Next time you're at L0we's, pick up some wood to build yourself a cross with

I’ve been failing at the Constance thing – I know. When I started it, I thought, this is a great idea – I can safely vent! And don’t get me wrong – lord do I want and need to vent. I get all riled up about things and can’t wait to come here and spew it all. But then by the time everyone goes to bed, or I finish work, or I get home from carting everyone around, I’m so damned tired that I just swallow it down. And then put food on it. So my diet is working out like. . .well. . .shit.

The irritation is usually the same thing over and over – the husband. I’m so sick of him. Entirely, totally sick of him. I’m sick of the martyrdom. Seriously, I am either married to Jesus Christ himself (unlikely) or a big whiny baby (dingdingdingdingding!!) Why is it that when he “cleans the kitchen” he calls it “cleaning the kitchen for me”. Not cleaning the kitchen because it is dirty, but FOR ME. The implication being that it is my job and he just did me a big favor by doing it for me. Um, no.

First off – the antiquated “woman’s work” attitude is ridiculous and – frankly – offensive. And it’s going to get him punched in the big, stupid face one of these days. Second – for the sake of argument let’s say that it IS my job. That I don’t work full-time and drive just as far, and get the kids ready in the morning and drop them off and arrange any necessary childcare and pick them up at the end of the day and do 90% of the grocery shopping (and 100% of any other shopping) and 90% of the cooking and 99.9% of the cleaning and 100% of the doctor’s appointments and 90% of the dealing with the kids. It’s MY job to clean the kitchen and he did me a huge favor and took it off my hands one night. You know, if the kitchen had no counters, floors, refrigerator, table or food. But those dishes got into the dishwasher in an amazing fashion. And he did it all FOR ME.

And because of that, I should overlook the fact that he leaves dishes and cups all over the place (including outside), and every single time he opens a bottle of beer, the bottle caps end up on the counter, on the floor, on the coffee table, on the couch, but never, EVER in the garbage. And that he never puts his clean laundry away (and then bitches about how we need to get the laundry put way – yes – that would be the “royal we”). And that he leaves his underwear on the bathroom floor every day. No exaggeration - EVERY SINGLE MOTHERFUCKING DAY.

You;de think that living like a prince, he might not be a complete fucking asswad, but you would be wrong. He gets so stressed out by the kids and I find myself getting stressed out. Because even when they aren’t irritating me, I am trying to keep them from irritating him. No one wants that. Because once he’s irritated, hoo-boy. There’s no in-between with him. It’s zero to Psycho in 0.3 seconds. And the distinguishing factor in getting there is HIM. His comfort, his convenience. The kids can be burning the house down around him, but as long as no one is interfering with his tv-watching or internet car shopping research, then all is fine. But let one of them get too noisy so he can’t hear, or ask him for some root beer, or anything else that interferes with his doing nothing and watch out. He screams and barks and is hateful.

Funny, though, if the kids are carrying on I yell at them – I get yelled at too. Even if they are doing something that could result in injury or damage. Doesn’t matter. All that matters is that something interrupted his hockey game (or whatever) and by god, that shall not happen! So he screams things like, “I am sick of all the screaming (oh irony)” and “I can’t ever just relax (what is this thing relax?)”

We saw a counselor for a while and it helped a bit. I was fully prepared to take some responsibility for our problems. But as it turned out, she backed me up about a zillion percent. Not that I am perfect and don’t do anything wrong, but she agreed with me that that kind of shit is NOT acceptable. It’s demeaning to me – putting me in the same category as the kids (aka his subordinates). It’s not supportive. It reduces my authority in their eyes. And it hurts. Which makes me want to hurt him. Badly.

Sh backed me up on so many things, and she got to witness the way he turns everything around. He likes to play the “you can’t be madder at me than I am at you” game. As in – if I try to bring something up to him – no matter how calmly and kindly and using “I statement”, he gets more angry than I am or could possibly be and then I am afraid and then it stops. Not physically afraid, but just not wanting to deal. Because he is louder and meaner and I was beaten down psychologically for years by my mother and it sends me right back there. So he gets mad and clams up and refuses to be an adult, and then convinces himself that if he is mad, there must be some reason, then gets all self righteous about it and then holds a grudge and then gives the silent treatment. So then because he’s mad, I have to get on with life, because life goes on, and he gets to go back to doing nothing only now with an attitude and convinced of his terrible plight of having a nagging harpy wife. And guess what? He never had to answer the question of why he left the spilled coffee on the counter, or whatever.

He pulled this shit right in front of her and she stopped him and pointed it out and the sad thing? I didn’t even notice it. He’s trained me not to. The other thing he does is resort to the “well you’re not perfect” defense. LOVE that. I know I’m not perfect. Far from it. But we’re not talking about that right now.

He needs medication. He was one something for a while years ago and it helped a lot. But then, being all-knowing, he decided he didn’t need it anymore and stopped. And we all suffered. For years. I tried to talk to him about going on it again, but he refused. He didn’t need it. He’s fine. I even tried to frame it as it not being a personality thing, but as a survivor of a devastating and crippling accident – it’s natural to be depressed (by which I meant “raging asshole”) But I got, Who am I to talk. I need something.

When we were seeing the counselor, she told him e needed something, too, and he finally went and got a prescription. But he’d run out and not get a refill. And then he’d finally get one and run out again. And eventually he just quit. And I don’t know if I have the energy to try again. We had to stop seeing the counselor because the insurance wasn’t covering her and it was expensive. So now we’re back to where we were – him being and asshole, me wavering between wanting to kill him and wanting to walk out. Hi not understand why I am not interested in sex. Me being less interested in sex than in cooking and eating my own foot.

I want it to work – I really do. And the thought of divorce makes me sick. But I also know that I probably made a mistake way back when. That if we hadn’t jumped in with both feet and started immediately living together that it would have been easier to leave a long time ago. That we probably wouldn’t have stuck with it, because it’s easier to walk away from what you have little investment in. But we did jump in and I did stay and we did get married and I really do want to make it work. But god it’s so hard.

There’s so much more to say, but it’s late and I’m tired and I have to get up tomorrow and start all over again.