Alone In the Ice and Snow

Hubby and I are at an impasse today. Last night, I lost patience with him when I told him I was having therapy today and he seemed to be exasperated with the endless nature of my medical/psychological needs.

I told him that I resent the fact that he contributes so little to our relationship. He doesn't work, he doesn't do anything around the house except wash the dishes and clean (the inside of) the bathtub. (I have made him responsible for walking and feeding the dogs. He does a middling job of both.) I told him that I'm so resentful, in fat, that it's affecting our intimate relationship. I told him I feel burdened by his lethargy...or whatever. I said that I feel more like his mother than his wife.

I demanded that he tell me what he does with the 8 hours a day I'm at work. I mean, really. Couldn't he just sweep the floor? Dust? Something? He admitted that he wastes a lot of time, but then implied that's just the way he is. I'd love to waste time. I don't have time to waste time.

Well, needless to say, he was very hurt and probably very angry. He disappeared upstairs, came back down a couple of times to deal with the dogs and went directly back up. I didn't like that reaction. It made me angry.

Great timing. Now I will probably have to spend the weekend in silence. Hubby tends to use the Freeze Out (passive-aggressive) response to conflict. Tomorrow is the anniversary of my dad's suicide. Excellent timing on my part.

Today I'm tired and sad. I'm not good at recognizing it, but if I had to bet, I'd say I'm probably really anxious. I feel so alone. The Superhighway says that our respective husbands use guilt to control us. My mom says that, too. I'm sure Therapist will agree.

They're all correct, of course. That doesn't make me less unhappy. Worse yet, I feel shamed by my neediness. Of course, I might not feel so needy if tomorrow were a different day, not an anniversary.

I'm certain that I'll try to ease the tension between us. I wish I wouldn't. I wish he would try to see things from my point of view. I wish, I wish, I wish.... Things are what they are, though.

Boy, do I need therapy.

Crazy Land Crumbles, Writer Goes Insane

That's me there on the left, standing in the wilderness, looking up to Heaven. Like everyone else on the planet, my financial plight looks very iffy.

Tomorrow morning, the Crazy Land stockholders are holding a meeting to decide the fate of the company. The good news is that I'll definitely be employed at the end of today. Tomorrow is anybody's guess.

This is where what I learned from breast cancer is shoring me up. Can I control any of this--the state of the world economy, the state of Crazy Land or my own financial future? Well, not particularly. If you can't control it, gotta let it go. I'm letting it go again and again. About every 15 minutes at this point.

In the meantime, I'm going about my business, filing workers' comp claims, updating databases, searching for unbilled expenses. What else can you do? It's difficult to stay motivated when it's entirely possible very little of my work will mean anything in 24 hours (give or take a few). Nonetheless, it's important to take care of my responsibilities until they're not mine anymore.

Loss. As I recently shared with a friend, it's been my big lesson for the past decade. I wish I could learn the truth behind it so life won't continue to slap me in the face with it. All I know is that you have to let go. What am I missing here?

A life of constant instability, conflict, lovelessness and loss--what am I to make of that? I don't even have a therapist to help me work through this. Okay, that's kinda funny. I guess the only thing to do is continue to open my heart to compassion and to pain--not just my own but for everyone who suffers or has or will. Finding humor always helps, so I have to hold on to that understanding, too. Other than that? Beats me.

Oh yeah...a postscript. The great things in my life. I live in a house. I have adequate food and clothing. I'm receiving medical care (at the moment). There are many people in my life who love me and many whom I love. I have an entertaining and brilliant (though not financially productive) husband. My mom is still with me and we're close friends. I have two great dogs. I am not going through chemo, nor am I looking at another surgery (again, fingers crossed). I am not in excessive pain. I can think. I can see. I can communicate. I have a sense of humor, even though it's rather dark and warped. All in all, I'm a very lucky woman.

Prayers, finger crossing, throwing salt over shoulder, saying a mantra...whatever you do, feel free to include me.

The New Rules, Reiterated

Hubby and I both forgot our anniversary a couple of weeks ago. It dawned on me over the weekend that we'd missed it...again. I'm not good with the anniversary/birthday/special event thing.

