg for me without hard-cooking the yolk — but I do not put him down or give him shit for that — and that is a difference between us. I don’t think it’s worth berating someone for, while Fella seems to think he is entitled to give shit over everything because when people are different than he is they are wrong, stupid, lazy, useless, worthless, and so on. There is something the matter with them and he must point it out in a manner that demonstrates his anger and disgust.
In spite of this very serious shortcoming of his nature, and how fucking sick of it I am, I still watch that man walk across the room in his long underwear and a shirt and think “He looks fine….” I am still, when he phones home during the day just to touch base over some small thing, happy and hopeful. When he comes in and sits down and I stop what I’m doing to give him my full attention, and he talks to me for a few minutes about what’s happening in his day, I feel for that short time that maybe he does still consider me a friend, someone important to him.
But then last night I remembered when he said, a couple months ago, that all I am to him is “supper prepared sometimes.” Not in those exact words, but that if I wasn’t here all that would be different for him is that sometimes supper wouldn’t be made when he got home.
How can I think of that conversation and still believe I have a good reason for being here, for carrying on, for hoping?
I was trying to explain this to Josephine, and it’s not easy. The thing is, there are moments when it’s clear as a bell that I don’t want to be here, don’t want to go on this way. So what keeps me from acting for change? It’s this: those clear moments are about 5% of my total experience. The rest of the time I’m content. For me to take decisive action, I think I have to have that clarity a lot more than 5% of the time; it would take that clarity being there 95% of the time.