Showing posts with label wife. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wife. Show all posts
Thursday, February 19, 2015
She fell
She watched as it all fell away from her. Her life. Her loves. Her feelings. Her hopes. Hope was a bane to her existence. Her friends said she wasn't the same. She wasn't. Her dad was sick and her mother was lonely and she felt like no matter how hard she tried, she could never ever possibly be enough. Her husband and daughter looked upon her with shame and embarrassment. She folded into herself more and more. It was the only place that was safe. Away from shame. And yet she felt an oppressive sense of guilt over her withdrawal. She felt that she was only failing more and that continuing to fail was the only option for her survival. And the only thing she was good at was failing. She fell and she watched herself closing up. And she eventually disappeared.
She saw the death of love and people
She was just looking for some peace in another long day of turmoil, rejection and frustration. She lived in a house where the walls were made of disappointment and the air in the house was heavy with disdain. She wanted some space from it all. The house was starting to feel like the holding cell that they keep you in before they take you to the asylum. She decided she would run. That would help to get her out into the world and into nature, there was a community bookshelf on the route that would make her insanely happy and she could channel some of her anxious energy.
He insisted he would go. She protested. Running was a solo activity... kind of like life, she supposed. But she acquiesced because she really wanted things to be good and they got in the car. They didn't make it three blocks until he wanted to know which way they were going, which seemed fair. Straight and then left, she replied. And then which way were they going, he asked. Park on St Lawrence, she replied. He asked what was wrong with her. Why was she irritated. He was asking which way they were going to walk. She told him that she didn't know. She thought it was another question about general direction since there hadn't been any mention of the context of the question changing. Arguing ensued. Loud voices. Hurtful, hateful words. He turned the car around and he put in his earphones so he could shut her out. He slammed on the brakes in the car on an empty road while going 40 miles an hour. She was thrown forward and afraid. She asked to be let out of the car and he yelled at her to get away from him, over and over. She was terrified and at the next stoplight, she exited the vehicle and started walking to her original destination.
He continued on his journey and she continued on hers. She tried to call him and tell him she was scared and he said she was a liar. She walked. And then she ran. She listened to sad songs, but she also reveled in being able to listen to them as she had been mocked and shamed for them before. She knew that they both hated her. She knew it with all of her heart that they hated her with all of their hearts. She knew that every breath she took was a blemish on their happiness.
She ran. She walked. She sang. She cried. Horrible things were sent by text. Lies were spoken. He said. She said. And she walked and she ran. She was alone in the dark and she was both terrified and relieved. She sat and wondered how things had come to this. She cried and she cried and she ran. She watched every car that drove by, and there were many. She hoped he cared enough not to leave her out in the dark, but that was her problem.... the hoping. She became increasingly unhinged, angry with herself and prayed to nothing that she would just disappear. Cease to be. And she walked and she ran.
He was home. Making dinner for his family of two. He sent messages with feigned language of care. She replied angrily. And she walked. He had left her. Abandoned her. Physically. She prayed to nothing again for another life. A life where she wasn't a liar and a nigger and Gone Girl. But he insisted she deserved all of that because he had been provoked by the storms in her heart. She walked. Miles passed and eventually, out of guilt or whatever, he came for her. He pretended not to know where to go. She didn't believe him. She was the kind of girl who was always where she said she was. She was not Gone Girl. She walked. He arrived after 4.4 miles of darkness and she climbed into the car.
She walked into the house and was strangled by the hate and despair that hung heavy in the air. She went to the garage where she had slept the weekend before and she sat. She sat and she read. She was cold and sore. She was emotionally and physically wrought. She surrendered and went in the house, overwhelmed as she moved through the space where she didn't belong. She sat and she read. And then she slept.
The sleep was ugly. She dreamed of death of love and people. She had fits. She cried. She threw up and she saw the death of love and people.
He insisted he would go. She protested. Running was a solo activity... kind of like life, she supposed. But she acquiesced because she really wanted things to be good and they got in the car. They didn't make it three blocks until he wanted to know which way they were going, which seemed fair. Straight and then left, she replied. And then which way were they going, he asked. Park on St Lawrence, she replied. He asked what was wrong with her. Why was she irritated. He was asking which way they were going to walk. She told him that she didn't know. She thought it was another question about general direction since there hadn't been any mention of the context of the question changing. Arguing ensued. Loud voices. Hurtful, hateful words. He turned the car around and he put in his earphones so he could shut her out. He slammed on the brakes in the car on an empty road while going 40 miles an hour. She was thrown forward and afraid. She asked to be let out of the car and he yelled at her to get away from him, over and over. She was terrified and at the next stoplight, she exited the vehicle and started walking to her original destination.
