This isn’t the life I want to live. The not-really-wife of some dude who slugs from seat to seat, complaining, everything hurts, everything is bad? He hates his job and he’s mad at something someone said on the internet, someone else got fired, someone else got conned, another killed himself. And now I have to listen to him saying that now he has to listen to everyone talk about how they were affected by the latest tragedy; ultimately it turns out that everyone should have known he was affected the greatest.
He has nightmares and trouble sleeping and PTSD and anxiety and a bazillion other problems/issues and he just won’t do anything about them. He won’t drive, desperately needed a bike he has never ridden, expects to be carted around town by me, his brother and sometimes his mother if he’s feeling especially gracious enough to spend time with her.
There is no acceptance that life can be hard sometimes in his world (although I guarantee you he would deny that). I’m sorry, I know he has had a hard life, I know he suffers. But he makes it so much more of a deal than it should be. He was raised 1/2 victim, 1/2 hero, and no one was ever able to tell him which part of his life was which. Spoiler alert: I think it’s opposite day.
He’s smart, so smart. And he has this amazing life story that he won’t discuss with anyone. How much of it is true? How much is fabricated? He is the most important person in the room at all times and expects to be the center of attention, yet I think he has real struggles with being kind to himself.
He resents me for still being here sometimes, I think. He ignores me until I’m angry and then asks me if I love him. And follows me around begging or shouting until I say the words he wants to hear. It’s getting harder and harder to say yes. Then he tells me I’m an asshole and I remind of him of his abusive father and he has to walk on eggshells around me. Then he begs me to not leave, to give him just one more try.
He recently stopped having temper tantrums, although it’s only a matter of time before another computer is smashed or a demolished suitcase leaves a big black mark on the ceiling. One more Kuerig against the kitchen wall, one more episode of him throwing himself to the floor in protest of all of the things in life that have wronged him. Take me to the hospital, he says. I need to go to the hospital.
His daughter comes to visit for four days a month and he spends two of them drunk. And by drunk, I mean comatose. Not that he’s much more present when he’s sober. He says he loves her more than his own life, but he doesn’t seem to have the temperament to give that much to someone else.
He is still doing the same job he got when we moved in together. It’s a night job and he hates it and wants to call in sick every day. He takes vacation days we can’t afford and comes home in the middle of the night because he can’t stop throwing up, and doesn’t throw up even one more time.
I don’t usually talk mean about him. I don’t tell anyone this stuff. I might tell someone that he punched me square in the middle of the chest during a bad dream once but I don’t mention that he takes close to 100 Tylenol 1s every day and drowns himself in generic nighttime cold medication when he drinks (I don’t understand why but I’m sure there’s some kind of interaction going on). Then he tells everyone he used to be an addict but he isn’t anymore.
I honestly feel he has every right to be the person he is and feel the way he does. Every. Right. But I also have every right to be who I am and who I want to be. And while I appreciate his attempt to help me better myself by reminding me of my faults and I think it comes from a good place, I have no faith in his observation or judgement anymore. That’s really bad. I don’t know if I can come back from this. The scary part is that, more and more, I don’t want to.