I wonder if that's because, as I was growing up, we never celebrated anything. I'd get a birthday gift and Christmas gifts, I got cards for my Mom and Dad and bought gifts when I could. It always felt like work, though, even (or especially) when I was the recipient. "Celebration" was never a word that had much meaning to me. Observances of that type were onerous and treacherous. Bad things were guaranteed to happen; they were danger zones that cropped up from time to time in the endless, gray progression of time.

As I grew older, I learned how important it is to honor special days or rites of passage. Celebrating became a "should" in my life. If I'm a mentally healthy, spiritually grounded person, I should incorporate some times for rejoicing in my life. That's the rule.

Unfortunately, because it was never a part of my growing-up experience, those observances never became a habit. It feels like something I've tacked onto my life and, when I forget anniversaries or birthdays, I feel like a failure. If I manage to remember and make special arrangements for festivities, it's stressful and joyless. It's a lose-lose proposition.

Every day I get up in the morning and give thanks for all of the blessings in my life, past and present. This is celebration, also. I have to remind myself that I'm not a failure if I forget "special" events (including my own birthday). I have to remind myself that, because every morning begins with prayer, every single day is a celebration.

Hubby and I forget our anniversary on a regular basis. It doesn't mean we don't love each other or that either of us feels unloved because we've forgotten. It's a thing we laugh about together.

I'm trying to learn to let myself be as I am, especially right now as I continue to struggle with fatigue and pain. Learning that lesson and living it is its own challenge. Everything in my life is exactly as it should be, including the consequences of a life I did not choose. I'm officially lightening up.

We may have to find a psychotherapist for our dog, Andy. Yesterday, Hubby went to work at noon and accidentally left the little boy outside. My mom didn't make it over for her puppy-sitting stint until around 1:00.

She arrived to find Andy crying. Sheba wouldn't take her treat from my mom until Andy was inside. This is totally unheard of. Under normal circumstances, she would have taken the treat and run to get into Andy's crate so she could be there when he entered the room. Andy hates it when she's in his crate.

After my mom let Andy in, he sat by the sofa and cried for a while. He was so upset that he couldn't take his treat. When he was able to pull himself together to drink some water, he had to take a little cry break in the middle. Finally, he started to feel better and went directly into What Can I Do To Be Bad Boy mode.

We have a perfectly wonderful backyard where Andy chases birds and squirrels. There are three dogs that live behind us and a small terrier who lives at the side. We have some overhanging bushes that all of our dogs have loved to run through and a garage that has an exit door at the side near the back fence. It's a veritable universe of canine fun potential, but Andy's accustomed to coming and going as he pleases. He's also used to having his Woo outside with him a lot.

When Hubby got home, I told him about how traumatized little Andy had been. Hubby felt guilty and dispensed treats all evening. This morning, Andy wouldn't go out until the Sheba Woo went with him. When she came in, so did he. I need that pet psychic lady from television to come over and talk with him.

The Men

Again, so many things to say, so little time.

Monday, Hubby arrived from work, ready to complain about the assignment of shuttle routes. Janitor Jeff assigned the plum routes (in Hubby-speak that means "scenic") to a couple of Asian girls. Hubby gets the south side of town, over in apartment city, populated by students and some scruffy characters who prey on them. I agree that it's not the prettiest part of this lovely city, but he's getting paid for riding around in it. Janitor Jeff believes that the scenic parts of town are heavily populated by Asian students.

"It's depressing," he said, "This is worse than the IRS."

Oh yes. Music to my ears. Of course it's worse than the IRS, you crazy man. You're dealing with students. Remember being 19? I wasn't anywhere near as nice and accommodating as I am now. When he complains about their dismissive attitude about surveys, I remind him to practice detachment. Besides, he's only been on the job a week. If depressing scenery and snotty kids are the worst employment problems you've got, your job is pretty cushy.