He continued on his journey and she continued on hers. She tried to call him and tell him she was scared and he said she was a liar. She walked. And then she ran. She listened to sad songs, but she also reveled in being able to listen to them as she had been mocked and shamed for them before. She knew that they both hated her. She knew it with all of her heart that they hated her with all of their hearts. She knew that every breath she took was a blemish on their happiness.
She ran. She walked. She sang. She cried. Horrible things were sent by text. Lies were spoken. He said. She said. And she walked and she ran. She was alone in the dark and she was both terrified and relieved. She sat and wondered how things had come to this. She cried and she cried and she ran. She watched every car that drove by, and there were many. She hoped he cared enough not to leave her out in the dark, but that was her problem.... the hoping. She became increasingly unhinged, angry with herself and prayed to nothing that she would just disappear. Cease to be. And she walked and she ran.
He was home. Making dinner for his family of two. He sent messages with feigned language of care. She replied angrily. And she walked. He had left her. Abandoned her. Physically. She prayed to nothing again for another life. A life where she wasn't a liar and a nigger and Gone Girl. But he insisted she deserved all of that because he had been provoked by the storms in her heart. She walked. Miles passed and eventually, out of guilt or whatever, he came for her. He pretended not to know where to go. She didn't believe him. She was the kind of girl who was always where she said she was. She was not Gone Girl. She walked. He arrived after 4.4 miles of darkness and she climbed into the car.
She walked into the house and was strangled by the hate and despair that hung heavy in the air. She went to the garage where she had slept the weekend before and she sat. She sat and she read. She was cold and sore. She was emotionally and physically wrought. She surrendered and went in the house, overwhelmed as she moved through the space where she didn't belong. She sat and she read. And then she slept.
The sleep was ugly. She dreamed of death of love and people. She had fits. She cried. She threw up and she saw the death of love and people.
Friday, May 16, 2014
Ashley Madison?
Today, I read this article about why people cheat; women specifically. I was at first so disgusted by the article and its author that I felt physically sick and aching like I had the flu. I was horrified that a man would willfully manipulate the emotions of women so openly and with such reckless regard to how it might affect them. I was even more disgusted to read that he conducted his human experiment while married.
The Cliff's Notes version of the article is that the author sets out to discover why women cheat. He gets permission to do so from his wife. He admits to a background of womanizing and manipulation of the opposite sex. He even seems to brag about it. He joins AshleyMadison.com and sets up three male profiles and one female profile. He engages in online chats, cybersex and three physical meetings with women. He explains to great detail his strategic and purposeful manipulation of one woman in particular, to the end that he invites her to a hotel and she accepts. Note here that he has described how he has read her insecurities and weaknesses and fully admits to exploiting them. She accepts his invitation, and then he tells her that she is simply a subject of an article he is writing, that he is married and that he loves his wife. She throws a deserved drink in his face.
The author concludes that woman don't cheat for sex. Women cheat because they feel ignored, unappreciated, taken for granted. They don't want a divorce because they truly love their husbands and their kids, but they want the passion that he invested in her before they got married. His wife ultimately becomes irate with him. Not because he almost slept with someone, but because he took time out of his schedule to have lunch with these woman, which was something he had not done for her in so long.
I get it. I do. Author's point taken, but there is something that I would like to add, which he simply does not address. Why do the husbands eventually stop acknowledging their partners as women in the first place? I honestly don't believe that most men realize that they aren't paying any attention to their wives because they simply don't care. By the time a man marries and 'settles' down (love that phrase), he is already mourning his lost youth, his dreams of rock stardom that won't ever come true and the ability to bag babes with a bat of his lashes. There is little to no thought of the wife as a person at all because the man is simply so selfish that she isn't really on his radar unless she forgets to wash his socks. Is it sexist, yes it is. And it is also true. Women are getting smarter, stronger and better. Men are getting more and more insecure as a result of it. They won't admit it, but it's true. I see it every day in the workplace and in my own relationships. Men have political opinions. They want to talk about politics, until they realize that you can match their wit and knowledge, and then they aren't so keen. Men only really want to engage with 'the weaker sex,' 'the softer sex.' They have no interest in a human with a vagina that has needs of their own, unless she can take a full time job stroking their ego and dick at the same time and keeping their mouths shut.
Lots of you aren't going to like this, and I am ok with that. Most of you are going to know its true.
