At least it was his motivation, his idea.
He pulled the ‘physically separate and divorce card’ last night.
I was not surprised. I had felt the moment coming. I knew when I proclaimed that seeing his financial statements was an opportunity to prove his word, and he balked mightily and with full addict force, that he would likely choose to leave rather than ‘submit’.
I think I did fairly well. I fell into the bad habit of arguing and trying to make my point. He couldn’t live like this, but he had been able to live like that for all those years. How I had agreed to two years, how I had tried to work with him but he kept playing games, how he would rather run than do the very hard work it would take to rebuild, that he was proving to me that he was still an addict with every act and every word. Pointless, worthless, and even if done in quiet, it was still a storm rather than a gentle rain.
The storms continue to ravage my body this week. I bleed and bleed and truly fear death at this point. I know I should be capable of stopping the bleeding, if I truly wanted it, if I could figure out how. I must command the storms rather than the storms overtaking me.
Luckily he had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the discussion, and I had a moment to collect my thoughts and remind myself that I am speaking to a 3 year old. So I recalled my days with my boys and how I would speak to a small child who was threatening to run away from home.
When he returned, I calmly inquired if he had a place picked out where he would live. He had been thinking about it. He had some ideas. I asked if he had a time line for proceeding. He mentioned some items which, if examined, were unrealistic as far as what we have ever managed to accomplish. I did not comment. I asked what furniture he wanted. He said only his bed and a few items, at which point I offered the big couch and chair.
I began to cry while I recalled to him how I had bought those for him because he was a big guy. I get fuzzy at this point, but things about losing my home, again, and all the work I had done on it. My strength failed me, but I did not rage nor storm nor beg, only mourned aloud.
And he began to cry. He said he didn’t want to get a divorce, he didn’t want to lose his home either. He asked for a hug, because he needs touch to comfort him (and all that that implies, ugh). I gave it to him, because he was actually crying. Something I have needed to see.
I don’t know how long he truly cried. Perhaps they were only crocodile tears, in the end. I know my heart was more empty while I hel him than I would have preferred. I felt manipulative rather than honest. I knew what to say to diffuse a toddler’s tantrum, and I used it. I don’t think that is communication. Yet, can I communicate on an adult level with someone who is emotionally a toddler? Who just tried to hurt me and put me off balance by using my abandonment fears? Who may just be playing at emotion because he figured out that’s what ‘she’ wants to see? Who is likely so damaged that real change is impossible, brain tracks worn like wheel ruts into stone?
Maybe the guided meditations are actually working. Maybe they are not working as I intend, rather he is using them as an escape. Maybe I am actually being lulled into a web of his making and by thinking I have any control at all, I have none.
I only know for sure that I bleed. I am not able to concentrate at work and am not fulfilling my duties properly, making many mistakes when I pride myself on trying to be meticulous, and even if I don’t adore the work, doing it well so that I have pride in myself for giving my best.
Maybe I never gave my best. Maybe if I had given my full best, this failure in my life would have caused me to suicide, not just die inside. Maybe if I had been true to myself, I never would be here at all.
I don’t know if I really want to stay in this relationship either. I think I would rather he take the initiative to end it. I don’t think this summer is a realistic time frame to accomplish selling the house. Besides, I don’t think I want to sell it. I just put in my dancing ground. My fruit trees are getting beautiful. I want to finally SEE the fruits of my labors, not be forced to abandon them because I am too stupid to choose a man wisely, or too desperate that I choose a man at all.
I cannot believe him. I have no reason to believe him. Actions have screamed in my face.