Speaking of jobs, the Information Superhighway's husband (Repo Man) informed her on Tuesday that he doesn't plan to get a new job until after summer. He's going to repair computers for the family business at $100 per job. I don't know. That pay rate seems low to me, depending on time spent and difficulty of repair. Of course, if your life dream is to get up at 4:00 a.m. to work for pigs, you're probably not all that logical about profit margins.

Furthermore, Repo Man was denied unemployment compensation. In Texas, you only get that benefit if you're laid off, not if you resign or are fired. Repo Man noted on his application that he was fired, but when he received the denial letter from the state, he vowed to appeal.

Superhighway is furious. They have a brand new house, an RV they acquired last summer that hasn't been paid for yet and a new high end truck for the Man. They have two teenage boys who can eat half their own weight every day.

I'm praying for my good friend, Superhighway. If he doesn't shape up soon, she's going to cut him loose. Maybe that's why he still hasn't put the RV on the market. Maybe Repo Man plans to live in it under some bridge (in the depressing part of town, no doubt) while he works on that dream of pig/turkey farming.

Yesterday, we had a "Ladies' Team Building" event here in Crazy Land. I'm still trying to recover from it. The train wreck is still too fresh for me to talk about right now. By tomorrow I hope to have regained my sanity enough to write about.

I spent this morning working on a new database. It's so much more rewarding than team building. I have to admit that it always feels good to actually make a contribution to Crazy Land beyond providing accurate spelling, instant diagnoses of various ailments and all of my other value added activities. Of course, there's a certain amount of user consultation required, but other than that, it's just me, the computer and silence. It doesn't get any better than that in Crazy Land.

3.18.2008
Yesterday, Hubby gave me a copy of his latest book. This is the book he wrote while he was supposed to be contributing to our income, a source of prodigious conflict between us. It was published by an academic press and, though it's available at your local bookstore and I'd love to recommend it, doing so would require that I reveal personal information about myself. One of the things I love about the blog universe is that it's a private place for me. No one knows me, none of my daily friends even knows this blog exists. I'm truly, deeply myself here, in a way I could never be should those dear and not so dear gain access to it.

As I began reading, I remembered why I love Hubby, why I've loved him more than any single being I've ever met. It recalls for me, immediately and deeply, why our relationship endures despite stress, conflict and both the individual and personal erosions of daily life. Hubby understands my vision of life, the spontaneous recognitions that no one else can see with me. He not only understands, but he remembers and values.

His words cause me to see the world in new ways. They amuse me and move me in the deepest parts of my being. His vision of the world and mine intertwine. Perhaps that's so of all long-term relationships, that all couples create an insular existence, a language and value system uniquely their own. We all share a language singularly ours that communicates when it's time to leave the party or silently share a private joke amidst a crowd.

Our friendship, the many ways he intrigues and calls me to myself, sustain this partnership. We are very different in some critical ways. The erosions of daily life hone our separate personalities into our unique, authentic selves. As we grow into who we are, our differences are clarified and magnified. And yet, it is he who invites me to stand back and look at myself as an individual human being who is worthy of love. It is he who invites me to step back and see him as the magical being sent for me to love. Hubby knows things I don't know, his thought processes work differently than mine. And yet, it is his words that recall for me how deeply our lives are entwined.

3.26.1008
I'm well into the book now, reminded as I read every word, turn every page, that love is a wondrous gift. I'm grateful every day, no matter what, for the person who embodies that gift.

Everything and Nothing

I've read that everyone we meet has been sent to teach us something. If that's so, I'm hard at work.

I encounter my father, in various guises, everywhere. I'm surrounded by narcissists--at work and at home. Hubby is so self-involved that I'm surprised he even notices I'm in the room. Sometimes I'm not sure that he does.

Stepson doesn't know anything about me. He never asks about what I'm interested in, what my life is like. He knows nothing about my childhood. Our conversations are always about him.

Not everyone in Crazy Land is a narcissist, but we've got more than our share. The Foot Lady, Crazy Employee, Owner, Loathsome, The Golf Pro--for all of them the world is a mirror.

If there's anything at which I'm expert, it's dealing with narcissists. Unfortunately, the way I deal with them is very unhealthy. Being highly intuitive, I'm able to figure out what they want and how they want it, then give it to them. Not so difficult, really. Generally what they want is validation; only preferences for the means of validation differ between individuals. I anticipate their needs. I hide my own. Or I believe the needs I have can't be met by other people.