The Cliff's Notes version of the article is that the author sets out to discover why women cheat. He gets permission to do so from his wife. He admits to a background of womanizing and manipulation of the opposite sex. He even seems to brag about it. He joins AshleyMadison.com and sets up three male profiles and one female profile. He engages in online chats, cybersex and three physical meetings with women. He explains to great detail his strategic and purposeful manipulation of one woman in particular, to the end that he invites her to a hotel and she accepts. Note here that he has described how he has read her insecurities and weaknesses and fully admits to exploiting them. She accepts his invitation, and then he tells her that she is simply a subject of an article he is writing, that he is married and that he loves his wife. She throws a deserved drink in his face.
The author concludes that woman don't cheat for sex. Women cheat because they feel ignored, unappreciated, taken for granted. They don't want a divorce because they truly love their husbands and their kids, but they want the passion that he invested in her before they got married. His wife ultimately becomes irate with him. Not because he almost slept with someone, but because he took time out of his schedule to have lunch with these woman, which was something he had not done for her in so long.
I get it. I do. Author's point taken, but there is something that I would like to add, which he simply does not address. Why do the husbands eventually stop acknowledging their partners as women in the first place? I honestly don't believe that most men realize that they aren't paying any attention to their wives because they simply don't care. By the time a man marries and 'settles' down (love that phrase), he is already mourning his lost youth, his dreams of rock stardom that won't ever come true and the ability to bag babes with a bat of his lashes. There is little to no thought of the wife as a person at all because the man is simply so selfish that she isn't really on his radar unless she forgets to wash his socks. Is it sexist, yes it is. And it is also true. Women are getting smarter, stronger and better. Men are getting more and more insecure as a result of it. They won't admit it, but it's true. I see it every day in the workplace and in my own relationships. Men have political opinions. They want to talk about politics, until they realize that you can match their wit and knowledge, and then they aren't so keen. Men only really want to engage with 'the weaker sex,' 'the softer sex.' They have no interest in a human with a vagina that has needs of their own, unless she can take a full time job stroking their ego and dick at the same time and keeping their mouths shut.
Lots of you aren't going to like this, and I am ok with that. Most of you are going to know its true.
Monday, March 3, 2014
Til Death Do Us Part...
I have made vows to a beloved twice in my short life. The first time, they were the standard, by the book vows. The second time, they were modified in accordance with our Reverend's personal style and with our input, and they were beautiful. I don't have any regrets about the promises I that I made to myself or to the men I loved. But one thing lays heavy on my heart and mind lately and that is that I never promised either of them that I would be perfect. How could I? How could anyone?
The thing is, I am a bigger critic of my flaws than anyone. And I make mistakes. Big ones. Alcohol induced tirades and stress triggered breakdowns are my specialties. They are two of the things that I am the best at in the whole world. I'm not proud of this. But this is my truth. If I could make a career out of alienating the people who care about me, I could live forever wealthy. I have fought hard against forgiveness in moments when I felt that deserved to be punished. Those moments are plentiful. But, every now and again, I have notions that I do deserve to be loved, completely and unconditionally. I think about the vows I made. I look for implied promises for perfection and I find none. And I wonder if all of my wishing for punishment and reprimand has come irreversibly true and I wonder... is this all there is?
I've been trying really hard lately to focus on myself and to take care of what I need to take care of, regardless of who might be around me. I try to think about things in a different way, so as not to place any expectations on others and therefore breed disappointment when what I think should have happened, doesn't happen. But I want more. I try to be better every day and sometimes I fail. I don't even want to be perfect. I don't want to be a simple and convenient accessory. I want to be a treasure.
The thing is, I am a bigger critic of my flaws than anyone. And I make mistakes. Big ones. Alcohol induced tirades and stress triggered breakdowns are my specialties. They are two of the things that I am the best at in the whole world. I'm not proud of this. But this is my truth. If I could make a career out of alienating the people who care about me, I could live forever wealthy. I have fought hard against forgiveness in moments when I felt that deserved to be punished. Those moments are plentiful. But, every now and again, I have notions that I do deserve to be loved, completely and unconditionally. I think about the vows I made. I look for implied promises for perfection and I find none. And I wonder if all of my wishing for punishment and reprimand has come irreversibly true and I wonder... is this all there is?
I've been trying really hard lately to focus on myself and to take care of what I need to take care of, regardless of who might be around me. I try to think about things in a different way, so as not to place any expectations on others and therefore breed disappointment when what I think should have happened, doesn't happen. But I want more. I try to be better every day and sometimes I fail. I don't even want to be perfect. I don't want to be a simple and convenient accessory. I want to be a treasure.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)