I will soon lose my ability to write to Doc’s return home, so I should do it now. I can make 24 second sound clips when he gets home with my headphones on.
Even when we don’t fight, he says we fought. Out of nowhere he asked me why I was such a bitch last night. I have wracked my brain all day and I cannot think of a harsh thing that was said between us last night. I’m, once again, so confused.
He gets more wretched by the day. I have done everything I can to help. That by no means indicates that I am going to give up what I am doing to try to help. On the contrary, something has got to break through. Some act of kindness or allowing of his mood to ride out without reacting to him emotionally instead of reasonably. Something will get through to him and he will realize he is not alone.
I can’t stop smoking pot. That just is what it is. What we are growing won’t be ready for a while, so we have to buy it. This wouldn’t be a problem, as I moderate my intake, but he hasn’t been going to work. And it is time for him to realize that the time has come to adult. That four bad days a week with nothing but sleep is not good. Three days of work and my check is not enough to support us. Period. And it doesn’t help that he lets me spend money and then guilts me when we run out. I told him, enough. He can have two bad days a week. More than that, he needed to figure out how to budget his time better.
And that means swallowing his pride (which I don’t understand, he’s not asking B for a favor) and going over and getting the scooter that he ultimately did not want to use while his was being fixed, but it is what is ready to be ridden, and he needs to ride it. An hour commute and four hours coming down from it each night, and three hours recovering from it in the morning are not working. And I finally told him that straight out. I’m not suggesting or hinting anymore. I am coming right out and saying things. And he doesn’t like it one bit. I can’t help that. I just can’t.
He can’t help it when I am hurt when he has to remind me to shower, or eat, or clean something over and over again. It isn’t his fault, it’s my problem that I react that way. Just like he is not comfortable with my “truths”, I can’t do anything about that. These things need to be said. Hinting and suggesting has gotten me nowehre but deeper in a hold that is really starting to resemble the one I grew up in. And I know the same is true for him regarding everything but the money. We have to get together and do something about it.
For my part, I cleaned off the dining room table for him. I knew he would be mad at first, but then would be relieved. And he was. Today, I cleaned over a year’s worth of mail out of the entry hall. And wow, do I feel better for it. I didn’t get to vacuum, but I was busy doing other shit. Like taking care of the big piles of hoarded shit he has stashed around the house.
Yesterday I found a vast stash of grocery bags. Not contained, just stuffed down between the wall and the irnoning board, for who knows how long. I can use them for cushioning for packing things, but they are useless for food now. So he saved them for nothing. Then, when I finished that, I found a stash of empty aspirin bottles. You have no idea how many aspirin bottles. They have no use. Ever. I can’t even use them for beads because they are huge unwieldly bottles with small mouths. They litereally have no reason at all to be saved. And he has them stashed all over the house. Then there are the empty cereal and cracker boxes. I got rid of those today, too. If you walked around the house, you wouldn’t see any difference, but I know the stuff has been done.
And all of the mail that I threw away? He will be pissed and stressed as hell about that, he cannot let go of sealed mail. He can’t opem it, either, but that’s another issue. So I organized everything that I got rid of into piles, put the pikes on top of one another and stacked them in an Arby’s bag. Then I took all the ads and coupons that have been sitting for 16 months when I last did this, and stacked them neatly in a large paper grocery bag. If he is really bent, there are the bags, knock yourself out.
This marriage thing is hard. We are two very emotional people. But I have a reason. He doesn’t. Not until he mans up and goes to a doctor and finds out what is wrong with him. He should grow up and take responsibility for himself, fill the cat food container fully when he bothers to fill it, and be an adult. He made promises, committments. He needs to keep up with those. They weren’t just until he got tired. Or, if they were, divorce is an option, and the one I want, if that is the way things are going to be. You know?
Because, frankly, I am tired of complaining. More tired than you are of reading it. I changed my meds and turned my life around in under 6 months. I am in a completely different place now than I was last November. I don’t even need to read the journals to know that. Now I am a professional writer, I contribute regularly to three sites. I curate playlists for a website where I can claim I was the first at something big. I have found new success with my photography on Instagram. I am constantly adding new fans and readers. I have opened and stocked a store with hand made goods, which I actively promote. I keep countless social media accounts updated and interesting. I am more independent. I am not afraid to ask for what I want for the first time in my life. These are all good things, and I’m tired of him shitting all over them when he is awake and around.
And we’re 20 plus years into this thing, I am not about to just walk away. I am going to try to make things work. So there’s going to be some ranting. Some more. I’m sure. I have to get it out, and this is my diary, after all, there’s really no where else to put it. And something has got to work soon, because if he is still like this when Kelli finally comes out, she is going to slap his ass around for a while. And she will do it, too.