I'm so chameleon-like that everyone thinks I'm like them, but I'm not, you know. There are a lot of things I have to fake. I don't know what occurs in non-catastrophic childhoods. It's as alien to me as living on another planet. It's such a strange thing, to try so hard to picture what "normal" (for for that matter, dysfunctional) childhood looks like. I won't ever know.

So what am I learning? Apparently, not much. I continue to live with a man who has an absolutely astounding sense of personal entitlement. At work, I shift certain characteristics to the foreground and others to the background, depending on who I'm with at any given time. I'm not pretending to be someone I'm not; I'm merely rearranging parts of my personality. Morphing into someone others find more palatable and easy to understand is probably one of those things I'm supposed to learn not to do.

At the moment, I think the lesson to be learned is to love myself, just as I am. That's a mighty tall order. I've lived my life, dedicated to figuring out how to fit in with everyone else, working on social skills, fixing the things that were wrong with me.

I've decided to stop trying to change myself into someone I'm not. What does that have to do with my dad? Everything and nothing.

Hubby Was Fired

Hubby lost his job on Friday. He was doing data transcription for the IRS, but wasn't able to meet the minimum production and quality standards. When I told him that he has to have a job, he went out the front door and sat on the porch steps until I left for a haircut appointment. Pouting. I guess I was supposed to tell him not to worry about it. He should just go ahead and sit around the house, doing absolutely nothing. I'll figure out a way to pay the bills, I'll do all the cleaning; he can relax and write another book.

It's all my fault, really. I should have been a lot less patient a lot sooner. I wasn't willing to deal with long term unpleasantness. As long as Hubby didn't hit me or bring another person into the relationship, my minimum standards were met. By the time I was too sick to keep up with things, doing nothing had become an ingrained habit for him. I'm guilty of bad parenting.

I spent a lot of time cleaning this weekend. It was nowhere near as much time as I need, but my stamina is still very limited. Luckily, I was able to meet my own production and quality standards.

I watched the final regular time seconds in the Mavs-Lakers game, then allowed myself to be talked into watching the overtime even though I knew how it would end. I hate Kobe. I also hate Mark Cuban. Ditto Jason Kidd. I'd be remiss if I didn't mention how much more I hate Isaiah than the whole lot of them thrown together.

I also managed to catch some college hoops, Georgetown vs. Marquette. Patrick Ewing, Jr. plays for Georgetown, so for this game, they were my default favorite team.

I'm still reading When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron. Perfect timing on my part. My backup read, when my concentration is too poor to devote to Pema, is called Acid Row. It's written by a British author. British writers are sometimes more than I can do. For example, the people in this book live on an estate, but that doesn't mean they're wealthy. "Estate" in this context means public housing. Who knew.

The new hair stylist didn't make me want to shave my head. That's more than I can say about my most recent stylist, Erika. Much like Dr. Sandbox, her fatal flaw is an inability to listen. The thing is, I'm not all that picky. After you've been bald, things can only get better.

I've already had two conversations with Foot Lady and one with Owner. It's 10:39 a.m. and I already need a nap.

Silence on the Home Front

Having some suicidal ideation today. Very unusual. I haven't had that happen in years. Trying to survive breast cancer doesn't allow time for thoughts of intentionally dying. Friends please note: I will not check out. Thinking does not equal doing.

Still all quiet on the home front. I pointed out that Hubby lacks initiative. I won't apologize for saying it and I won't retract it. He sees the world from his own limited point of view and believes that failing to seek employment every day, not doing any housework, not doing any yard work, not doing laundry, not cooking does not constitute lack of initiative. Hence, he feels quite justified in the silent treatment. He clearly doesn't remember who he's married to.

I'm still buried in paperwork. It turns out that the client for whom much of the paperwork is being done may be going belly up. Crazy Land employment would then be in jeopardy.

Hmmm....can't imagine why I'm down.

