you better belize it/i-guana go home
well, in a totally not shocking update... Robert and I are back together. Who knows how long it will last, such a crazy roller coaster. Last night he told me I'm mentally unstable, that I make his life a complete hell, that he thinks I'm trying to push him away in order to avoid getting married, etcetera. We fell asleep barely touching, his knee pressed against my back, after one moment in the dark where he took my hand in his hands and propped up on his elbows and said, "What was that about?"
And on the surface it was a story of our having made plans for the night, which he broke without actually canceling. I mean, first he'd suggested we cook dinner at home, then we'd decided to go to this show at the Cornelia Street Cafe, starting at 8:30. I called him at 4:30 to say I was picking up his shoes at the Cowboy Shoe Repair shop, he said he had to work late with Derek, and I told him he didn't have to come out tonight, I was happy to make other plans. But no, he told me, he'd be back by 8 so we could go.
At home that night, I got ready to go out: eyelash curling, lipgloss, tight white blue jeans (despite or maybe even because it's early January but not slushy, why NOT wear tight white jeans?) and then he never came. I mean, at 8:15 he called, from some restaurant in midtown, still eating dinner, but he didn't get home until after nine, at which point I was feeling hot in my irritation, like he'd let me down in some big way because not to have stood me up would have taken such little effort, i.e. all it required was a text message or some vague sense of knowing what time it was. Plus, I've been so afraid of falling into this thing where I prop him up on the home front, running around like a little miss merry wifey going half-blind trying to pair up all his almost-but-not-quite-identical black and navy blue socks, mopping up the bathroom floor after his showers, worrying -- really and truly -- about his health, including his mental health but extending to physical conditions like his recurring stress-induced stye & the dentist & seeing a podiatrist. It's bullshit, I guess, or at least I know he'd say (and in fact DOES say, at least a few times a day lately) that I'm completely full of shit, whatever it is I'm saying. Last night he said all I'd done since he got home was complain, in some kind of terrible psychopathic vitriolic way, about how I'd been, according to him, "hard done by" because of my trying to pay the bills or whatever. He says I don't understand or appreciate how hard he works and that his business supports our wildly expensive lifestyle. "I gave you X amount of money," he said, referring to an investment he made in my name, in his fund, "so you have all that." "I don't have access to it," I said, but I've never even tried; I don't know HOW to try, and of course the unspoken truth of the matter is separate from all this: I'm feeling like garbage for not making much money recently, scrapping up teaching jobs and scraggly, low-paying freelance assignments. Two days ago, in Belize, he asked me about how my book is going, then said, "You don't get a ten out of ten for effort." I know that's true, I know I need to really get down to work on it, but I wish -- I guess I ALWAYS wish -- he would be kind to me. Anyway, last night. He said, "I paid for this house." And, you know, what can I say? Honestly, he didn't even want to talk anymore, we were both exhausted, he was pressing this hot, damp rag up to this swollen eye, and my neck and back are all busted and bruised, first because of a pinched nerve on the left side that left me unable to sleep for three nights, then because of the acupuncture and cupping I had yesterday to fix it. The weirdest thing she did was rub something called Badger Balm all over my neck, then rub it incredibly hard with the metal lid (she couldn't find the right tool) in order to "get into" the tiny muscles deep in my neck.
The very night before this? Monday. It was a fabulous, fabulous, fabulous day and night. We danced by the fire, we laughed, we talked.
I can barely make myself keep writing, I'm so tired of this. Since the day after Christmas, we've had this challenge on, to see if we can go three days without fighting. And we haven't! It's so depressing I want to run away from home. How is it possible two people who really and truly love each other can't get along like peaceable friends for 72 hours (24 of which are spent unconscious)?!?
And on the surface it was a story of our having made plans for the night, which he broke without actually canceling. I mean, first he'd suggested we cook dinner at home, then we'd decided to go to this show at the Cornelia Street Cafe, starting at 8:30. I called him at 4:30 to say I was picking up his shoes at the Cowboy Shoe Repair shop, he said he had to work late with Derek, and I told him he didn't have to come out tonight, I was happy to make other plans. But no, he told me, he'd be back by 8 so we could go.
At home that night, I got ready to go out: eyelash curling, lipgloss, tight white blue jeans (despite or maybe even because it's early January but not slushy, why NOT wear tight white jeans?) and then he never came. I mean, at 8:15 he called, from some restaurant in midtown, still eating dinner, but he didn't get home until after nine, at which point I was feeling hot in my irritation, like he'd let me down in some big way because not to have stood me up would have taken such little effort, i.e. all it required was a text message or some vague sense of knowing what time it was. Plus, I've been so afraid of falling into this thing where I prop him up on the home front, running around like a little miss merry wifey going half-blind trying to pair up all his almost-but-not-quite-identical black and navy blue socks, mopping up the bathroom floor after his showers, worrying -- really and truly -- about his health, including his mental health but extending to physical conditions like his recurring stress-induced stye & the dentist & seeing a podiatrist. It's bullshit, I guess, or at least I know he'd say (and in fact DOES say, at least a few times a day lately) that I'm completely full of shit, whatever it is I'm saying. Last night he said all I'd done since he got home was complain, in some kind of terrible psychopathic vitriolic way, about how I'd been, according to him, "hard done by" because of my trying to pay the bills or whatever. He says I don't understand or appreciate how hard he works and that his business supports our wildly expensive lifestyle. "I gave you X amount of money," he said, referring to an investment he made in my name, in his fund, "so you have all that." "I don't have access to it," I said, but I've never even tried; I don't know HOW to try, and of course the unspoken truth of the matter is separate from all this: I'm feeling like garbage for not making much money recently, scrapping up teaching jobs and scraggly, low-paying freelance assignments. Two days ago, in Belize, he asked me about how my book is going, then said, "You don't get a ten out of ten for effort." I know that's true, I know I need to really get down to work on it, but I wish -- I guess I ALWAYS wish -- he would be kind to me. Anyway, last night. He said, "I paid for this house." And, you know, what can I say? Honestly, he didn't even want to talk anymore, we were both exhausted, he was pressing this hot, damp rag up to this swollen eye, and my neck and back are all busted and bruised, first because of a pinched nerve on the left side that left me unable to sleep for three nights, then because of the acupuncture and cupping I had yesterday to fix it. The weirdest thing she did was rub something called Badger Balm all over my neck, then rub it incredibly hard with the metal lid (she couldn't find the right tool) in order to "get into" the tiny muscles deep in my neck.
The very night before this? Monday. It was a fabulous, fabulous, fabulous day and night. We danced by the fire, we laughed, we talked.
I can barely make myself keep writing, I'm so tired of this. Since the day after Christmas, we've had this challenge on, to see if we can go three days without fighting. And we haven't! It's so depressing I want to run away from home. How is it possible two people who really and truly love each other can't get along like peaceable friends for 72 hours (24 of which are spent unconscious)?!?
posted by Sarah at 9:04 AM
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