He is coming home.
I didn’t get nearly the amount done I had hoped. Perhaps my greatest achievement is my distancing. I am looking more forward, pulling away.
He may think that my calm attitude is a positive for him.
It means I don’t really care anymore.
I dreamt I was in classes. An art class, where I had a crush on the instructor until he blew his top about how NOT to follow the directions on the project. That the project was about using single lines, one at a time, to create the image. I was the one smearing my paint about rather than single-single-lines-at-a-time. (Odd, as I wrote this, I wrote ‘pain’. Smearing my pain about. Freudian no doubt.)
So I felt ashamed. And the way I passively aggressively responded was to say, in my mind, ‘well, HE’s not the one.’ I was going through a list of men I was meeting in my dream, and how each one was ‘not the one.’ A stone house, on the enclosed porch. A train, I think. I was on some sort of vacation. Meeting various men. Each one had a reason I judged him to be ‘not the one.’
Empowering, in its way, to have choices, and to choose to prune them away. Not a loud boisterous embarrassment. Not a harsh, fly off the handle critic. Not a marshmallow. I cannot see them all, I keep losing my dreams lately, but I have a feel for the men from the dream which I dismissed as potential partners. From a casual word, or an act, or a mannerism.
I can choose.
I am doing much better at pulling my head back in to my business. I think that as a partner, a marriage partner, I have the right, the duty, and the obligation to put my head into theirs. I need to be keeping their wants and needs on my mind at all times, just as I do my children’s, or my home, or myself. But we are no longer partners, and worrying or even wondering about what he wants, or thinks, or does, is useless. It only causes me pain and sorrow.
Sorrow belongs to him.
Sorrow must go back next weekend.
I will miss you, Sorrow my new found friend.
I am finding it easier to not care if he is hurting, or if he is obsessing, or if he is cheating.
I suppose it isn’t cheating anymore, since we aren’t a couple. But he would still be concealing and hiding, secrecy that is the hallmark of the active addict. That is now his problem. I never have to have sex with him again. I never have to worry about whether he will ever improve as an animus. I can pull away, for now, from my own deep pain, for a while. Because I don’t care if he ever loved me. I don’t care if he is happy or sad or finding peace or acting like a cruel child. I don’t care if he ever gets to be a real boy.
I care about me.
I care about Filip.
I care about getting my space organized and cleaned up so I can enjoy my life there.
Him in my space does make that harder. It complicates my freedom. But I’m not worried if how I decide to live my life bothers him or not. I don’t feel the need to get back at him anymore. Oh, the desire, on occasion. I feel it pushing from beneath, the anger, the terror, the pain, the disgust verging on horror.
I no longer have his back.
He never had mine.
My pain seems to revolve around the rejection quotient. Completely, utterly, cruelly rejected. I almost go there, angrily blaming, all the ways he destroyed my life and my love and my personhood. Then I pull away swiftly, and go back into my own heart. His is no longer my concern.
Very sad, that. I wanted a partner. I got another abuser. He made me feel hated and used and worthless to the one person I wanted to matter to. He will never know how that feels, because he does not feel anything like I do.
Release, release, release.
It doesn’t really matter. In the universal scheme, it is nothing at all. Just another neurotic ape.
Yet, the cosmic dance hurts from it. His pain, my pain, a piece of the greater whorl of anguish and destruction.
So normal in the scheme of things.
I want to be loved. I need to be loved. I need someone I can whole heartedly give my love to.
Maybe next time, I will do better.
We women felt ashamed and embarrassed by our mothers. We learned not to trust women. We learned that no one could or would meet our emotional needs, so we raised ourselves. We learned to accept little in return for what we gave. We learned how to walk on eggshells to keep peace. We learned that a subtle undercurrent of someone else being the center of their world was normal. We learned that passive aggressive attacks, shame about our mother’s actions, staying under the radar, were just how life worked.
We thought that his lack of shaming and emotion and overt bitterness was a breath of fresh air. We thought that the way he felt about his mother was a good sign, that he loved women, that he knew how to have a relationship with a woman, that his family was healthier than ours in some way.
He thought that lying to a woman was perfectly acceptable. Keeping them happy at all costs and keeping them out of his business was the way life worked. He thought any woman just wanted to invade his entire space and take over, and fear was his driver. He thought a woman he was sexually attracted to must be bad. He thought that a woman he could hurt meant she cared, and he was afraid to hurt his mother, but this wasn’t his mother, and it was OK to know that she cared by seeing if she could be hurt. He thought her hurt was OK, that hurting her was acceptable, that the more she hurt, the more fun and exciting it would be if she really knew what he really thought, what he was really doing, the drama that would be his inner life.
He wants peace.
I want passion, and love, and real acceptance.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
In his head much? Or just trying to see it from a cosmic perspective? Or, being a teacher, trying on a new synthesis for when I explain the patterns I see to the world.
Maybe I will write a book.