Monday, Bloody Monday

Hubby is angry with me and hasn't spoken to me since late afternoon Thursday. It's a highly triggering situation, mirroring a period in my early teens when no one in my house spoke to me for a couple of months. I'm reminding myself that I don't live in danger anymore. Not speaking is simply not speaking.

Today, I'm bogged down with a pre-qualification questionnaire from one of our clients. If I were to gaze into my crystal ball, I'd predict this is going to keep me bogged down for a bit.

The problem with working through lunch is that I tend to forget the lunch part.

Hark, The Festal Sausage Cometh!

"Humor is the instinct for taking pain playfully." ~ Max Eastman

Today, I'm stuffed into what used to be known as "foundation garments." I remember, as a kid, trying to figure out what the hell those were because, in the olden days, you never saw bras or girdles on television commercials. It was too risque even to offer a definition. It seems so quaint now.

I saw my physical therapist yesterday, which is a tantamount to paying someone to abuse me. All of my scar tissue always hurts (and I have a lot of it, everywhere), but after she finishes massaging and pinching, I'm ready to start confessing to things I've never done. I'll say anything, but please don't torture me anymore.

This morning, I woke up feeling more than a little ragged. I'm exhausted and it seems entirely possible that an army of little demons stabbed me with forks all night long. I am not at my best.

PT told me that, if I wore my special compression bra and girdle (the one I wore 24/7 for three months), I'd have a lot less pain. Damn. I was in no shape to be stubborn about it today, so I'm packed into my underwear like a kielbasa. "Less pain" is the operative phrase here; I have a lot left over, despite my discomfort.

I wore one of my festive shirts today, the one with a reindeer who's holding a martini while he has one hoof perched on a beach ball. It's a little loose, but you can still tell there's something weird going on under there. We're having Owner's birthday party today, so I wanted to amp up the merry for the occasion. Not feeling particularly convivial, I knew special effort would be required to get through the Crazy Land lunch. I'm not sure the shirt's going to help much, but I've done all I can. I'm a kielbasa with a reindeer and jingle bell bracelet, earrings and necklace. Hark, the festal sausage cometh!

PT gave me some new exercises to do, specifically aimed at regaining strength and range of motion in my rotator cup and pectoral muscle. The exercises feel just dandy, too. I've added them to my daily 25 (25!) minutes of stationary bike and 20 minutes of yoga. After I finish with those activities, I have self-massage to do. That takes another 30-40 minutes. In a way, my life is still all about breast cancer. Not that I'm whining. All of this is far more bearable than the chemo and recovery from multiple surgeries. Nonetheless, how annoying. How very un-holiday.

When I got home yesterday from physical therapy, after getting stuck in college basketball game traffic, Hubby was hanging around waiting for me to make dinner. I'd gotten some tamales, so all he had to do was cut a couple of holes in the packaging and stick the damn things in the microwave. The brown rice was microwaveable, as was the refried beans. I'd already mixed the salad. Would any of this be hard to do? If your wife was being tortured, wouldn't you want to microwave the damn dinner for her? Yes, you would.

Not my Hubby. My level of pain made it hard to focus on what exactly needed to be done and in what order. While I wandered around the kitchen, getting things together, Hubby was in another room checking his email. Santa will be delivering a lump of coal for Hubby if he doesn't shape up. During dinner, I mentioned several times how exhausting the pain is after physical therapy. Hubby made a sympathetic face, but I assure you that, if it were he who was suffering, there would be no tamale dinner. There would be plenty of whining, though.

That will be about enough from me, too. Here's hoping for a fun, if not jolly, Crazy Land lunch. Owner's been in a funk the past several days, so he may be entertainingly annoying. Mr. Moneybags is weighing in with some serious crotchety, too. The cake has already arrived. Oh God. I just heard the dulcet tones of Loathsome. Looks like we're headed for some choppy waters. The Kielbasa* will keep you posted on the Crazy Land festivities.

*Finally. I think I've found my very own nickname: Kielbasa. Or Sausage. Hey, Mimi, it's the answer to the question you posed so long ago! I've officially earned my own Crazy Land nom de guerre.